The Terrorists

Or was that all an illusion? Just because he wanted it to be that way?

He went back to the bed, lay down on his back and clasped his hands behind his head.

He had had the best hours of his life. At the same time, he had created a problem that appeared insoluble. It was damned good sleeping with Rhea. But what was she really like? He was not sure he wanted to put it into words, but maybe he should. What was it someone had said once in the house on Tulegatan? Half girl and half ruffian?

Stupid, but it fitted somehow.

What had it been like last night?

The best in his life. Sexually. But he hadn't had a great deal of experience in that field.

What was she like? He would have to answer. Before he got to the central question.

She had thought it was fun. She had laughed sometimes. And sometimes he had thought she was crying.

So far so good, but then his thoughts took a different turn.

It won't work.

There's too much against it.

I'm thirteen years older. We're both divorced.

We have children, and even if mine are grown up, Rolf nineteen and Ingrid soon twenty-three, hers are still pretty young.

When I'm sixty and ready to retire she'll be only forty-seven.

It won't work.

Martin Beck did not call her. The days went by, and over a week had passed since that night, when his own telephone shrilled at half-past seven in the morning.

‘Hi,’ said Rhea.

‘Hi. Thanks for last week.’

‘Same to you. Are you busy?’

‘Not at all.’

‘God, the police must be busy,’ said Rhea. ‘When do you work, by the way?’

‘My department is having a quiet time at the present. But go into town and you'll find a different story.’

‘Thanks, I know what the streets are like.’

She paused briefly, coughed hoarsely, then said, ‘Is it talking time?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Okay. I'll put in an appearance whenever you say. It'd be best at your place.’

‘Maybe we could go out and eat afterwards,’ said Martin Beck.

‘Yes,’ she said hesitantly, ‘we could. Can you eat out in clogs these days?’

‘Sure.’

‘I'll be there at seven then.’

It was an important conversation for them both, despite the brevity. Their thoughts seemed always to run along roughly the same tracks, and there was no reason to suppose they had not done so this time. More than likely they had come to similar conclusions in a matter that was of undeniable significance.

Rhea came at exactly seven o'clock. She kicked off her red clogs and stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

‘Why didn't you call me?’ she asked.

Martin Beck did not answer.

‘Because you'd finished thinking,’ she said. ‘And weren't pleased with the result?’

‘Roughly.’

‘Roughly?’

‘Exactly,’ he said.

‘So we can't move in together or marry or have any more children or any other stupid thing. Then everything would become too complicated and muddled and a good relationship would have considerable chances of going to hell. Chewed to pieces and worn through.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You're probably right. However much I'd like to deny it.’

She gazed straight at him with her strange, peering, clear blue eyes and said, ‘Do you want to deny it very much?’

‘Yes, but I won't.’

For a moment she seemed to lose control. She walked over to the window, struck aside the curtain and said something in such a muffled voice that he could not catch the words. A few seconds later she said, still without turning her head, ‘I said I love you. I love you now, and I'll probably go on loving you for quite a long time.’

Martin Beck felt bewildered. Then he went over and put his arms around her. Soon afterwards she raised her face from his chest and said, ‘What I mean is, I'm staking a claim and will go on doing so as long as both of us do. Does that make sense?’

‘Yes,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Shall we go and eat now?’

Though they seldom went out to eat, they had gone to an expensive restaurant where the headwaiter had looked at Rhea's clogs with distaste. Afterwards they had walked home and lain in the same bed, which neither of them had planned on.

Since then almost two years had gone by and Rhea Nielsen had been to Köpmangatan innumerable times. Naturally she had to some extent left her mark on the apartment, especially in the kitchen, which was wholly unrecognizable. She had also stuck a poster of Mao Tse-Tung above the bed. Martin Beck never expressed opinions on political matters and said nothing this time, either. But Rhea had said, ‘If anyone wanted to do an “At Home With …” article, you'd probably have to take it down. If you were too cowardly to leave it up.’

Martin Beck had not answered, but the thought of the tremendous dismay the poster would cause in certain circles decided him at once to leave it there.

When they went into Martin Beck's apartment on the fifth of June, 1974, Rhea began at once to take off her sandals.

‘These damned straps rub,’ she said. ‘But they'll be all right in a week or two.’ She flung the sandals aside. ‘What a relief,’ she said. ‘You did a good job today. How many policemen would have agreed to testify and answer those questions?’