Free Murder of Halland by Pia Juul

though I knew it didn’t work, then knocked again.
    ‘I won’t put up with it for one more minute!’ Inger yelled in my face, stepping past me into the square.
    ‘He’s just a teenager,’ I mumbled.
    ‘That doesn’t excuse everything ! I’m sick to bloody death of him. Never lifts a finger, lounging about all day… He was supposed to help me this morning, but he’s only just crawled out of bed with a hangover. He thinks he’s going out again tonight. How can you get drunk when you’re seventeen anyway? Isn’t it against the law?’
    ‘Just leave him,’ I said, and went inside. Lasse sat in the kitchen, slumped in front of a bowl of porridge and a glass of chocolate milk.
    ‘Got a headache, have we?’ I chuckled. Hangovers are funny at that age. They’re proud of them. ‘You haven’t seen Brandt, I suppose, either of you? His lodger says he’s gone missing.’
    They hadn’t. And didn’t seem that bothered either. I watched Lasse. He was so listless, so boyish and self-conscious . A few moments ago he had yelled at his mother . She was still livid.
    ‘He takes and takes and never gives anything in return!’ she fumed. Lasse cowered. I wanted a teenager at home, even an unreasonable one. As unreasonable as they came – I wouldn’t mind. Not everyone is cut out for children, but most people have them anyway. As always, I was overcome by a rather gratuitous tenderness since I had no children living with me. Besides, Abby would be twenty-four soon. But there had been a time when she was small, just growing up. A time when she laughed and cried, played on the swing, spilt her food down her front; a time when she immersed herself in play, sat still to have her hair brushed; a time of sleeping and waking; a time of singing and shouting and squealing with joy; a time of whispered secrets and finishing her dinner; a time of pulling faces, and dealing out kisses, and shying away from kisses offered in return. I wanted it all back, yet at the time the opportunity seemed to have passed me by. When I wept from the pain of not having Abby, I really wept for not being a decent mother. I had beena hypocrite who had wanted Abby to like me. But she couldn’t. It was as simple as that. I often thought of how I held her in my arms as a baby just as I recently held my cousin’s sleeping newborn grandchild. I sat and gazed into that little face, longing to relive the entire experience , even the part where Abby started answering back as children do. I even wanted her to despise me again because she would at least be with me. I had made one of my despairing attempts at becoming a decent mother after reading an article claiming that mealtimes delivered many benefits. One had to make an effort with the table, for example by using colourful napkins. The first time I tried this, I don’t think Abby or her father noticed. In fact, Abby tried to pick a fight and her first mouthful prompted the obnoxious comment: ‘Your food tastes like shit!’ Although her words upset me, I nearly burst out laughing. She noticed straight away and flew into a rage. And now I could only remember her comment and her eyes filling with tears, not the reason for her anger. Perhaps her father and I had already decided to split up. Yes, that must have been the reason.
    ‘What happened to you yesterday?’ asked Inger. ‘And who was the pregnant young thing doing the honours at the door?’
    I shrugged. ‘Thanks for your help at the church. I needed to get away.’
    ‘But who was she?’
    I gave Inger a look that said later , though I had no intention of pursuing the matter. Turning back to Lasse, I asked, ‘Where are you off to tonight, then?’ His mouthfull, he pointed at the local paper lying open on the table in front of him. Pavilion reopens , it said.
    ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Can you believe it?’
    Standing behind me with her hands on my shoulders, Inger read the article.
    ‘Halland always said someone should reopen that place, and when