Chapter 2
Kjell
As if I hadn't just dropped a bombshell in this office, Jakob reaches for his miniature scissors, unimpressed.
"I don't know," he says, turning to the larch bonsai on his desk. "It sounds quite far-fetched."
What? Far-fetched? I've been researching the story about the Priority Center for weeks. And what I've found are facts. Facts that cost lives.
I jump up from my chair, which crashes to the floor behind me. "No, I'm onto something damn big. If my informant is telling the truth, we could change something for many unfairly downgraded cancer patients on the waiting list."
He looks up from his plant and twirls the scissors in his hand. "And what if he's not telling the truth? If we publish this story, and then it turns out to be false, we're screwed."
"Damn, that's true." I run my hands through my hair and interlace my fingers at the back of my neck. My gaze drifts to the oversized panoramic picture of Lake V?nern, Sweden's largest lake, which I took last year. "So what do we do?" I ask tensely.
The metallic snip of the scissors fills the room again. "We can't afford a legal battle with the Priority Center." Jakob sounds weary.
I know that too. Sanningens ?gonblick is a small newspaper—still. I exhale slowly, then I approach Jakob and take the scissors from his hand. "Sometimes I think you've forgotten why we started this paper in the first place."
His expression turns sad. He shakes his head.
"We wanted nothing but the truth," I remind him emphatically. "Expose misconduct. Uncover fraud. Social injustice, lawlessness, corruption."
With each word from my mouth, Jakob's shoulders slump further.
I tap my index finger on my printed article. "This is one of those stories."
With tightly pressed lips, he lowers his gaze. Something's not right here. Since when has he been so hesitant?
"My informant is an employee at the Priority Center. He's trustworthy. I've verified that, and you know what that means," I say. Nobody lies to me. I know every sign, no matter how small. "Can't you see it?" I ask imploringly because Jakob isn't reacting. "Can't you see the danger our silence poses?"
Abruptly, he turns away from me and paces along the wood-paneled wall. "Corruption at the Priority Center. Bribery. Playing a dangerous game with people's lives," he mutters to himself as if searching for a suitable headline. He reaches the end of the office, turns around, and continues to mutter. "Cancer patients getting their treatment later because other, much less urgent cases, are being bumped up the list with bribes."
"And sometimes too late," I add passionately. "We need to run the story. This is the only way we can make a difference in this country. For the people." I feel a surge of heat within me. Nothing in life means as much to me as this. It's my mission. "We make the world a better place," I remind him because I believe it with all I have.
He stops, his gaze meeting mine. We stare at each other for seconds. I raise my eyebrows and nod decisively. He furrows his brow and bites his lower lip.
"Why do you think I received those threatening calls? Why was I followed by that guy? And why was my home broken into without anything being stolen?" My tiny one-room apartment was completely ransacked, but nothing was missing. The memory of it makes me swallow hard. I never thought something like that would happen, but this matter is important. More important than me.
"And what do you think they'll do once the article is published?" Jakob asks with a weak voice. His gaze wanders restlessly around the room, his body tensing. Only his fingers fidget nervously with each other. "What if they harm you? Or target me? And Merle!"
"I understand your fear perfectly well, but once the story is published, there's no point in intimidating you or your wife." That won't happen. I'm sure of it, but his expression remains skeptical. "You know I would openly admit if I thought otherwise."
He sighs heavily. "Yes, I know." He looks up at the ceiling and clenches his fists. "Nevertheless, I have to protect Merle. If anything happens to her, I could never forgive myself. If there was someone in your life..."
"Don't start with that now," I quickly interrupt him. Because my preference for being alone rather than inevitably disappointed sooner or later has nothing to do with this.
"Okay," he says, raising his hands in apology. There's something that catches my attention. An unsettled gaze, fidgety fingers. Why is he so nervous?
"What's really going on?" I ask.
With a long sigh, Jakob reaches for his scissors again. "Nothing."
"Nonsense." I position myself in front of the bonsai so he can't reach it. "Tell me, and maybe I can help."
