The Farm

  A court might query the credibility of Cecilia’s testimony. I accept that her level of awareness varied – at times she could engage directly, at other times her thoughts were elsewhere and questioning required patience. I allowed for diversions and tangents, coaxing her towards the mystery of why she’d sold me that farm. Without prompting, she asked if I’d discovered the truth about Anne-Marie, the wife of the hermit in the field. It was a subject I hadn’t even mentioned! I summarised all that I knew – she’d been religious, she stitched biblical quotes, she’d died and her husband seemed devastated by the loss. Cecilia was greatly irritated with my ignorance, as though I’d failed her. She said: ‘Anne-Marie killed herself.’

  Caught by a wave of lucidity, Cecilia told me the story. Anne-Marie had been aged forty-nine with no medical history of depression. Cecilia loved her as a friend, a woman she’d known for many years. This good-natured friend had woken one morning, showered, changed into her work clothes, walked out of the farmhouse, into the pig barn, ready for a day’s work. Either something awful was discovered or something awful took shape in her mind, because she tied a rope from the beams. She hanged herself at first light while her husband was sleeping. Ulf had come downstairs for breakfast, seen the open barn door, and was sure the pigs must have escaped. He’d rushed out of the house, across the yard, into the barn to save the pigs, only to discover all the animals in the far corner, bunched together. It was at this point, so the official version goes, that he turned around and saw his wife. There was no note, no explanation, no warning, and no financial worries.

  According to Cecilia the response was typical of the community, swallowing bad news in the same way an ocean might swallow a sinking ship. They’d slaughtered the pigs as if they were witnesses to a crime. They’d dismantled the barn beam by beam. At Anne-Marie’s funeral Cecilia had touched Håkan’s arm and asked him why, not as an accusation but as a melancholy question that only God could answer. Håkan had angrily shaken her off, saying he had no idea. Maybe he didn’t have any idea, but he also had few qualms about profiting from her death. Håkan expanded his kingdom, taking over Ulf’s land. He’d presented it as an act of charity, helping a grief-stricken man.

  Cecilia had been speaking for some time. Her lips were dry and cracked. Concerned that I was tiring her, I instructed her to remain on the bench while I fetched some refreshments. It was a decision I will always regret. I should never have interrupted her flow. When I returned with a coffee she was gone. The bench was empty. I saw a crowd forming around the pond. Cecilia was standing in the middle of the water. The level was up to her waist. She seemed quite calm. Her arms were crossed across her breasts. Her wet, white care-home dress had turned translucent, reminding me of a river baptism, waiting for the priest to lower her under the water. Instead, a male nurse rushed in, putting an arm around Cecilia and scooping her up. She can’t have weighed very much. I followed them into the nursing home, where they hurried her off for a medical examination. Making the most of the distraction, I returned to her room, searching it from top to bottom, amazed at how few items she possessed. Her belongings must have been sold. In the drawers there were books, but only children’s stories, no Bible and no novels that I could see. In her wardrobe I found this leather satchel. Cecilia was once a schoolteacher and I supposed she used it for carrying textbooks. I stole it because I needed a bag, not an impractical handbag, but a decent-sized bag that could accommodate my notes and any evidence—

  • • •

  MUM AND I STOOD UP at the same time, reacting to the noise of someone trying to enter the apartment. The front door had been opened. We heard it catch against the chain, loudly at first, then softly as a more cautious second attempt was made. I’d seen my mum take the security chain off at my request, but she must have reattached it when my back was turned, convinced that my dad would make an unannounced return. Downstairs a hand could be heard fumbling at the chain, reaching around the door, trying to unbolt it. My mum cried out:

  ‘He’s here!’

  In a scramble she began packing up the evidence. Working fast, she returned each piece of evidence to its place in the satchel. She slotted the smaller items into the front pockets, the larger items, including the rusted steel box, into the rear, highly ordered with no wasted space. It was clear that she’d done this before, keeping her evidence mobile and ready to move at a moment’s notice. My mum glanced at the access door to the roof garden:

  ‘We need another way out!’

  My dad had tricked us. He’d lied, flying direct, arriving sooner, catching us by surprise just as my mum had claimed – these were my initial thoughts, affected by the intensity of my mum’s reaction. However, I discounted this explanation. My dad didn’t have keys. The only person it could be was Mark.

  With the satchel packed, my mum was ready to throw it over her shoulder. I put my hand on top of it, stopping her escape:

  ‘It’s not Dad.’

  ‘It’s him!’

  ‘Mum, it’s not. It’s not him. Please, wait here.’

  I snapped at her, unable to remain calm, gesturing for my mum to remain where she was, doubtful she’d obey. I hurried downstairs and into the hallway. Mark was no longer struggling with the door but wedging it open with his foot while holding his phone, about to ring me. I’d failed to keep him informed, completely caught up in my mum’s account. I should’ve guessed his reaction – he’d already expressed his concern that I was on my own. In a hushed voice, I said:

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call, but this is a bad time.’

