Cautiously she opens the door below, revealing a cubby hole with a guitar and a tape recorder on a shelf. There is something else in the far corner, where the light barely reaches. The frame is bent and the front fork is broken, but she knows exactly what she is looking at: an orange Crescent with drop handlebars.

Simon’s bike.

Chapter 63

63

Autumn 2017

Anna stands in front of the door trying to make sense of what she is looking at. She fights the urge to touch the objects inside, and leaves the door open as she sinks into one of the armchairs. What does all this mean?

Why does Bror Klein have Simon’s things hidden away in his cellar? For twenty-seven years, it has been assumed that these items had either gone missing, or been destroyed in the fire. And why is there a portrait by Karl-Jo of a young Klein lying half-naked in a bed? She leans back in the chair. From here she has a good view of all the photographs – three whole lives. Four, in fact. Hidden away from the eyes of the world, just like the guitar, the tape recorder and the bicycle. She suddenly notices a well-thumbed leather folder on the seat of the other armchair. It contains only a single sheet of paper, a letter of some kind, written in pencil in a beautiful, ornate script. Words have been rubbed out and altered time and time again, which makes her think of the mural at Tabor.

Dear Elisabet, the letter begins. I have done something terrible, something unforgivable.

But I did it out of love.

As Anna reads on, she feels the room begin to spin slowly. All at once she understands how everything hangs together: the photographs, the armchairs, the objects in the cubby hole. And things she has seen and heard over the past few weeks acquire a new and more unpleasant meaning.

The rain.

‘On the way home I met a car on a bend. People drive like lunatics on the ridge.’

The bicycle.

‘Karl-Johan has always been a sensitive soul.’

The deer.

‘It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault.’

The summer car.

‘My little boy . . .’

The fire.

‘I have done something terrible . . .’

She reads through the whole letter again, making a huge effort to keep her hands steady.

As you know, dear Elisabet, I was born different. You were the only one who understood me. I could confide in you about anything – my weaknesses, my imperfection. And thanks to you I found love, the love I’d thought was impossible.

Just like you, I loved Karl-Johan with all my heart. You could have hated me, but you didn’t. Instead, you showed me understanding, yet again. For that I am eternally grateful.