Something to eat? No. I had no appetite, even though my stomach was completely empty. I put a few sugar cubes into my coffee instead, took the phone out of my pocket, and looked at it, as if I should be able to conjure up a conversation telepathically. And then it actually rang. Quickly, fumbling, I put the phone to my ear, only to hear about a new electric company. I hung up without even saying anything nasty. When I lowered the phone again I saw that a text message had come in at the same time that the salesman delivered his spiel.
Did you look? was the text.
I tried to answer immediately with a simple Yes, but my phone wouldn’t send it.
Another message came at once: Do you want to? What? Rescue Kim? Participate in Kim’s torture? It was maddening, being made a party to a conversation in which I couldn’t respond.
There’s nothing you have to do, but if there’s something you want, you must come now. Come where? Once again I felt it would be best if I abandoned the whole business, forgot about Kim, pretended that I’d seen nothing, knew nothing. But how could I obliterate the memory of a body that was forced to assume a grotesque backbend while its anus was opened wide with a speculum and its mouth gagged, plugged with a ball to keep it shut. And there was my telephone number, written on the victim’s back.
Like a sleepwalker I wandered back uphill toward Tyska Brunnsplan. The streams of tourists were now more intense on Västerlånggatan even though it was still early in the morning. I sat down on the same bench I’d sat on the previous afternoon. The phone burned hot in my hand. My head was entirely empty, and all my attention was directed at — nothing. Then it finally rang.
This time it was Kim’s voice on the other end. It still sounded androgynous and awfully young, but now there was a new tone of despair, as after many hours of crying. And it seemed to lack focus. I wondered whether Kim was drugged, or just groggy from being subjected to sexual torture all night long, without respite. I shoved these thoughts aside, but I couldn’t keep fantasies about Kim’s treatment from surfacing in my own dazed consciousness, I couldn’t defend myself against them, they touched something, a cord inside me. I told myself it was my opportunity to save this creature who so affected me. Yes, this was my chance to be something of significance to another human being.
— Where are you?
— Don’t you know?
— Why aren’t you here yet?
— I don’t know where you are...
— He says that... A scream of pain interrupted Kim in the middle of the sentence.
— What? What’s that? What’s he saying?
The connection was still there, but it was quiet on the other end. I listened hard for sounds. I could hear weak sobbing, something like a long whimper. It was awful, but it was more appalling to admit that the sound gave rise to a warmth that spread through my chest, as if the blood inside me were rushing violently.
A reflex went through me, quick as lightning, when a window across the square was shut with a bang. Quickly I looked up and tried to get a glimpse of where it came from. Which window had been closed.
— Hello? Hello? I shouted into phone while simultaneously scouting around the façades of the buildings, unable to determine where the window had been slammed shut.
— If you want to free it, you have to own it. To own it you have to deserve it.
— What kind of filthy swine are you? What kind of fucking game is this?
I was stupid enough to be shouting. A young Asian couple with backpacks and an open map looked at me in terror and speed-walked away from Tyska Brunnsplan, down into the alleys.
— Don’t play dumb. I know you like it.
— Do I know you?
— I know you, that’s sufficient.
— How do you know me?
— Through Kim.
— Do I know Kim?
— You know who Kim is.
— Have I met Kim?
During the whole conversation I continued to scan the façades around the square, trying to catch a glimpse of someone in a window, or some sign of activity that could lead me in the right direction. I understood that they could see me, but I still didn’t know who Kim was, had no clue.
— What are you prepared to do?
— What must I do?
— Care enough to want to inflict harm.
— I don’t want to hurt anyone!
— Talk with Kim yourself.
For a while there was no sound on the other end of the phone. Then Kim’s voice was audible once again.
— Are you there?
— Yes.
— Will you be able to handle it?
— What do you mean? I’ll help you. You’ll be free, I promise.
— Then come!
This was the most frustrating thing I’d ever experienced. The call was terminated, and I couldn’t decide if this was the result of poor reception or if Kim or her tormentor had broken off the conversation. I sat down on the bench, heavily. Not despairing, only resigned, sensing that, yes, the whole thing was merely a game, that they were toying with me. Maybe they were filming me from one of the windows, maybe there was a hidden camera, or maybe this was a trap, an attempt to snare me and then blackmail me by putting me in a liaison with this Kim, or whatever it was they were doing now.
It rang again.
— Why did you hang up?
— We were cut off.
— Okay.
It was quiet for a long time again, and I caught sight of a row of windows in one of the most attractive houses on the square. They were covered with black draperies. As if the apartment inside them was darkened. My stomach was in a knot.
— Are you there? I think I know where you are.
— Then come. Though I don’t think you can manage it.
— Manage what?
— You won’t manage me. You’re too timid.
— Don’t be afraid. I’ll free you.
There was a new element to Kim’s whisper... something scornful, challenging... which I didn’t exactly understand, and since I didn’t understand I didn’t readily perceive it. Until afterward.
I made my way swiftly, purposefully, to the gate of the house with the covered windows, and tried to open the gate. Simultaneously there was a long, protracted, painful moan over the phone, then we were cut off again. I rang doorbells at random, hoping that someone would buzz me in. But no one answered. In vain I pulled the handle a bit harder, as if I hoped I could force the locked gate open. How would I get in? The veiled windows were on the third floor.
There was a buzzing in one of the speakers, but no one said anything. Neither did I. Then the lock on the gate clicked. I pushed it open and walked in, my whole body cold and concentrated — driven by a determination beyond my experience. Taking two steps at a time, I climbed the old uneven stone stairs until I stood in front of the door to the apartment with the veiled windows. It was unlocked. I held my breath as I slowly entered the apartment. It was empty. Newly renovated, it smelled preposterously fresh in relation to the old building. In two adjacent rooms facing the square, the windows were covered with black cloth. In the middle of one was a massage table covered with a bloody sheet. There were plastic straps fastened to metal rods, which had presumably been used to hold something or someone in place. But the apartment was lifeless.
Blood rushed to my gut. For the hundredth time I cursed myself: certainly I should have called the police at the beginning instead of play-acting detective myself. What was it that had tempted me to try and solve this riddle, decode this nightmare, whatever it should be called? I gingerly touched the table with my hand. It was still damp with sweat, blood, saliva, and several substances I didn’t want to think about. My heart raced. They must be somewhere nearby. I wanted to leave, I wanted to stay, I wanted to search for tracks but didn’t know where to begin. I wished the phone would ring.