She turned her head and met his intense gaze. It made her want to stay and enjoy his unfeigned admiration.

'Sure, be my guest.'

'This might sound silly, but I think I'll say it anyway.'

Suddenly he seemed embarrassed and glanced away for a few seconds before he looked at her again.

'Do you know that you're the only person in here who looks really alive?'

She laughed and took another sip.

'Oh no, that's a good one. I haven't heard that one before.'

He was serious now. Just sat silently and looked at her.

She waved her hand in an attempt to make light of his seriousness.

'I think they all look fairly alive. They're moving, at least.'

A hint of irritation. A crease between his dark eyebrows.

'You can make a joke about it if you like, but I meant what I said. It was intended as a compliment. You have a kind of sad look in your eyes, but it's obvious that you have a heart that really knows how to love.'

His words pierced the soothing calm.

A heart that really knows how to love. Ha!

Her heart was as black as a windowless cellar. No love would ever be able to survive in there any more. But right now she was sitting in a bar in Gamla Stan, she and this Jonas who talked like a bad poet and was ten years younger but who looked at her with a desire that she couldn't recall ever experiencing. She felt a sudden longing that he would touch her, lose control and let loose all the desire she could see in his eyes. Prove that he couldn't resist her. That she was worth loving.

The alcohol gave her the courage she needed.

She turned towards him and met his eyes before she placed her hand over his on the bar.

'Is it far to your place?'

He lay utterly still, couldn't move, as if split in two. One half filled with a satisfaction and an anticipation that he didn't think it was possible to feel. Everything he had ever dreamed of.

Ten hours earlier he hadn't even known that she existed and, now, in the short time he had known her, she had given him everything he could ever have desired. Trembling she had given herself to him, offered him her most sensitive places. The trust she showed had opened his mind wide, all was tenderness, an explosion when the loneliness cracked open.

And then the calm she created. Her confident hands over his skin covered him with a protective layer, purified him, set him free. All the desire that had so long chafed inside him had burst out and flowed into her. The emptiness was gone.

But then the devastating knowledge that he had no right to feel this way.

The other half contained the guilt.

Now it was proven. In a swift descent he had become a deceiver and a cheat. He had let Anna lie alone while he gave himself to another woman. Poured out all the desire he had been saving so long for her. That she should have received.

He was no better than his father.

She was gone when he woke up. Only a brown hair on the pillow proved that she had really been there. The hair, and the sated hunger of his skin.

They hadn't said a word to each other. Their hands and bodies had told all they needed to know.

He sat up and was aware of the cold in the room. He had forgotten to turn on the heater when they came home. He wondered if she had felt cold. He turned the thermostat all the way up in the living room and the kitchen and went into the bathroom. The light was on and the blue-edged hand towel was tossed on the floor. He felt a slight pang of distaste but it couldn't reach him. Her touch lay like a shield around him, an impenetrable armour, it couldn't reach him any longer.

He hung up the towel and turned on the water in the bathtub, waited until it was half full and then climbed in. The hot water reminded him of her hands and he could feel his desire rise again. So many years he had forbidden himself to give in. Now he could no longer resist the urge, not even now after she had just left. What had she succeeded in waking inside him?

He sat down and leaned back. The memory of her nakedness was like a lifelong gift. He could see her before him. How she had closed her eyes and abandoned herself to the pleasure he could give her.

Her hands. Her lips. The taste of her. Her skin against his, united, no beginning, no end.

How could he have resisted her? She was everything he dreamed of. A vibrant woman who wanted to have him, take hold of him, love him. Made him reach a pleasure he didn't think was possible. What terrible god could possibly demand that he say no?

He got up, climbed out of the bathtub and dried himself with the blue-edged hand towel. The one she must have just used. Suddenly he felt like crying. How could he touch Anna now that his hands were full to the brim with another woman?

With Linda.

He hardly dared think of her name. Anna would discover what had happened. She would feel the betrayal, that he hadn't managed to keep his promise.

And what would he say when Linda called? She hadn't asked for his phone number, but she knew where he lived. He was here in the bathroom, but all his desire was with her.

He sat down on the toilet seat and put his head in his hands.

No matter what he did, he would have to betray one of them.

He had to go to the hospital. Right now, he had to drive over to see Anna and confess what he had done. He had to win her forgiveness. Without it he could not survive.

The telephone rang. He looked at his watch. Ten past seven. Naked he went back into the living room. It must be her. Who else would call this early? She must have called enquiries to get his phone number. What should he say? And how could he resist answering and hearing her voice?

The most fantastic thing was that he could answer after five rings. It couldn't affect him any more. His whole body smiled with this realisation when he picked up the receiver and answered.

