Rosenbad where no one else wanted to be, perhaps on the ground floor with a view of a brick wall on Fredsgatan.
They had put him to work on money-laundering.
Of all the dull, pointless areas of responsibility, Cramne, his hypocritical boss, had tasked him with looking into international financial crime. Again. He could still recall the man’s forced smile on his first day back at the department, before he knew that Annika had been fucking the undersecretary of state, and when he still believed the lies of the prosthetics industry, the claims that he would eventually be able to control the prosthesis
by thought alone
– Sweden was actually a
world-leader
in that area of research …
‘You’re the perfect choice,’ Cramne had said, ‘with your experience. Finance, international trade and security, great!’
And when they had stood up and were about to shake hands afterwards, Cramne had hesitated: he hadn’t wanted to get it wrong and touch the metal fake, the hook.
No one expected him to achieve anything. No one had said anything, but he could feel it. They clearly thought his intelligence had been based in his left hand, not to mention his desire to participate in human conversation and boules tournaments. No one invited him along any more. Not just because of the terrible weather and the fact that no boules matches had been arranged: even if they had been, he knew they wouldn’t have asked him. They stared at him in the corridor and whispered behind his back. The skinny female secretaries who used to give him the come-on now concentrated on their computer screens whenever he walked past.
He contemplated making himself a sandwich. But he would have to hold the bread with his hook, and he didn’t like using it.
He walked back into the living room and stared at the meagre furnishings: the sofa, the computer desk, the rug. All of it from Ikea. Cheap and lacking in style. They had belonged to Annika. He hated the flat. It was cramped, just two bedrooms, and far too light. It was on the top floor of a corner building on Kungsholmen – Annika had got hold of it through her contact in the police force when she and Thomas had been living apart. After she had let him down (deceived him, tricked him, abandoned him), she had transferred the tenancy to him and moved out, dumping the worthless contents of the flat on him, not just the furniture but the crockery, books and DVDs as well. And he no longer had any savings. Annika had given all their money to the bastards who had kidnapped him in Somalia, so now he was sitting in a birdcage near the sky, hating every minute of it.
He sat down at the computer. The Light of Truth was actually very interesting.
He refreshed the page. Eight new comments had been added since he’d last looked.
He leaned back in his chair.
Might it be possible to have that arsehole at the
Evening Post
fired? That would be brilliant.
His spirits lifted. He felt light and fluid again, his breathing quickening. He hunched over the keyboard, hesitated for just a moment, then logged in under his usual alias: ‘Gregorius’, after the tragic character in Hjalmar Söderberg’s novel
Doctor Glas
(cuckolded by his wife, murdered by his doctor). He never deployed Gregorius at work, oh, no. He might not be a computer genius, but he wasn’t a fool either. After all, he had lived with a tabloid bitch for ten years, so he’d learned a thing or two about how the media worked. No one would be able to trace Gregorius to an IP address at Rosenbad.
The site’s administrator hadn’t opted to moderate comments, so they appeared immediately. He took a deep breath, and felt a glow of satisfaction spread out from his midriff.
Gregorius:
Anders Schyman is a hypocrite!!
He stretched his back contentedly. Maybe he should make that sandwich after all.
*
Annika still wasn’t used to living on Södermalm. Coming home from work was still an intoxicating rush, from Medborgarplatsen Underground
They had put him to work on money-laundering.
Of all the dull, pointless areas of responsibility, Cramne, his hypocritical boss, had tasked him with looking into international financial crime. Again. He could still recall the man’s forced smile on his first day back at the department, before he knew that Annika had been fucking the undersecretary of state, and when he still believed the lies of the prosthetics industry, the claims that he would eventually be able to control the prosthesis
by thought alone
– Sweden was actually a
world-leader
in that area of research …
‘You’re the perfect choice,’ Cramne had said, ‘with your experience. Finance, international trade and security, great!’
And when they had stood up and were about to shake hands afterwards, Cramne had hesitated: he hadn’t wanted to get it wrong and touch the metal fake, the hook.
No one expected him to achieve anything. No one had said anything, but he could feel it. They clearly thought his intelligence had been based in his left hand, not to mention his desire to participate in human conversation and boules tournaments. No one invited him along any more. Not just because of the terrible weather and the fact that no boules matches had been arranged: even if they had been, he knew they wouldn’t have asked him. They stared at him in the corridor and whispered behind his back. The skinny female secretaries who used to give him the come-on now concentrated on their computer screens whenever he walked past.
He contemplated making himself a sandwich. But he would have to hold the bread with his hook, and he didn’t like using it.
He walked back into the living room and stared at the meagre furnishings: the sofa, the computer desk, the rug. All of it from Ikea. Cheap and lacking in style. They had belonged to Annika. He hated the flat. It was cramped, just two bedrooms, and far too light. It was on the top floor of a corner building on Kungsholmen – Annika had got hold of it through her contact in the police force when she and Thomas had been living apart. After she had let him down (deceived him, tricked him, abandoned him), she had transferred the tenancy to him and moved out, dumping the worthless contents of the flat on him, not just the furniture but the crockery, books and DVDs as well. And he no longer had any savings. Annika had given all their money to the bastards who had kidnapped him in Somalia, so now he was sitting in a birdcage near the sky, hating every minute of it.
He sat down at the computer. The Light of Truth was actually very interesting.
He refreshed the page. Eight new comments had been added since he’d last looked.
He leaned back in his chair.
Might it be possible to have that arsehole at the
Evening Post
fired? That would be brilliant.
His spirits lifted. He felt light and fluid again, his breathing quickening. He hunched over the keyboard, hesitated for just a moment, then logged in under his usual alias: ‘Gregorius’, after the tragic character in Hjalmar Söderberg’s novel
Doctor Glas
(cuckolded by his wife, murdered by his doctor). He never deployed Gregorius at work, oh, no. He might not be a computer genius, but he wasn’t a fool either. After all, he had lived with a tabloid bitch for ten years, so he’d learned a thing or two about how the media worked. No one would be able to trace Gregorius to an IP address at Rosenbad.
The site’s administrator hadn’t opted to moderate comments, so they appeared immediately. He took a deep breath, and felt a glow of satisfaction spread out from his midriff.
Gregorius:
Anders Schyman is a hypocrite!!
He stretched his back contentedly. Maybe he should make that sandwich after all.
*
Annika still wasn’t used to living on Södermalm. Coming home from work was still an intoxicating rush, from Medborgarplatsen Underground
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