Page 105 of Hidden in Memories
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Filip’s desire for a cigarette comes rushing back when the waiter at Supper removes their plates after the meal.
He and Emily are sitting at a corner table, Filip with his back to the other diners. It feels like everyone knows who he is after that disgusting article. He avoids eye contact as much as possible, tries to concentrate on Emily so that the persecution mania won’t take over.
“That was delicious, wasn’t it?” she says, placing her hand over his. “Especially the sweet potato fries and the chili chocolate.”
Filip gives her a grateful smile. He hasn’t had much of an appetite over the past few days. Every bite of food seemed to grow in his mouth; it all tasted of mud. But Emily has made an effort for his sake, tried to ensure that he had a pleasant evening. She wants him to feel better, to think about something other than his mother’s terrible death just for a little while.
The intense longing for a cigarette is growing stronger. He touches the pocket of his jeans where he has half a pack hidden away.
“Do you mind if I go out for a breath of fresh air?” he says.
It’s better not to come out and say he’s going for a cigarette. Emily doesn’t like him smoking.
She sighs loudly, but doesn’t object. “Okay, I’ll order coffee. Do you want another drink?”
He has had only one beer all evening; he doesn’t really want any more booze.
“No, I’m fine,” he says, getting to his feet.
Twilight is falling when he steps onto the veranda outside the restaurant. In fact it is almost dark as he positions himself around the corner, out of the way, so that the smoke won’t disturb anyone else. There is a notice asking guests not to smoke by the doors.
He lights up and takes a deep drag. It tastes good. At that moment he hears footsteps behind him, but he doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to risk encountering yet another prying journalist asking stupid questions.
Henry called to console him, said the article is irrelevant. Today’s news is tomorrow’s trash; it’s nothing to worry about. They are going home to Stockholm on Sunday.
Filip appreciates the fact that his godfather wants to help, but Henry doesn’t understand how small and stupid he feels.
It was pathetic, trying to put things right by talking to a reporter about Mom. He was so gullible. Mom would never have done that. If she were still alive, she would have laughed at the very idea and told him to forget it.
The thought brings tears to his eyes.
Why did they fight all the time? He can’t understand it now; how could he have acted so childishly? Mom only ever wanted what was best for him, and now she’s gone.
He would do anything to be able to tell her how grateful he is for everything she did for him. To tell her he loves her, just once more. And that she was the best mom in the whole world.
He takes another drag, blinks back the tears. He is overwhelmed by guilt. It doesn’t make things better in any way, but he can’t help it. He wakes up every morning ashamed of his behavior and his ingratitude.
So many things he took for granted.
The tip of his cigarette glows in the dark; the lump in his throat grows bigger.
He suddenly has a sense that someone is standing behind him.
Way too close.
He turns to look, feels a sharp pain in his neck.
And the world disappears.
84
The exterior lighting at the Villa creates a welcoming and almost festive atmosphere as Hanna drives up the incline to Copperhill. The snowy landscape enhances the effect of the lights, and the huge windows glow invitingly.
She isn’t really in the mood for this kind of excess. All she wants is to get information from Henry that will move them forward in the hunt for the murderer. She has no intention of spending any more than thirty minutes here; then she will go home, have something to eat, and curl up in bed with Morris pressed close by her side.
She parks next to what she assumes is Henry’s rental car, an ordinary Kia. To be honest she had expected something else, maybe a Porsche or Mercedes SUV. More in keeping with his image.