'Hi, this is Jonas.'

'Jonas, this is Bjorn Sahlstedt at Karolinska Hospital. It's probably best if you come over. Right away.'

When she came out the front door of the building it was ten after four in the morning, and she didn't know where she was. The taxi had driven south from Gamla Stan and took a right at Gullmarsplan, she remembered that, but then she had lost her bearings. She turned around. To the right of the entrance hall she had just come out of there was a street sign on the wall, and she took a few steps closer so she could read it in the dark. Storsjovagen. She was in a dead end, and she started walking down the street. The facades of the buildings were dark with shiny black windowpanes. Only a few lights were on.

She was grateful that he didn't wake up when she got out of bed. For about an hour she lay still, pretending she was asleep, until his regular breathing assured her that he was sleeping. Only then did she dare open her eyes. A bed-sit, strangely empty of objects. Maybe he was just living there temporarily. Only the walls belied this idea. A great number of oil paintings of various sizes, all with colourful abstract patterns, covered almost every square centimetre.

He had fallen asleep with his lips against her left shoulder. It was noticeably cold in the flat. Carefully, so that he wouldn't wake up, she drew away from him, got up and rummaged on the floor for her clothes.

In his bathroom mirror she saw a woman who was a stranger. A woman who had seduced a twenty-five-year-old, gone home with him to his flat and to bed. She still could not decide whether it had had the effect on her that she had imagined.

Everything seemed shut down inside her.

On the way up the stairs to his flat she became nervous. The courage of intoxication had vanished and for a moment she wanted to leave. But then she envisaged Henrik and Linda together and it made her feet continue through the door of the flat. As soon as she entered the hallway she pressed herself against him, just to conceal her inner imbalance, and his desire was so strong that they scarcely managed to get their clothes off. His frantic hands had fumbled over her body, and it occurred to her that perhaps he was a virgin, but she did her best to instil self-confidence in him, pretending to enjoy his clumsy attempts.

The street ended at an intersection, and she took out her mobile and rang for a taxi.

His name was Jonas and Hansson was the name on his door. That was all she knew, and she had no interest in knowing more. He had done his part and she had done hers.

It was like a void inside her, an inability to be touched. The only man who had touched her in fifteen years was Henrik, and now she had given herself to a total stranger.

And she couldn't care less.

There was a light on in the entrance hall when she came home. She took out her purse, took out her wedding ring and slipped it back on her finger. As quietly as she could she hung up her coat and went into the kitchen. Everything was quiet. Axel's plate was still on the table, and she could see that they had eaten spaghetti with meat sauce. A completely normal dinner. Henrik's mobile lay on the kitchen counter. Not a single message. The call list showed no numbers, either received or called; it must have been erased. He thought he was smart, that bastard.

She went into Axel's room. The moon-shaped night-light was on and the floor was covered with toys, but the bed was empty as usual. She sat down on the floor. An Action Man lay next to her on the carpet, with arms and legs stiffly extended. It lay there abandoned by his defenceless little hands powerless to stop his life coming apart.

She looked at the toy she was holding in her hands. Who had given him this? The right hand was shaped to grip its weapons.

She stood up quickly. Henrik's keyring was in his jacket pocket and she continued down to the cellar. The gun cabinet. Where he kept his hunting rifles. The only place in the house where she never went.

She found them under a red box of ammunition: a bundle of computer-printed letters with no envelopes. She only managed to read the first four lines. Pressure gripped her chest. She leafed rapidly through them and found at the bottom of the pile two folded lists from the Swedish Real Estate Agency. Properties T 22 and K 18. That bastard was looking for a new place to live, well aware that she could never afford to keep living in the house without him. He didn't even have the courtesy to tell her that she would soon be forced to move out of her home.

Never in her life had she thought that anyone would treat her this way.

For the time being she couldn't do anything to Henrik.

Linda, on the other hand, had no idea what was in store for her.

He ended up in the middle of rush-hour traffic. It usually took him eighteen minutes to drive to Karolinska, sometimes up to twenty-four, but this morning he made it only as far as the Bromma turn-off in the usual amount of time. He kept changing lanes, heading for Essinge, but that didn't help either.

Dr Sahlstedt had said that it was probably best if he came at once.

But why hadn't he told him to hurry?

Near Tomteboda there was a three-car pile-up, and after he managed to squeeze past the accident the traffic eased a bit. So many times he had driven this way. He wondered how many. And then the relief, despite his worry, that nobody was forcing him to count.

She had healed him.

And then the next thought. Forgive me, Anna. Forgive me.

