Red Wolf_ A Novel - Liza Marklund [118]
Annika pulled free of her friend’s grasp.
‘It’s okay,’ she said quietly. ‘They go away when I have something to think about. When I’m working, doing things. Do you want coffee, then?’
‘Green tea,’ Anne said. ‘If you’ve got any.’
Annika went into the kitchen with a peculiar bounce in her step, feeling the angels’ astonishment right down to her stomach. She had called their bluff. They didn’t think she’d do that; they were sure they’d be able to sing and console her and terrorize her for ever without anyone ever finding out.
She poured water in the little copper pan, lit the stove with the lighter that only just managed to muster enough of a spark to ignite the blue flames.
The voices started up, weak, isolated . . .
She gasped for breath and slapped the side of her head with one hand to make them shut up.
Anne came into the kitchen in her stockinged feet; she had got some colour back in her face, an inquisitive look in her eyes.
Annika tried to smile.
‘I think they’re mostly trying to comfort me,’ she said. ‘They only sing nice things.’
She walked over to the pantry and felt in the half-darkness inside for the tea.
Anne Snapphane sat down at the kitchen table. Annika could feel her eyes on her back.
‘But it’s you doing it,’ Anne said. ‘Don’t you get it? You’re consoling yourself; you’re looking after the little child somewhere in there. Did anyone sing you songs like that when you were little?’
Annika blew away a mean comment about amateur psychology and actually managed to find some Japanese tea that she’d been given by someone at work.
‘Are you serious about moving?’ she said, returning to the now-boiling water. ‘I can recommend Kungsholmen. We islanders are a bit better than everyone else.’
Anne picked up a few stray crumbs from breakfast between her thumb and forefinger and thought for a moment before replying.
‘Somehow I suppose I thought Mehmet would move out to us, or that we’d just carry on like we were for ever, if that makes any sense? He sort of . . . belonged, and without him it’s . . . wrong. It’s miserable and a long way away and the old sod downstairs is always trying to sneak a look under my dressing gown when I go down to get the paper.’
‘So what’s most important?’ Annika said, pouring tea through the strainer into the cup.
‘Miranda,’ Anne said without thinking. ‘Although I realize I can’t be a martyr and give up everything important for her sake, but the house on Lidingö has never been that important to me. Of course I like modernism, but I can probably survive without the right sort of interior design.’
‘Maybe you could put up with a bit of art nouveau if you had to?’ Annika said, carrying the mugs over.
‘Even a bit of national romanticism. Cheers.’
Annika sat down facing Anne and watched her blow on the hot drink.
‘Östermalm, you mean?’
Anne nodded, grimacing as she burned her tongue.
‘As close as possible, so she can walk between us.’
‘How big?’
‘How expensive, you mean? I can’t add anything in cash.’
They drank their tea in silence, listening to the door of the bin room bang at irregular intervals down in the courtyard. The kitchen swayed gently in the weak winter light, the angels hummed uncertainly, the stone twisted and scratched.
‘Shall we have a look online?’ Annika said, and stood up, unable to sit there any longer.
Anne slurped her tea and followed her to the computer.
Annika sat down and concentrated on icons and keys.
‘Let’s start with the ultimate,’ she said. ‘Three rooms, balcony and open fire on Artillerigatan?’
Anne sighed.
There was one like that for sale, one hundred and fifteen square metres, three floors up, in excellent condition, new kitchen, fully tiled bathroom with bath and basin, viewing Sunday at 16.00.
‘Four million?’ Anne guessed, peering at the screen.
‘Three point eight,’ Annika said, ‘but it’ll probably go up when they start