Red Wolf_ A Novel - Liza Marklund [90]
He had been pure of heart, the man thought, yet today his heart is as black as the steelworks he runs.
Behind curtains and round corners he caught glimpses of people busy with inconsequential human activities: drinking coffee, writing shopping lists, hatching mean plots against their competitors, and dreaming of sexual fulfilment. The cluster of cabins was almost fully occupied, visitors to one of the fairs in the huge monstrosity, which suited him fine. No one had spoken to him since he had checked in after his trip to Uppland.
He stopped outside his cabin, aware that he was swaying, that his powers would soon be gone. His two last children came to him.
The Lion of Freedom had been given his name because it was agreed that someone in the group ought to symbolize their solidarity with Africa, but the Lion himself had been incapable of any truly great thoughts. There was nothing wrong with the lad’s convictions, but he needed a strong leader to help him find the right path. Together they had decided to make the Lion of Freedom’s roar echo across the whole of the oppressed black continent and liberate the masses.
The Lion of Freedom was the one who probably needed him most; he was also the one for whom things had turned out worst.
I’ll take care of you, my son, the man thought, and went into his little cabin.
He sat on the chair by the door and struggled to take off his shoes. His diaphragm was really hurting now, and bending down made him feel sick. He groaned and leaned back against the chair, shutting his eyes for a moment.
His other daughter, Barking Dog, had been noisy and difficult in the sixties, but so much could have happened. It would be interesting to meet her. Maybe it was she who really deserved her inheritance.
He went over to the wardrobe to check that the duffel bag was still there.
Thursday 19 November
32
The front door clicked shut with a bang and silence spread through the apartment. Annika was alone again. She lay in bed with her head burrowed into the pillow and her knees drawn up to her chin, the duvet cover damp with anxiety. The angels were humming in the background, monotonous and powerless.
She had to get up today, at least to pick up the children. She wasn’t ill often; Thomas wasn’t used to being responsible for them, both dropping them off and picking them up as well as preparing food and reading to them and putting them to bed. It made him grouchy and irritable and made her feel guilty.
She snuggled deeper under the covers.
Things could be worse, she thought.
If the children got sick. If Thomas left her. If the paper was shut down. If war broke out in Iraq, all of that would be worse. This is nothing.
But it was something. It was like a big hole where the foundation of her professional confidence had been.
She had trusted Schyman. Trusted his judgement.
Something had happened, either to him or to her. Maybe to both of them. Maybe it was because of the story; maybe it was too big for them.
Or maybe she really had gone mad in that tunnel. She knew that this was a real possibility.
Had she lost the ability to judge relevance and probability? Was she on the verge of losing her grip on reality?
She pulled the covers over her head and let the thought creep up on her. It stopped beside her, settling down on her pillow. She looked at it and realized that it really wasn’t dangerous.
The story was what it was, and she was right. There was something there. Schyman may have been right before, but not this time.
She threw off the duvet and gasped for air. She hurried naked into the bathroom and brushed her teeth and showered, in rapid succession.
The apartment echoed desolately without Thomas and the children. She stopped in the doorway to the kitchen and looked at the mess they had left behind them from breakfast, without really acknowledging it.