  I hadn’t intended to sound aggressive. It took Mark by surprise. I was panicking; after years of my carefully constructed deceit, the entire rotten structure was set to collapse before I’d had a chance to carefully stage-manage its demise. No longer in control, I waved him back, pushing the door shut, taking the chain off, opening it fully. Mark was about to speak when he paused, looking over my shoulder.

  My mum was standing at the far end of the hallway, clasping her satchel. In the front pocket of her jeans I could see the outline of the wooden knife. The three of us stood motionless, with no one speaking. In the end, my mum took a small step closer, observing Mark’s expensive suit and shoes, asking:

  ‘Are you a doctor?’

  Mark shook his head:

  ‘No.’

  Normally polite and chatty, Mark could offer no more than a monosyllabic response, unsure what I wanted him to say.

  ‘Did Chris send you?’

  ‘I live here.’

  I added:

  ‘This is Mark. It’s his apartment.’

  I realised, too late, what a meagre introduction it was after years of waiting to introduce him to my parents. My choice of words made him sound more like a landlord than a lover. My mum’s attention had moved from his clothes to his face. She said:

  ‘My name is Tilde. I’m Daniel’s mum.’

  Mark smiled, about to move forward, but he checked himself, sensing the precarious balance of emotions.

  ‘It’s good to meet you, Tilde.’

  For some reason my mum didn’t like the way he used her name. She took a small step back. Controlling her nervousness, she said:

  ‘Would you like us to go somewhere else?’

  ‘You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.’

  ‘Are you staying?’

  Mark shook his head:

  ‘No, give me a minute and I’ll be gone.’

  My mum stared at him. In any other circumstances it would’ve been impolite. Mark held her stare with a placid smile. My mum dropped her gaze to the floor, adding:

  ‘I’ll wait upstairs.’

  Before leaving the hallway, my mum gave Mark a final look, ever so slightly tilting her head to the side, as if correcting her view of the world.

  We waited in silence as my mum slowly climbed the stairs, listening to her heavy steps. Alone, I turned to Mark. The encounter I’d dreaded for so long had taken place in a way I could never have imagined – my mum had
met my partner and yet, not really, they’d exchanged names and looks. I’d offered more deceit, unable to say the words, ‘This is the man I live with,’ opting instead for ‘This man lives here.’ It wasn’t a lie but it was as weak as one. Mark was mournful about the exchange – he’d wanted so much more from the occasion. Speaking in a low voice, he brushed aside his own emotions and asked:

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I saw no point in summarising my conversation so far. He said:

  ‘Dan, I needed to be sure you were okay.’

  He would never have come here merely to be involved, or because he felt left out. He was here as a precaution against the possibility of disaster, hedging against the chance that I’d lost control of the situation. He and my mum would’ve agreed that I was untested in difficult waters. I nodded:

  ‘You were right to come back. But I can manage.’

  Mark was unconvinced:

  ‘What’s your plan?’

  ‘I’m going to finish listening, then make a decision about whether she needs treatment. Or whether we need to talk to the police.’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘It’s so hard to be sure.’

  I added:

  ‘My dad’s flying over. He changed his mind. His plane lands very soon.’

  ‘Will he come here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure you want me to leave?’

  ‘She won’t talk with you in the apartment. Not freely, not like she has been.’

  Mark considered:

  ‘All right. I’ll go. But here’s what I’ll do. I’ll sit in the coffee shop round the corner. I can read, do some work. I’m two minutes away. You call me when anything changes.’

  Mark opened the door:

  ‘Get this right.’

  I expected to find my mum eavesdropping. But the hallway was empty. I returned upstairs to find her at the window where I joined her. She took hold of my hand, pronouncing his name as though trying the sound for the first time:

  ‘Mark.’

  And then, as though the idea had just popped into her head:

  ‘Why don’t you talk for a bit?’

  Unsure of my emotions, I squeezed her hand. She understood, because she responded:

  ‘I remember one holiday we spent on the south coast. You were very young. Six years old. The weather was hot. There was a blue sky. Driving to the beach at Littlehampton, we were certain it was going to be a perfect day. When we arrived, we discovered a bitter sea wind. Rather than give up, we took refuge in a sand dune, a sheltered dimple at the back of the beach. As long as the three of us remained completely flat we couldn’t feel the wind. The sun was warm, and the sand too. We lay there for a long time, dozing, sunbathing. In the end I said, “We can’t stay here forever,” and you looked at me and asked, “Why not?”’

  I said:

  ‘Mum, we can talk about my life another time.’

  My mum’s voice was as sad as I’d heard it all day:

  ‘Not another time, today. When I finish, once we’ve gone to the police, I want you to talk. I want to listen. We used to tell each other everything.’

  ‘We will again.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘We’ll be close again?’

  ‘We’ll be close again.’

  My mum asked:

  ‘Ready to hear the rest?’

  ‘I’m ready.’

  We all make mistakes. Some we can forgive. Some we can’t. I made one unforgivable lapse of judgment during this summer. For a brief moment I doubted my own conviction that Mia was in danger.