"Man, Kjell, it's..." I hear desperation in his tone, and it immediately infects me. "You'd better sit down," he says dejectedly, pointing at the chair in front of his desk.
With a queasy feeling in my stomach, I circle the table and sink into the wooden chair. Jakob suddenly looks as dejected in his leather chair as a six-year-old who has just realized that it's not Julgubbe but his parents who bring the presents at Christmas.
"We're broke," he bursts out suddenly.
I lean forward. "How broke?"
"If we don't do something, we'll have to lay off Ebba by the end of the year."
"We can't do that," I reply somberly. Who will handle the assistant's tasks? We're already foregoing the graphic designer, and I take most of the photos myself. If Jakob and I also have to tackle corrections and office management, there won't be much time left for well-researched articles.
"The bank will call in our loan no later than March. We'll both lose our jobs." He wearily shrugs. "We have only four months left to make the newspaper profitable."
We can do it. Somehow. "I'll search for more evidence for my story, make it watertight. I only need four weeks. It'll sell well, I'm sure." It's important. "And at the same time, I'll get started on something new," I suggest.
"Even if the story is true and doesn't cost us our personal assets, it won't save us." A faint smile appears on his lips. "I have to think of Merle. The family we want to be soon. And there's too much at stake for you too. Your name is on the article; you could become a target."
That's true, but we have to run the story. "The report is meaningful, and it's important. We can't stay silent."
"Maybe, but the risk is too high. And if it also doesn't sell well, it does more harm than good. Plus, we can't wait any longer." Something in his expression tells me he's given up. "We need to change our approach. Give the readers more of what they want. Celebrity stuff and such."
Oh God, no! Now I'm the one whose features are contorted. "Are you serious?" I can hardly articulate the question; it's so unimaginable.
He takes a daily newspaper from one of the compartments next to him and places it in front of me on the table. With his index finger, he taps the photo of this unfortunate fashion designer. "This is what the readers want. Personal tragedies, a bit of embarrassment, a little glitz."
A little glitz? I stare at him in disbelief. "You want us to become sleazy tabloid reporters spreading baseless rumors about some C-list celebrities?" I can barely utter the question.
"Just until we get out of the red," he replies, not meeting my gaze. He's ashamed of it too. But he seems to think there's no other way. "It will be a separate newspaper, independent of Sanningens ?gonblick . Its reputation will remain intact, but we'll have to stretch the publication dates to devote all our energy to the gossip sheet."
No.
I can't do this. I don't want to do this. I didn't become a journalist for this, and neither did he. Frantically, I search for another solution. For a moment, I even try to imagine giving up on our shared dream, but I can't.
"Come on." Desperation fills Jakob's eyes. "We have no choice."
I look at him. "What makes you so sure?"
"The current sales figures," he replies, cursing again. It's clear to me how serious this is.
I have to help him. What kind of friend would I be if I didn't stand by him now? "Only until we're out of the red?" I ask.
He nods. "I swear to you."
It's the absolute truth; I can see it in his eyes. So I gather my courage and look for a way to fulfill his wish without breaking myself in the process.
"My articles must be published under a pen name," I say. No one must ever associate me with this garbage. It will be hard enough to look at myself in the mirror as it is. "And the first story I will research and publish after all this will be the one about the Priority Center."
Panic floods Jakob's expression. He nods, but far too hesitantly.
"Promise," I add firmly. I will do what's necessary, but I can only do it if I have something to hold on to. A goal that will help me survive the coming months as a gossip reporter and then quickly forget about it.
He reaches out his hand, and I take it. "If you provide watertight evidence, the article will be published." This time, his nod is emphatic, and his gaze is open.
No trembling. Steady breath. Relaxed muscles.
Jakob is telling the truth, and even though my mind recognizes it, it's not enough. It never will be. Not with anyone. And least of all with those who are close to me. This is not how I want to be, but I can't help it.
With a nervous movement, I grab the newspaper with the report on the fashion mogul's accident and skim through it. It contains hardly any revealing information about Gustav Blohm himself, the accident, or his current condition.
"He's supposedly at the Karolinska University Hospital . Find out what's really wrong with him. Add a touch of drama, good photos, a captivating headline. Go for the tearjerker." He sounds dejected. "That's what sells best."
