It wasn’t much, but in some small way, this unselfish act made Jeanette feel better. At least for the time being.

33. Jan

33

Jan

A FEW DAYS after he had seen Speedy Gonzales’s death notice in the local paper, a handwritten envelope dropped into the letter box. It was unusual, and might indicate some form of celebration was imminent. In other words, some stimulation. Something he really needed right now. That car accident had done something to Jan. He couldn’t shake off the melancholy that had descended on him.

He had a widow—the man in the oncoming vehicle. Jan had noted that with a lump in his throat. Knowing full well that it could easily have been his own death notice, with Gunilla and the kids listed as the bereaved persons. No, he was never going to put himself in that position again. He would have to consider it a lesson learned. Which didn’t change the fact that he felt glum, but simultaneously unable to do anything about it by himself. That was why he had a sliver of hope for diversion as he opened the envelope in the kitchen just before dinner time.

It wasn’t to be. It contained a key, but it didn’t say what it was for. Inside the envelope were three pretty grainy photographs that depicted something he was at first unable to comprehend. But before he had managed to take in the motif in the pictures, he was overcome by horror. Perhaps it was the light, the long shadows of the impending dusk, the ominous feeling of what were otherwise pretty clumsy compositions. It took just a couple of seconds for him to be right back there, at the scene of the accident.

He broke out into a cold sweat and had to sit down on a kitchen chair. Gunilla glanced over at him quizzically, but then resumed her dinner preparations. He hoped she hadn’t attached any importance to his reaction—at least she hadn’t commented on it.

Who the hell had taken these pictures? One of them showed the crashed car from an angle slightly above it. Another—taken from the same angle but closer up—showed the wreck, with the victim clearly visible. He hadn’t seen that before. He had tried to form an impression from up on the road, but it had been too dark, the angle too awkward, and the distance too far. At the time, he had been forced to face facts: the driver was dead. Had to be. But now this unfocused yet morbid photo of the dead man was being thrown in his face and it was shocking.