the drink at bay, and she seems to be getting on well with Tove again. But Janne?
I don’t regret forcing her into rehab, but somehow I get the feeling that she’ll never completely trust me again, as if she used to take it for granted that I’d listen to whatever she wanted, no matter what happened.
She was guilty of drink-driving.
She was drunk on duty.
It could have turned out really badly, and someone else could have got hurt. And I couldn’t let either of those things happen.
And now her mother. I remember when my mother died. It was as if all my security was pulled away, as if I finally grew up, liberated by the reality of her death from the fear that she might disappear.
I grieved, but I also grew as well. She had lived her life, she was old, and I can still feel her love to this day. But if she had lived her life without showing me love, maybe I’d feel differently. Maybe I’d feel that there was a hole in me that could never be filled now.
She’s balancing on a very fine line, Malin. Anything could tip her into the darkness. But Malin’s a human being, and that’s what we all have to deal with, being human.
Vulnerable little people.
I’d kill anyone who attacked them.
Kill them.
Johan Jakobsson watches his children sleep in their beds in the room they share on the ground floor of their terraced house. Lets his feelings run free, refusing to let guilt tarnish them.
His children are almost the same age as the girls who died in the square. The whole thing seems unreal. Yet still horribly real.
And Malin.
She buried her mother that morning. The explosion seemed in some paradoxical way to hold her together. As if it made her more focused, made things clearer, helping her cope with the very fact of being human.
He closes the door to the children’s room.
Stops in the darkness of the hall.
Whoever it was who carried out the bombing, we’re going to catch him, or her, or them.
There’s a dividing line there, he thinks. Anyone who is guilty of violence against children, the abuse of children, breaks our shared human contract, and that contract can never be restored. Those people have forfeited their right to be part of society.
Why does anyone join the police? Why did I join the police?
God knows, I’m not a macho-man like Waldemar. Or Börje, come to that.
But I like the intricacy of the work. Mapping out people and events. Digging into people’s pasts. Seeing the patterns that have led them to a particular point in their lives.
And the clarity. In cases like this. Because behind the smokescreen, the conflict is straightforward. Me against the people who harm children. Black and white. It’s as easy as that.
Börje Svärd is asleep.
Waldemar Ekenberg is asleep.
They’re asleep in their respective unassuming Östergötland villas, united by their untroubled breathing.
Börje’s Alsatians are lying on his bed. They’re allowed on there now, it makes the nights feel less lonely, and he’s noticed that it makes them feel more secure.
That he himself feels more secure because of the dogs’ watchful, protective presence.
As if they are capable of holding evil at bay.
Börje had been in the cathedral, at the service, together with another two and a half thousand of the city’s inhabitants. He was standing right at the back of the church, looking out over the rows of people in the pews, seeing the soft yet powerful light shining on the crucifix on the altar, and the lamps on the walls made the stone sing, demanding something from the congregation, demanding that their fear and anxiety be brought under control, and that was also the bishop’s message: ‘In times like this we must stick together. Not point the finger, but show tolerance and not let fear rule our lives and our choices. By having faith in the good within us, we can defeat evil.’
And Börje had been scornful. How had faith helped Anna? Had it overcome her evil, evil illness?
No, hardly.
But until close to the end
I don’t regret forcing her into rehab, but somehow I get the feeling that she’ll never completely trust me again, as if she used to take it for granted that I’d listen to whatever she wanted, no matter what happened.
She was guilty of drink-driving.
She was drunk on duty.
It could have turned out really badly, and someone else could have got hurt. And I couldn’t let either of those things happen.
And now her mother. I remember when my mother died. It was as if all my security was pulled away, as if I finally grew up, liberated by the reality of her death from the fear that she might disappear.
I grieved, but I also grew as well. She had lived her life, she was old, and I can still feel her love to this day. But if she had lived her life without showing me love, maybe I’d feel differently. Maybe I’d feel that there was a hole in me that could never be filled now.
She’s balancing on a very fine line, Malin. Anything could tip her into the darkness. But Malin’s a human being, and that’s what we all have to deal with, being human.
Vulnerable little people.
I’d kill anyone who attacked them.
Kill them.
Johan Jakobsson watches his children sleep in their beds in the room they share on the ground floor of their terraced house. Lets his feelings run free, refusing to let guilt tarnish them.
His children are almost the same age as the girls who died in the square. The whole thing seems unreal. Yet still horribly real.
And Malin.
She buried her mother that morning. The explosion seemed in some paradoxical way to hold her together. As if it made her more focused, made things clearer, helping her cope with the very fact of being human.
He closes the door to the children’s room.
Stops in the darkness of the hall.
Whoever it was who carried out the bombing, we’re going to catch him, or her, or them.
There’s a dividing line there, he thinks. Anyone who is guilty of violence against children, the abuse of children, breaks our shared human contract, and that contract can never be restored. Those people have forfeited their right to be part of society.
Why does anyone join the police? Why did I join the police?
God knows, I’m not a macho-man like Waldemar. Or Börje, come to that.
But I like the intricacy of the work. Mapping out people and events. Digging into people’s pasts. Seeing the patterns that have led them to a particular point in their lives.
And the clarity. In cases like this. Because behind the smokescreen, the conflict is straightforward. Me against the people who harm children. Black and white. It’s as easy as that.
Börje Svärd is asleep.
Waldemar Ekenberg is asleep.
They’re asleep in their respective unassuming Östergötland villas, united by their untroubled breathing.
Börje’s Alsatians are lying on his bed. They’re allowed on there now, it makes the nights feel less lonely, and he’s noticed that it makes them feel more secure.
That he himself feels more secure because of the dogs’ watchful, protective presence.
As if they are capable of holding evil at bay.
Börje had been in the cathedral, at the service, together with another two and a half thousand of the city’s inhabitants. He was standing right at the back of the church, looking out over the rows of people in the pews, seeing the soft yet powerful light shining on the crucifix on the altar, and the lamps on the walls made the stone sing, demanding something from the congregation, demanding that their fear and anxiety be brought under control, and that was also the bishop’s message: ‘In times like this we must stick together. Not point the finger, but show tolerance and not let fear rule our lives and our choices. By having faith in the good within us, we can defeat evil.’
And Börje had been scornful. How had faith helped Anna? Had it overcome her evil, evil illness?
No, hardly.
But until close to the end
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