You freeze. The book slips from your hand.
Your mind races. You need some more time to make sense of this. Because what you read really sounds like Trant has a crush on you. You must be losing your mind. It can't be true. It can't.
Behind you, the mattress springs creak as Trant sits up. "You're reading my journal," he states.
"I'm a detective, I can't just ignore a piece of evidence," you say. Your voice shakes, ruining the effect of the flippant remark.
"Is that a joke? Because it isn't very funny."
A cold chill runs through you. "Yeah, a joke," you say, picking up the book and placing it on the set of drawers. "A joke. Like what you wrote about me."
"I afraid I don't know what you mean."
You drop your head into your hands. "It's pretty obvious you wrote a bunch of lies to take the piss out of me."
"I have not written any lies about you, Jean. I assure you that everything I write is true, to the best of my knowledge, or at least it is my personal opinion," Trant says. He sighs. "But that is my private journal and you really shouldn't have read it."
You lean your chin on your hand and glance at Trant, who is sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees. "But you seem to write a lot about me. You weren't gonna tell me about that?"
"Well…" Trant pauses for a long moment. "We've been spending a lot of time together, and I... sometimes I use my journal to process my feelings. I don't know how much you saw, but I never intended you to read any of it." He speaks haltingly, making him sound uncharacteristically insecure.
Yeah, because a person like Trant could never really have feelings for a fuck up like you. "Oh I see, so you felt sorry for me? Is it because you know I'm depressed? Because I'm suicidal?"
"What? No. How can you say that?"
You clench your fists.
"Jean, you have to understand that I say this not to antagonise you," Trant says, his voice growing quiet. "But, I'm disappointed. I thought I could trust you implictly."
You pick up the journal and shake it. "Well if this is supposed to be secret, maybe you shouldn't have dangled it in front of my face."
"I'm sorry, but I was under the impression that my friends would respect my privacy."
"You've gotta be an idiot to trust people that much," you say, putting the journal down again.
Trant is quiet for a few moments. "Maybe it was my fault. I should have specifically told you it was private."
Before you know it, you're on your feet, facing Trant. "Why, does it make you feel like an asshole?"
Trant looks up at you, his eyes wide. "Excuse me, what?"
"Lying and feeling sorry for a depressed suicidal guy! You think I don't have enough on my plate?"
Trant shakes his head. "I- I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry, I never imagined you would react this way. Or perhaps I... I was afraid of this."
"Then you admit it?"
He frowns. "Jean-"
"You know what, fuck you."
Trant sighs. "Jean, I think you should go and sleep in the spare room."
You storm off out of the room. You're furious. Sleep is the last thing on your mind right now. You won't be told to go to your room like a stupid child. Instead you go back to the spare room and get dressed. Your gun isn't in your holster and you remember you took it into the kitchen, so you go to get it.
At the kitchen table, you pause. Trant really did put your terrible drawing on the fridge as he said he was going to, next to several of Mikael's drawings. A pain twists in your chest as you pick up your gun and turn away. If only you hadn't read his journal. No, then you'd be wondering about it forever. If only you'd put it away before Trant woke up. Then you could have kept it to yourself and ignored it. Carried on like nothing happened.
There really was no way that conversation could have gone well. You've fucked things up totally now. Or, Trant has. He definitely played a part, writing those things about you. Why would he do that? Why would anyone play with your feelings like that?
You were going to sneak out without letting him know, but you change your mind and slam the front door on your way out.
You hands are shaking so much you can barely get them on the steering levers of the MC. It's a shame you don't meet any oncoming traffic on the way home so you can swerve into it.
A horrible feeling of emptiness comes over you as you walk into your apartment. You don't bother to turn on the light. Going to bed is out of the question. It won't be long before your alarm goes off. Besides, your head is pounding.
You pull an ashtray towards the end of the coffee table and sit down, then smoke a whole packet of cigarettes while staring at the wall.
Overnight, another gang killing was telephoned into the precinct. You and Judit head out to investigate. You miss all but the most obvious clues at the scene, but Judit has your back. You do however excel at tracking down and interrogating witnesses. After one particularly savage encounter, Judit comments that you were scary. Whether that is a compliment or an insult you don't know. You don't care to ask. You don't intend to be swayed by anyone's opinion of you today. You got results, and that's all that matters.