  Once a week, I’d cycle down to the beach – not the tourist beach, a beach further north. It was rugged, with dunes and clumps of bracken backed by deep forests, not a holiday beach. No tourists ever came. I’d take my regular run along the sand. One evening I’d been running for about thirty minutes and I was about to turn back when I saw movement up ahead in the forest. It was bright white, like the sail of a small ship passing among the trunks of pine trees. Normally these beaches and forests were empty. Emerging from among the trees, Mia stepped out onto the beach, dressed like a bride with flowers in her hair and flowers in her hands. She was wearing a midsommar dress, ready to dance around the maypole. I hid behind a bracken bush to see what she was going to do next. She continued up the beach until she reached an abandoned lighthouse. She hung her flowers on the door and went inside.

  It was as if I’d witnessed a ghost story except the girl was real and the footprints clear in the sand. Mia was waiting for someone. The flowers were a signal to an observer that she was inside the lighthouse. I was determined to see who was going to meet Mia. The longer I waited the more confused I became, and part of me wondered if the other person had seen me. Maybe they were hiding in the forest and wouldn’t appear until I was gone. After almost an hour I questioned myself. Clearly Mia was not distressed. She’d walked to this lighthouse freely, out of her own volition. I was curious but I was also cold. Afraid I’d fall ill before the town’s midsommar festival, I decided to leave.

  I’ll never forgive myself for that lapse in judgment. It’s my belief that the man who eventually arrived was Mia’s killer.

  • • •

  ALTHOUGH TEMPTED TO ASK FOR more information, I sensed that my mum was no longer avoiding specifics but building towards an explanation of the events around and including Mia’s murder. She hadn’t sat down and showed no signs of being willing to do so. With the satchel still hanging around her shoulder, she opened the bag, pulling out a midsommar invitation.

  Each year the town organises two separate midsommar celebrations, one for tourists holidaying in the area and a more prestigious celebration exclusively for residents. This is an open invitation to the first party, handed out on the beaches and at the hotels. Though it’s decorated with images of young children dancing round the maypole, flowers in their golden hair, promising a festival pure of heart, it’s a moneymaking exercise. The festivities are executed on the cheap. How do I know? I worked there. Mia stopped by the farm and told me about the opportunity of paid work. She must have known we were short of money. She was trying to help us. I contacted the organisers, and they gave me a job in the beer and schnapps tent.

  On the day of the party I arrived at the fields, owned by Håkan, early in the morning, imagining a team of people motivated to host a great event. A responsibility was on our shoulders. This festival is about a love of our land, dating back to a celebration of harvests, expressing our deep affection for Sweden itself. What I witnessed that day was depressing. The white canvas tent where food was served was clammy and old. There were bins everywhere. There were hand-painted signs bossing people about. Don’t do that. You must do this. A long line of plastic portable toilets was more prominent than the maypole itself. The price of a ticket was inclusive of food and non-alcoholic drink. When you consider it’s only two hundred krona, or about twenty pounds, that seems reasonable. However, the food is prepared in bulk with a clear cost-cutting strategy. You recall how Håkan asked me to bring potato salad to his party. I saw first-hand how lowly the potato salad was considered, prepared in buckets, slopped out using giant ladles, a food fit for tourists. That’s why Håkan had asked me to bring it to his party, tourist-grade food, because that’s how he saw me, a tourist in Sweden.

  In the alcohol tent we were serving beer and spirits with more staff than the entire food tent, where the queues would stretch out for hundreds of metres. That was a deliberate tactic to stop people coming back for second helpings. Needless to say, the men in particular quickly turned to the beer tent. We were full from the beginning. No matter what I thought of the setup, people were having fun. The weather was warm and the guests were inclined to have a good time.

  During my lunch break, I ventured to the maypole to watch the midsommar performance. Students dressed in traditional costume were dancing. While I was watching, someone tapped me on the should
er and I turned to see Mia, not dressed in white with flowers in her hair, as she had been on the beach, but holding a plastic refuse bag, picking up rubbish. She told me she’d specifically requested the job since she had no desire to dress up and be stared at. Even at the time that struck me as a disturbing comment. Why was this young woman so fearful of being watched? Mia told me about last year’s Santa Lucia festival, the celebration of light on the darkest day of the year. The church decided to stage a specially commissioned play about the process of choosing the right girl to take on the role of Santa Lucia – the saint with candles in her hair. In this fictional play, there was the character of a bigoted choirmaster who selects the girl based on a stereotypical model of Swedish beauty. The girl he selects is a bully, but she’s beautiful and blonde. The character Mia played was overlooked because she was black, even though she was the most pure of heart. During the ceremony, the bully girl at the front of the procession stumbles and her hair catches on fire because she uses so much hairspray. Mia’s character puts out the flames, risking her own safety. It sounded like a peculiar play to me. Even more bizarre, after this play, about a fake Santa Lucia procession, they proceeded with the real Santa Lucia procession in which Mia was given the lead. Mia said the whole affair was excruciating. Since that embarrassment she’d vowed never to perform in front of an audience again.