More Bitter Than Death

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Authors: Camilla Grebe, Åsa Träff
Tags: thriller
vacation, but when she finds out I’m still at work, I can hear in her voice that she’s worried.
    “But it’s eight o’clock. How late are you going to be there?”
    I laugh, dismissing her concern. “Not a minute past nine, but unfortunately the patient files don’t write themselves.”
    “I thought you had assistants for stuff like that.”
    I laugh again, louder this time. The thought of elf-like—presumably female—assistants flitting around the office with patient files ready for signature makes me laugh. Of course we do have Elin, but she can hardly keep track of the appointments. I don’t even want to think about what would happen if she tried to transcribe my notes. Words like malpractice and disciplinary board pop into my head.
    “Yes, please, one male assistant, maybe in his twenties. You know, before they get bitter and start refusing to go buy lattes and pick up my dry cleaning.”
    I can tell she has a big smile on her face, even though I can’t see her.
    *   *   *
    Naturally I stay until after nine. I scurry down the stairs. I don’t like to spend any more time in dark stairwells than necessary, and I’m in a hurry to get home.
    The wind that greets me when I open the door is, if possible, even icier than before. The constant hum of traffic on Götgatan is like a blanket of noise on the cobblestones, always in the background but never really disruptive. I can make out the silhouettes of people moving aimlessly across Medborgarplatsen in the dense darkness, leaning into the cold wind.
    To my right I see the Thai restaurant. Its purple neon sign flickers in the darkness, a lone bright spot in the night. A group of alcoholics are sitting on the steps in front of the Forsgrénska pool building, sharing a bottle.
    I slowly walk toward the ATM, wrapping my gray scarf around my neck one more time in an attempt to stop the harsh autumn air from sneaking in under my thin coat.
    I notice him almost immediately. His gait is unsteady and he’s not wearing a jacket; he must be really cold. His hands are jammed down into the pockets of his worn jeans and he has a red knit hat on.
    Discreetly, I try to steer clear of this guy—who is obviously high—and head toward the Thai restaurant. I stare down at the wet pavement as if transfixed by it, clutching my purse.
    But it seems like he wants something from me. He stumbles over toward me, stands in my way before I can escape him in the dark.
    In the end, I’m forced to look at him. His eyes are just as vacant as the black sky above us. He sways slowly back and forth and suddenly I’m worried he’s going to keel over.
    “C’you spare ten kronor for a hamburger?”
    Suddenly I feel depressed. Junkies are getting younger and younger. I’m guessing this boy in the T-shirt isn’t any older than fifteen. But however much it upsets me to see a kid on drugs, I’m equally scared of the dark, and of everything I know an addict in need of money is capable of, even if he’s just a teenager.
    I quickly dig around in my coat pockets. The left one is ripped. There’s a hole in the cheap, flimsy material, in the bottom. No spare change. I start fumbling with the zipper on my purse. My fingers feel stiff and don’t want to obey.
    “Is this guy bothering you?”
    I glance up, looking away from the skinny, shivering boy. At first I see only his silhouette in front of the lights on the front of Söderhallarna Shopping Center, then he gradually emerges from the background. He’s tall and strong with a shaved head, a black down jacket, jeans, a tattoo that is visible through his shirt, some sort of gym bag in his hand. He must be some kind of mechanicor gym teacher or security guard. Despite his size and his appearance, he seems nice, sympathetic.
    “No . . . He just wants a little money for a hamburger.”
    “For a hamburger?” The man chuckles softly, as if he’s heard the hamburger story several times before. He stuffs his hand into his jacket and pulls

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