This is going to be nasty. "Let's see what I can do," I reply nonetheless, for Jakob's sake, suppressing the reluctance rising within me.
"Thank you, Kjell," Jakob's eyes suddenly glisten with a watery sheen.
With a strained smile, I bid him farewell and set out with my camera. As I step out of the old building that houses our small newsroom, the cool late autumn air envelops me. I shiver and zip up my leather jacket. The lining presses against my unshaven chin, providing at least a bit of warmth. The last rays of sunlight illuminate Stockholm's facades, and the sky glows in an intense mix of orange and pink, the way it only does when winter approaches.
I march to the subway station and retrieve my phone from my pocket while waiting. Where do I start my research?
When I open the browser, my mother calls.
I feel sick. After all these years, she still won't give up. Will it ever end?
With tightly pressed lips, I decline the call and focus on my mission again.
The Karolinska University Hospital has two locations. Accident victims are usually admitted to Solna. Maybe he has already been transferred to another hospital. Nevertheless, I will find the first traces only there.
A gust of wind tugs at my jeans, and the subway's rumbling grows louder until it finally stops in front of me. Without looking up from my phone, I board the train.
I could inquire at the emergency department. Or with the fire department. I sink deeper into my thoughts, envisioning different scenarios and trying to connect the dots based on the scant online facts.
Only when my stop is announced do I look up and put my phone back in my pocket. The information remains in my mind, a tangled mess I want to sort out.
I step out into the open, bury my hands in my pockets, and start walking.
There are countless reports about Blohm's fashion empire, Touch av lyx . But about him as a private person? Almost nothing.
That is definitely strange.
The hospital complex looms in front of me. Why is he isolating himself? Does he have a family? A lover, perhaps? Or maybe he's a member of one of those cults that hides from the public eye?
Lost in thought, I approach the main entrance and reach for the door handle.
Out of nowhere, someone pushes me aside. Red hair suddenly surrounds my face.
"Yeah, I know what you said this morning. And at noon. And an hour ago," a desperate female voice says. "Please, Lil, don't do this to me."
I free myself from the hair and try to step aside, but at that moment, something pierces my right sneaker. A sharp pain runs through me.
Damn. What is that?
My eyes jerk downward. The redhead is standing on my foot with the pencil heel of her shoe.
"Hey," I exclaim accusingly, but she doesn't seem to notice me at all.
"I came all the way here for this," she sighs heavily and forcefully pushes open the hospital's entrance door.
The heavy glass door is rushing toward me. Thinking quickly, I lean to the side since I can't step back with the redhead still standing on my foot.
"Dammit, what's the matter?" I shout at her in pain.
She turns her head toward me, the phone pressed tightly to her ear, staring at me with wide-open eyes.
And I stare back. I've seen this woman before!
Back then, she had blond hair, but I remember her narrow nose with pale freckles, pronounced cheekbones, and a high forehead. I also remember the egocentric monster that hid behind her pretty facade, just the same.
I'll never forget how she and her friends treated me almost every night at Polarnatt that summer, like a doormat. As if I were her damn servant.
"What?" she asks me now, visibly stressed.
What ?
In a frantic motion, she brushes her hair away from her face. "One moment, please, Lil," she says into the phone, then fixes her gaze on me with a questioning expression. I can clearly see in her look that she has no idea who I am or what I want from her. "Can I help you?"
I'm not surprised that she doesn't remember me. After all, back then, she held her nose so high she could only see the club's lighting effects. And the fact that she hasn't noticed that her heel is seemingly an inch deep in the arch of my foot shows that she still does.
Without saying a word, I gesture downward. Her gaze follows but immediately returns to me, a puzzled expression on her face. It's only now that I realize she's not standing on my foot anymore.
When did that happen?
With a perplexed expression, she turns away. "If he's angry, I'll take the blame," she tells her phone conversation partner, shoots me a reproachful look, and slips through the door. "Thanks, Lil." She sighs wearily before disappearing into the hospital lobby without further acknowledging my presence.