It feels strange to walk home after work. It feels wrong. You light a cigarette and think about what you should do when you get home. Shower. Make food. Lay your clothes out for tomorrow. Is that all there is? You stop by the Frittte on the way home and stock up on alcohol. You have a feeling you are going to need it.
As soon as you walk through your front door, you know you will not be doing any of those sensible things on your to-do list. If you're able to stick to merely drinking and smoking another packet of cigarettes, you'll be doing well.
Out of your purchases, you select a bottle of gin. You get yourself a glass and realise you don't have any mixers. Fuck it, you'll drink it neat.
You've been doing so well today. Distracting yourself. Not thinking about him. But before you can even finish your first glass, you're wondering what Trant is doing right now. The glass shakes in your hand. You could just… call him. Or go over there. Pretend nothing happened. Maybe he'll play along. Harry used to, after some of those altercations you thought would make him hate you forever.
The alcohol is making you feel hot, so you pull off your tie and roll up your sleeves. As you fill your glass again and then light a cigarette with shaking hands, you think of last night. You've never heard Trant speak to you in that tone of voice before. He sounded upset, angry, scandalised. You grimace.
But there was no way that conversation could have gone any other way. Was there? Was it really so inevitable? You were just reacting reflexively. Defending yourself. Your detective's instincts tell you that you missed an opportunity to grill Trant about what he really meant by what he wrote about you.
Do you have a fucking crush on me? You wonder how he would have responded if you'd backed him into a corner like that. Well. It's too goddamned late now.
Your cigarette has burned down. Instead of dumping it in the ashtray, you put it out on your arm. A slight panic rises in you as the heat burns into your skin. It feels good. You do it again with your next cigarette. This time it doesn't hurt as much, and realise that the gin is getting to work.
You start to think of all the moments you and Trant have shared over the past week and a half. Shit, how he had infinite time and patience for you despite his own problems. The way he hugged you. You could really use a hug right now. But life isn't like that for people like you. You don't get what you want. All you get is loneliness and regret.
You think of how you fell asleep with your head on Trant's chest last night. You should never have let yourself get so close to him. These things always end badly. Tonight you'll pass out drunk, alone. Maybe in a pool of your own vomit.
It's getting hard to think. You finish your drink and put the glass down before it drops from your hand. You lean back on the couch and look up at the ceiling, following the network of cracks in the plaster. You need to forget. And move on. It hurts. You don't want to let go. You can't. But you have to. You must let your feelings wither and die. Otherwise they will kill you.
Somewhere far away, an alarm is sounding. Your eyelids stick together as you try to pry them apart. You find yourself lying in an awkward heap on your couch. The simple act of sitting up makes your stomach lurch. You head feels like you've been hit repeatedly with a brick.
Stumbling into your bedroom, you turn off your alarm. The early morning light hurts your eyes. You force yourself into the shower, which fails to help you feel any more human. You flinch as you wash your left forearm. There's half a dozen cigarette burns on it. You meet your dead, bloodshot eyes in the mirror as you clean your teeth. The toothpaste makes you gag, and you vomit. You hold onto the edge of the sink for a minute, then force yourself to clean your teeth again.
Before you leave your apartment, you double back. Today is a sunglasses day.
The sun is out and it's already warm outside. Of course it is. Just when you could use a dull, overcast day. You kid yourself that the fresh air is clearing your head, but as soon as you step through the doors of the old silk mill it's pounding again. As you walk in, the smell of coffee hits you.
Harry is already at his desk. Unusual for him to be early. You had to make so many excuses for him being late for everything. Not one but two cups of coffee sit on his desk. Kim stands close behind him, leaning over him, a hand resting casually on his shoulder.
"Break it up, lovebirds," you say as you walk past.
"What do you mean by that?" Harry says, looking sheepish. "What does he mean by that, Kim?"
"Nothing. Ignore him," Kim says, and you see him remove his hand from Harry's shoulder and take a step away from him.
That used to be you and Harry. Personal and professional lives hopelessly intertwined. You wonder what is it about you that makes people find you so easy to replace.
