Chapter 68
When Bengt Hedin wakes up, it is dark outside the window. He stretched out on the sofa after spending hours online; he must have fallen asleep. The sound of a text message woke him. From his wife, wondering where he is.
Why doesn’t he answer when she calls?
Bengt can barely bring himself to read what she has written. Stupid bitch. He is in the middle of the worst crisis of his life, and she wants everything to be as normal.
He puts his phone in his pocket. Why can’t she stop nagging? He can’t cope with going home. She’ll only start asking what’s going on, insisting he tell her what’s wrong, beg him to talk things through.
She’s even suggested he should see a therapist. Ridiculous.
He’d rather sleep at the office, or head for the hunting lodge in Ull?dalen. He’ll be left in peace there. It’s the only place where he can think clearly.
Maybe that’s where he should go over Easter in order to formulate a plan?
With a grunt he sits up. The back of his neck cracks; he is sore and stiff, but he is no longer sleepy. He goes over to the desk and opens up the computer.
He brings up the home pages of the evening papers and is immediately confronted with photographs of both Charlotte and that stupid cleaner who got in the way.
The more he reads, the angrier he gets. A sob story about Charlotte’s son is the final straw.
The guy is standing outside ?reg?rden with tears in his eyes, as if he’s begging for people’s sympathy.
As if he’s the one they should feel sorry for.
Bengt wants to tell him to grow up. If there’s any justice, he ought to pay for what his fucking mother has done.
He shuts down the page, considers his next move. He’s done with the porn sites for today. Instead he opts for Facebook and the Preserve Storlien group. There haven’t been many posts over the past few days. He’s had neither the time nor the energy to write anything, but suddenly the desire is back.
His fingers fly across the keyboard. He gives vent to his rage and uses cruder and more inflammatory language than ever before.
He empties out his hatred, like a mental bloodletting process.
It is almost intoxicating. And with every vile word, he feels better.