The smell of fried bacon. It would forever be associated with that afternoon when she left him. He sensed the danger as soon as he came into the hall. It wasn't only the smell of frying, there was something else in the air as well. The car had been parked in the driveway, so his father was home, and at this time of day his mother was always home too. He stood quite still with his coat on and wondered if anyone had heard him come in.

Not a sound to be heard. And yet he knew that they were there.

He stretched out his hands in front of him, but couldn't make himself touch the jacket he was supposed to take off. He felt the compulsion growing stronger and headed for the bathroom to wash his hands.

'Jonas!'

He stopped in mid-stride. It was his father shouting.

'Yes?'

'Come here.'

He swallowed.

'I just have to wash my hands.'

'Stop that foolishness right now and come here, I say!'

He had been drinking. And he was angry. He almost always was when he was drunk, but he usually only got drunk on weekends. Then you had to watch out, never knowing when he would explode. Or why.

The compulsion retreated. The fear of what was waiting out there in the kitchen took over instead. He pulled off his jacket and placed it on a chair. Everything was quiet again. Quietly he went towards the kitchen.

She was sitting at the table.

He stood leaning against the counter with a glass in his hand. Funny how water and alcohol could look so much alike.

On the kitchen table in front of her lay a man's white shirt.

She turned her head and looked at him when he came in, and the expression on her face filled him with terror. He wanted to run to her and hold her, comfort her, protect her. Lay his head on her lap like he had done when he was little and she would stroke his hair and say that everything was going to be all right. So many times they had sought comfort in each other, united against his father's unpredictable weekend rages.

He looked at his father. He had those eyes he got when he had been drinking. When you knew he was someone nobody knew.

He took a swig from his glass.

'Mamma has found a shirt with a little lipstick on it. That's why she's so mad.'

She had found out. In the midst of all the commotion over her reaction the words filled him with relief. Finally his father had been forced to confess. Now he would be free of his responsibility to protect her, be spared all the circumlocutions and lies that had come between them. Finally he would be hers again, totally, could stand on her side. As he had always done.

His father slammed down his glass on the counter and turned to his mother sitting at the kitchen table with her back to him.

'What should I do, do you think? Eh? You never contribute anything! Just roam around here at home looking like a goddamn dishrag and complaining that there's never enough money, that we never go on holiday or can afford anything. You'll just have to go out and get a job yourself then, if it's not enough!'

Jonas looked at his mother again and now he dared go over to her. He put his hand on her shoulder and she took it in hers.

Then he looked at his father. You bastard! We don't need you any more. We never did.

He could see the change in his father's eyes, which now belonged to a stranger. In the next instant his glass smashed against the tile above the cooker on the far wall.

'And you, you sanctimonious little bastard. Standing there comforting her like you never knew a thing.'

A few seconds passed, then his mother let go of his hand.

'If you only knew what he's been doing so that you wouldn't find out. He lies better than a con man, I don't know where he comes up with it all. But he gets it from you, I can see, your family has always been a pack of liars.'

His father continued without mercy.

'Why don't you tell her now? Tell her what a stud I am. How all the women except for her will do anything so I'll screw them. The one with the lipstick you've even met. So you saw it all for yourself.'

Two weeks later. He had been allowed to go along to the docks at Soderhamn. Was offered a chance to make a little extra money by helping out with a cleanup after a construction job where his father laid pipes. He was glad when they left, glad that they were going to spend two days together. Maybe he'd have a chance to talk to his father about how he felt, how he couldn't lie any more. He waited all day for an opportunity that never came. Then he thought: tonight when we eat dinner at the hotel, then I'll get my chance. She was already sitting in the dining room when they arrived, and before they even got their food his father had invited her over to their table. He ordered more and more beers. Jonas sat silently in shame at his father's increasingly ridiculous behaviour. About an hour later he gave Jonas a few hundred-krona notes and sent him out on the town. He didn't dare come back until around three in the morning. He needed to sleep. He was dead tired from the day's work, and the next morning they had to get up at six thirty and go back. She was still there in the hotel room. Their clothes lay scattered on the floor, her fat right leg was sticking out from the covers, and neither of them noticed him come in. He spent the rest of the night on a sofa in the lobby, but something inside him had finally had enough. In the morning he couldn't control all his pent-up rage any longer. For the first time he dared to refuse, and his father sat hungover in his underwear on the edge of the messy double bed and tried to beg for forgiveness. But Jonas was unyielding. This time he was going to tell him. He didn't intend to lie any more. When his father recognised the firmness in his threat he collapsed with his face in his hands, and with his gut hanging over the edge of his shorts he sobbed and begged him not to do it.

And Jonas had once more been forced into betrayal.