The Manse knows me—it’s waiting for me when I get back. I can feel its carefully reined in impatience in the silence that greets me as I cautiously enter, wondering which version will present itself. Malevolent, benevolent or indifferent: no matter which, at least the Manse knows where I am, I think, and then I stop myself. I’m building stories yet again. The house is just a heap of stones, and I am no longer ten years old.

My father is living in a flat in Stockholm, as he’s currently separated from his wife Agata. She kicked him out when she discovered his previous family—not Karen and his daughter, but the family in Belgium that he left them for. He can tell the separation is only temporary, though, as she’s insisted he sees a counselor, and who would care about that if they were actually done with the relationship? The counseling sessions are tedious, but the flat is close to the center of the city and he’s rather enjoying the freedom to explore Stockholm’s nightlife again. In fact, when Agata comes to ask him to move back in, he’s considering telling her that it’s very important that he takes this time to really address the root problems; that should buy him both the balance of power and freedom until the end of the summer. After that, who knows? He’s moved before. He can do it again. At least there are no kids this time. That’s his rule now: no kids.

FOUR

The attic room.

I’m standing at the open door, my hand on the now inert doorknob. Neutered by the efficient locksmith, it can no longer throb malevolently in my mind. After replacing the front and back door locks—Ye cannae be too careful, hen, the locksmith told me approvingly, which under the circumstances I heartily agree with—and checking all the ground-floor window locks were in working order, he unlocked the attic door in such short order that it seemed inconceivable I couldn’t have done it myself. Now he’s gone and I’m lingering in the doorway, surveying the room, which is really nothing special: just a small and poky space, with an empty blocked-up fireplace and a single narrow dormer window, that could use a good vacuuming to remove the dust. There’s a handful of cardboard boxes piled haphazardly in the middle of the floor and a folded trestle table and discarded canvases and frames resting against one wall. A box room holding boxes: nothing special at all, and certainly nothing to be deserving of such mental unease. So why am I reluctant to lift any of the lids?

Perhaps the locksmith’s behavior is to blame. Some place, this, he said, glancing around nervously. Aye wondered what it was like inside, the things you hear . . .

What things?

Ach, dinnae mind me, lass. I’m haverin’ like a fishwife.