The Weeping Girl by Håkan Nesser Read Free Book Online Page A

hopelessness. Just think that moments could
disintegrate so quickly, she thought, feeling increasingly desperate. Disintegrate so totally.
    ‘I don’t even know what happened,’ she whispered, trying somehow to force back the tears thumping away behind her eyes. ‘My mum doesn’t say anything, and you
don’t say anything. Can’t you understand that you have to tell me? You bastards . . . You fucking bastards!’
    She heaved herself up out of the armchair and stood in front of the open window instead. Turned her back on him. Leaned out and squeezed the sharp tinplate on the window ledge until her fingers
caused her agony, succeeding in forcing back her despair with the aid of the pain and her fury. You bastards, she kept repeating in her thoughts. Bloody fucking bastards – yes, that’s
exactly what they were!
    ‘You think you know what’s best for me, but you don’t at all!’
    He didn’t move a muscle, but she could hear him breathing in his armchair. Deeply, and with his mouth open as if he had adenoid problems. She decided to ignore him for a while. Deflate the
tension, or try to at least. She looked out of the window. Summer and sunshine were making their presence felt in the grounds. The dog had stopped barking. It was lying down in the shade instead
with its tongue rolled out onto the ground in front of it – you could see that from above, where she was. She had a good view over the surrounding countryside as well: she could see the road
she had walked along on the way here, and the village where she’d got off the bus, St Inns. And beyond there was the sea – more of a hint than a reality, and she wondered how life here
might feel so terribly enclosed by all those extensive views. All that summer, all that sunshine, all that endless sky . . .
    ‘How old are you, Mikaela?’ he asked out of the blue.
    ‘Eighteen,’ she said, without turning to look at him. ‘It was my birthday yesterday.’
    Then she remembered that she’d brought something for him. She went over to her rucksack and dug out the parcel. Hesitated for a moment, then put it down on the table, next to the
letters.
    ‘It’s nothing special,’ she said. ‘But it’s for you. I did it at school when I was ten years old. I want you to have it.’
    He felt hesitantly at the thin packet, but made no effort to open it.
    ‘You shouldn’t—’ he began.
    ‘If I give you something will you be kind enough to accept it,’ she interrupted angrily. ‘I’ll accept your letters, so you’ll accept my story –
okay?’
    It was indeed a story. An illustrated story about an unfortunate bird she’d spent almost a whole term writing when she was in class four. Writing and drawing and painting. She’d
thought of giving it to her mum or to Helmut as a Christmas present, but for whatever reason she hadn’t done so.
    She couldn’t remember now if it was because they’d fallen out, or if there was some other reason. But when she’d remembered the story last night, it had felt like a symbolic
gesture.
    Giving her dad a story that she’d written. A sad story with a happy ending.
    And about a bird as well, it now occurred to her – that fitted in with her first impression of him.
    She stood by the window again and waited. Made up her mind not to say a word nor to leave the room until he had made some kind of a move. Just stand there and refuse to budge – just like
her mum had done, and just as he was doing. Refuse to budge. For as long as it took. So there.
    After a few minutes he cleared his throat and stood up. Paced hesitantly back and forth for a while, then stood by the door.
    ‘I want to go out,’ he said. ‘I usually go out for a walk in the grounds at about this time.’
    ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Mikaela. ‘And I want you to tell me what happened. I’ve no intention of leaving here until you’ve done that. Is that
clear?’
    Her dad went out of the door without responding.

8
    10–11 July 1999
    ‘So, you