Night Watch by Malin Lindroth

Mum's fiftieth birthday is on the 16th December 1975. Dad has a surprise for her. He comes home from work early, bubbling over with secrets and galloping around the flat.
"Right, you'd better get dressed up. You must look your very best! We're going out to celebrate!" "What? What? What?" I cry, making a mess of getting into my best dress.
"That'd be telling." Dad beams, smiles a mysterious smile and continues wandering around with a tube of Brylcream in his hand and his tie hanging unfastened round his neck.
"The fair! Liseberg!" howls Annika, snapping at his heels with one patent-leather shoe in her hand and the other on her foot.
Dad picks her up, tosses her around like a doll and tickles her tummy.
"Even better than that, my sweetheart!" he says, with a laugh.
Mum comes into the room. She looks pale, every bit as pale as Mrs Jonsson's discarded trouser suit she's just put on.

"Now what are you up to?"
Her voice is gruff and shaky, but I can see she's hopeful. There's a little gleam in the corner of her eye.

"Goodness me!" exclaims Dad, letting Annika trickle out of his arms. "You look lovely tonight!"
Hope is boiling over.
"Thank you," says Mum, blushing like a little girl.

"It's non-iron," she adds hastily, picking at the hem of her jacket.
An hour later, we're all ensconced at the Old Port restaurant. That was a real surprise. I'd never been to a place like that before. There's a big chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The tablecloths are like newly fallen snow. Long-legged ladies are tripping like roe-deer in and out between the tables, smiling and filling glasses. Everybody here is good-looking. Everybody is speaking in a low voice. The chairs have paws.
We have expensive dishes. Something French that looks like chops. We have our own little island, a circular table right in the middle of the room. Mum and Dad drink wine. Annika and me have apple juice.
"Congratulations on your Big Day!" says Dad, raising his glass.
"My dear, my darling," whispers Mum, looking happy.
We all raise our glasses and let them clink together.
All for one and one for all, I suddenly think. We continue eating. I take tiny weeny bites to make the French food last as long as possible.
We really are having fun. Like a family on the television. I look at Mum and listen to Dad. He's on about something that's happening in the big wide world. I don't quite know where in the world. I only hear the odd word here and there. Mum's chasing a pea round and round her plate with her fork.
"Expressionism..." says Dad.
Mum starts giggling, because that pea business is really starting to be pretty silly. It's sliding around in the greasy gravy like Bambi on ice. Annika bursts out laughing. "Watergate..." Dad says. Now it's my turn to laugh as the pea starts shooting around in all directions. Ping, ping, pong, now here, now there. The gravy spills over onto the table cloth.
"Claude Monet... Fidel Castro..." Dad says, starting to get annoyed. He strokes his finger over his top lip where his moustache used to be. I've no idea what he's on about. He raises his voice somewhat. "Ingmar Bergman..." he says just as she finally captures the pea. Annika cheers and applauds. Dad falls silent and glowers. Mum sucks the pea from her fork with a little plop. One should not really converse with waitresses. That's what Dad said when we first got there. All you need to do is to order your food, say thank you now and then, and eventually ask for the bill. But Mum's forgotten all about that. She's shaking hands with the waitress and thanking her for the dinner. The waitress is nice. She smiles at Mum and tells her how welcome it is to be appreciated for a change. Not everybody is as generous as that. Mum puts her other hand on top of the waitress's and says she knows exactly what she means, and has no illusions about how unfeeling people can be. Dad is staring down at his plate and refuses to be introduced. Mum takes no notice and explains that this is her husband and these are her two daughters, and she wonders what the waitress's name is. The waitress has green eyes and is called Lise-Lotte. And Lise-Lotte is now more or less a friend. She tells Mum she comes from Sundsvall and has a fiancé called Ken. He plays the trombone and is a taxi driver. But then she really does have to get on with her work but would anybody like some ice cream?
Everybody does, apart from Dad. He gets to his feet.
"A breath of fresh air," he mumbles.
"My dear, my darling!" says Mum. "You're not feeling bad, I hope? Not wind, is it?"
Dad hushes her up, somewhat annoyed.
"I'm just going to get a breath of fresh air."
He leaves his wallet and his keys by his plate, and marches out.

Two hours later we're braving a storm that's brewed up during the evening. Darkness and wind, everything's darkness and wind. Thousands of needles that are really snow dropping on to my face, and I cling on to Mum's coat sleeve and Annika clings on to me, and it feels as if we'll soon be drowned. Sucked right into the city's maws and chewed into dust under the asphalt, because he never came back and we're all on our own. We sat round the elegant white table cloth and waited for hours, and all that was left was a wallet and a bunch of keys. I've never eaten so much ice cream. All the money disappeared from the wallet when Mum was eventually forced to pay. It cost a fortune. Mum looked shattered. Dead. Her face was stiff and white, as if coated with a sort of horror, something I'd never seen before, and the horror was oozing out of every pore. We can't hold hands any longer. Behind us the restaurant collapses in a cloud of tinsel and light as Lise-Lotte waves goodbye, farewell and we'll never be able to return.
Is he dead? Has he been murdered? Has he been throttled and dumped in the sea?

I'll never forgive him for the way he was sitting there in his armchair in his dressing gown and slippers when we eventually got home. He'd had a shower. His hair was damp. He was smoking a cigarette. All three of us just stood there in the living room doorway.
"So there you are," he said.
Yes. There we were. Dissolved by darkness and horror. Annika collapsed in a heap on the floor, and I started sobbing.
"You must have had a good time. Yes indeed, you stayed there for another few hours."
He leaned back in his chair and puffed smoke up at the ceiling.
"You..." said Mum. "You..."
She took a step into the room, reached out her arms, then just stood there, unable to produce a single word.
"We thought you were dead!" howled Annika from the floor.
"Dead?" said Dad. "For God's sake! How on earth could I be dead?"
"You never came back."
I heard my own voice. It seemed a long way away.
"I went for a walk. Then I felt tired and went home," said this father of ours, looking daggers at Mum. "Typical," he snorted. "Frightening the kids like that."