The Invisible Man from Salem by Christoffer Carlsson Page B

policeman on the side of the road waves us in. Dad has to blow into a mouthpiece. Then we have to leave the car and get a lift home in the police car. Dad persuades the police to drop us off a bit early, so that we can walk the last bit. I don’t know why.
    Mum doesn’t shout. She doesn’t say anything. She never does. The following spring, Dad agrees to admit himself to a clinic for six months of rehab. He comes home after three days and says that he’s fine, that he’s okay now. We don’t talk to each other anymore because I don’t believe him and he knows it. I tell him so once. He throws a chair at me. I run into my room and lock the door. Dad’s outside and wants to come in and talk. When I don’t open up he gets angry. I put the stereo on and turn it up so I can’t hear his voice. Dad bangs on the door with his fists. He bangs so hard that it makes a hole in the cheap plywood. The splinters cut his hands up badly and he gets a taxi to the hospital for some stitches.
    What were you doing while I was in the car with Dad? Where were you? Were you alone? I do this a lot nowadays, choose an early memory and think about it, about those early years, before we met. When we were strangers.

IX
    When morning arrives, I’m sitting there in the flat, sleepless and red-eyed. The early-morning radio is playing some kind of insane jazz to resurrect any corpses that may have forgotten about the radio before collapsing. It’s heavy and angry and it never seems to end, just rising and falling in hasty snippets. Sam. I’m going to meet Sam. Her voice has stayed in my head since our conversation yesterday. I’d almost forgotten how it sounded — how husky yet smooth it is.
    I look at my phone.
    I hear you’re looking for a murderer
    Someone wants to make themselves known. I’m supposed to know that someone’s watching me.
    The psychologist I’ve been seeing for a while is well known; his face often crops up in the media. I don’t know how I ended up here; I just know I’m not the one paying for it. To begin with, I went to a psychologist who specialised in treating police officers recovering from trauma, but after a while I was referred to another. This one has tanned skin, silver-flecked stubble, and a square jaw. He often talks about his upcoming projects: appearing in a television series about mental health, talks in high schools, the book about his childhood that he’s planning to write. And then: ‘How are you?’
    â€˜Good. I suppose.’
    â€˜Summer’s nearly over.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Autumn’s on its way.’
    â€˜I suppose so,’ I say, looking down at my phone, flipping between the picture of Rebecca Salomonsson’s motionless face and the anonymous texts.
    â€˜Are you waiting for something?’
    â€˜Eh?’
    He looks at my phone.
    â€˜Could you put that away?’
    â€˜No.’
    He smiles and carefully stretches out his arms, leans back. He does everything at my pace. He claims that’s how we move forward. The truth is that I haven’t said anything significant for at least a month. At first he was interested in me, probably because he knew about my background, but his interest soon cooled off. During our meetings I smoke and drink water. I lie when he asks why I’m there, what I think my problems are. Sometimes I shout at him; sometimes I cry; mostly I don’t say anything. The hour often passes in silence. Sometimes I’ll sit there for the whole session; other times, I’ll just get up and leave the room without a word.
    This time, I leave the psychologist’s room after forty-five minutes.
    THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT this city. Something about the way the besuited barista smiles at the well-dressed, but no one else; something about the sharp elbows on the underground. Something in the way we never make eye contact, about how we’re never going to see each