I was twelve or thirteen when new girl came to the school. She was two years older than me but we became friends. My first friend ever apart from adam. She was completely deaf but we got on well because I had learned sign language.

She was fun to be with and smart. The kind of person who enjoyed making other people feel good about themselves. She didn’t even seem to see how ugly I was. On the contrary. She shone like a sun on everyone who needed warmth. The problem was that I wanted her to shine on me alone.

We started going out for real. She was my first girlfriend. I couldn’t have enough of her company. Wanted to keep her close to me always. So close there was no room for anyone else. So close that no one but me would even get near her. Love didn’t just fire me up. I was obsessed. Then she said she didn’t want to go out with me anymore.

No wonder I said.

Precisely. But instead of grieving and then getting on with life I went for her. Beat her up until her body was lying lifeless on the floor. Only then did I stop.

I never even wrote to say how sorry I was. I figured she had only herself to blame.

Are you saying that your paintings are about violence.

Yes. Senseless violence. Diana is the only one who has seen them. They’ll be shown in the exhibition.

John and diana. The familiar feeling of being excluded. Tiredness 278might have been part of it. Father and daughter. I wanted to join in. I wanted to belong.

It made me angry.

What about the here and now I said. Where do I fit into the picture. You tell me I mustn’t be afraid of you and meanwhile you’re having psychotic visions. How can I ever trust someone like you.

You can’t he said. You cannot trust someone like me. I can’t predict the future. But just now we are sitting together in the car. It’s quarter past four. Next to me sits the girl who rammed a hayfork into her father’s belly and has been regretting ever since that he didn’t die. Violence lives inside us jana. It’s how it is.

We sat in silence for the rest of the journey watching the snow fall on the windscreen. It wasn’t an unpleasant silence. Only the kind of silence you end up in when searching for new words seems too hard.

279

FORTYSEVEN

Everything was back to how it had been.

Bror was at home. With his fresh haircut and a few added kilos he looked almost normal. Inside he wasn’t so good. He didn’t say much. Pottered about mostly cutting wood. Came in to eat and left again.