The Drowning - Camilla Lackberg

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sugar left on the plate.

      ‘Today he has his first book-signings,’ said Erica, unable to keep a trace of pride out of her voice. In many ways she felt that she’d contributed to Christian’s success, and through him she was reliving her own debut as an author. Those first book-signings. That was a huge deal. Really huge.

      ‘That’s great. Where are they going to be held?’

      ‘First at the Böcker och Blad bookshop in Torp, then at Bokia in Uddevalla.’

      ‘I hope some people actually turn up. It would be depressing if he had to sit there all alone,’ said Anna.

      Erica grimaced at the thought of her own first signing, at a bookshop in Stockholm. She’d sat there for a whole hour, trying to look unconcerned while all the customers walked past as if she didn’t exist.

      ‘There’s been so much PR about his book that I’m sure people will come – out of curiosity if nothing else,’ said Erica, hoping that she was right.

      ‘Well, it’s just lucky that the newspapers haven’t got word of those threatening letters,’ said Anna.

      ‘Yeah, you’re right about that,’ replied Erica, and then changed the subject. But the uneasy feeling in her chest refused to leave her.

      5

       They were going on holiday, and he could hardly wait. He wasn’t really sure what it entailed, but the word sounded so promising. Holiday. And they would be taking the caravan that was parked outside.

       He was never allowed to play in it. A few times he’d tried to peek through the windows, to see what was behind the brown curtains. But he could never actually see anything, and the caravan was always locked. Now the door stood wide open, so as to ‘give it a proper airing out’, as Mother said, and a bunch of cushions had been put in the washing machine to rid them of the smell of winter.

       Everything seemed so unreal, like a fairy-tale adventure. He wondered if he’d be permitted to sit inside the caravan as they drove, like travelling inside a little house on wheels, headed for something new and unfamiliar. But he didn’t dare ask. Mother had been in a strange mood lately. That sharp, fierce tone in her voice was clearly audible, and Father had been taking more frequent walks, whenever he wasn’t hiding behind his newspaper.

       Sometimes he’d noticed her staring at him oddly. There was something different about the way she looked at him, and it frightened him, even taking him back to the darkness that he’d left behind.

       ‘Are you just going to stand there gaping, or were you thinking of helping me out?’ Mother had her hands on her hips.

       He gave a start when he heard once again that harsh tone and ran over to her.

       ‘Take these and put them in the laundry room,’ she said, tossing some foul-smelling blankets at him with such force that he almost lost his footing.

       ‘Yes, Mother,’ he said, and hurried into the house.

       If only he knew what he’d done wrong. He always obeyed his mother. Never talked back, behaved properly, and never got his clothes dirty. Yet it was as if sometimes she couldn’t bear to look at him.

       He’d tried to ask his father about this. Mustered his courage on one of the few occasions when they were alone and asked him why Mother didn’t like him any more. For a moment Father had put aside the newspaper to reply curtly that he was being foolish and he didn’t want to hear talk of such things again. Mother would be terribly sad if she ever heard him say that. He should be grateful that he had a mother like her.

       He didn’t ask any more questions. Making his mother sad was the last thing he wanted to do. He just wished that she would be happy and that she would stroke his hair like she used to and call him her handsome little boy. That was all he wanted.

       He put the blankets down in front of the washing machine and pushed aside all his gloomy, dark thoughts. They were going on holiday. In the caravan.

      Christian drummed his pen on the top of the small table where he was sitting. Next to him was a big stack of copies of The Mermaid. He still couldn’t get enough of looking at the book. It seemed so unreal that his name was actually on the cover. The cover of a real book.

      There wasn’t yet any rush to buy copies, and he didn’t think there would be. It was only authors like Liza Marklund and Jan Guillou who attracted large crowds. He was perfectly happy with the five copies that he’d signed so far.

      Although he had to admit that he did feel a bit lost as he sat there. People hurried past, giving him curious looks, but they didn’t stop. He wasn’t sure whether he should say ‘Hello’ when he felt them staring at him or just pretend that he was busy with something else.

      Gunnel, the owner of the bookshop, came to his rescue. She walked over and nodded at the stack of books.

      ‘Would you mind signing a few of those? It’s so nice to have signed copies to sell later.’

      ‘Sure. How many should I sign?’ asked Christian, happy to have something to do.

      ‘Hmm. Let’s say ten,’ replied Gunnel, straightening the stack, which had got a bit crooked.

      ‘That’s no problem.’

      ‘We did a proper amount of advertising for the book-signing,’ said Gunnel.

      ‘I have no doubt that you did,’ Christian told her with a smile. He could see that she was concerned he would think the meagre turnout could be blamed on the shop’s lack of PR for the event. ‘I’m not exactly a household name, so I didn’t have very high expectations.’

      ‘At least we’ve sold a few copies,’ she said kindly, heading back to the checkout counter.

      He reached for a book, removed the cap on his pen, and began signing. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that someone was standing in front of the table. When he looked up, he found a big, yellow microphone thrust in his face.

      ‘We’re here in the bookshop where Christian Thydell is signing his first novel, The Mermaid. Christian, your name is all over the newspaper placards today. How worried are you about the threats that have been levelled against you? Have the police been brought in?’

      The reporter hadn’t yet introduced himself, but judging by the label on the microphone, he was from the local radio station. He was peering at Christian with an urgent expression on his face.

      Christian felt his mind go blank. ‘The newspaper placards?’ he said.

      ‘Yes, you’re on GT’s placard. Haven’t you seen it?’ The reporter didn’t wait for Christian to reply but just repeated the question he’d asked initially. ‘Are you worried about the threats? Have the police provided special protection for you today?’

      The reporter glanced around the shop, but then turned back to Christian, who was holding his pen above the book he’d been just about to sign.

      ‘I don’t know how –’ he stammered.

      ‘But it’s true, isn’t it? You’ve received threats while you were writing the book, and you passed out on Wednesday when another letter was delivered to you at the book launch.’

      ‘Er, yes, well …’ Christian could feel himself gasping for air.

      ‘Do you know who sent the threats? Do the police know?’ The microphone was again only about an inch from Christian’s mouth, and he had to restrain himself from shoving it away. He didn’t want to answer these questions. He had no idea how the press had found out about any of this. He thought

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