You pick up your cup, which you didn't remember to wash yesterday and bang it on your desk. "Where's my coffee, shitkid?"
Kim raises an eyebrow at you. "I made them," he says. "And you weren't here, lieutenant."
You look past him to Harry. "That's no excuse," you say, skulking over to the tea and coffee station in the corner of the room.
You switch the kettle on and open the coffee jar. It's empty. You check the cupboard underneath, and only find more teabags and sugar. "Okay, who used the last of the coffee?"
There's a murmuring from the officers in the room, but nobody is willing to admit to it or drop anyone else in it.
"Right. I'll go fucking buy some then, because I definitely have time for that!" you announce.
You come back with a jar of coffee and some drouamine for your head. You make yourself a strong coffee and wash a couple of pills down with it. Judit has arrived, and suggests going out to track down some leads this morning, but you wave her off. She doesn't argue, maybe she can tell you're hungover. You haven't been able to take the sunglasses off yet.
You hunch over your paperwork and wait for the pills to kick in. As it becomes evident that they're not going to work, you count down the hours until you can take more. The rest of your colleagues seem to be in high spirits, making lots of unnecessary noise. You tell them to shut up a couple of times, but if anything that seems to make them louder.
"Good morning everyone."
You drop your pen. That's Trant's voice. What the fuck is he doing here?
You keep your head down, but listen as Judit and Harry hurry over to him to ask how he's doing.
"Oh, don't worry about me, I'm doing just fine," he says. "I do apologise for my absence. I have just been taking it easy for a little while, on my doctor's orders. They have given me a clean bill of health, so there is nothing to worry about."
You realise, with great shame, that you failed to check on Trant to ask about the results that he was so worried about. In your defence, you weren't sure if he was speaking to you. Plus he could have called you if he really wanted you to know.
"Well, I'm glad to hear you're better," Harry says.
"Yes, we've all been worried about you," Judit adds.
"Thank you so much for the card and the gifts. It was a lovely gesture."
"Well, if you need anything, let us know," Harry says.
"Thank you. I hope I can be of some assistance today. The doctor suggested I avoid fieldwork until I am feeling one hundred percent again, I hope that won't be a problem."
"Not at all. We're just glad to have you back," Judit says.
Trant walks past you to his desk. You brace for him addressing you directly, but he doesn't. You move the file you are pretending to read to the other side of your desk so you don't have to see him out of the corner of your eye. His presence makes you feel intensely bad. Your heart is hammering in your chest, making the pain in your head worse. The second dose of drouamine has barely taken the edge off of it.
You can do this, Vicquemare, you tell yourself. Just completely ignore him. You have previous experience in this area. You've been successfully ignoring Harry for the past few months, only speaking to him when absolutely necessary. And it's not like that kills you a bit more every day. Who the fuck cares if there's one more guy at work that makes you feel like utter shit? It's not like work is supposed to be a fun place to hang out with your buddies or anything. You're adequately compensated for your time and misery.
"Hey Trant, I'm making a drink, you want one?" Harry asks.
You curse him. You could have made him a drink, it could have been a peace offering. You feel resentful towards Harry, even though it would clash with your strategy to ignore Trant.
"Oh, yes please. I'll have a tea," Trant says.
"Jean?" Harry says.
You don't even lift your head. "What?" you snap, expecting Harry to do something absolutely heinous like ask you to make the drinks.
"You want another coffee?" Harry asks, leaning over to look at you, a picture of innocence.
"No. Me and Judit were just on our way out to follow up some leads," you say.
"Oh, we were, were we?" she says.
"Yes," you say firmly, and flick your head towards the door.
Judit rolls her eyes and picks up her jacket.
The first man on your list doesn't answer the door, so you go to see a couple of other people. It's all a waste of time, it's obvious they don't know anything. You go back to the first house, and this time he answers. You know there's something he's not telling you. You press him further and it comes to blows.
You give the man a station call slip, and a fine for punching you. He might press charges against you, as you did hit him first. But you hope that Judit will back you up when you deny it. After he slams the door in your face, you pick your broken sunglasses up off the floor.
"Your nose is bleeding, Jean," Judit says as you walk away.
"No shit," you say. You wipe your nose and wince. There is quite a lot of blood on the back of your hand.
On Judit's insistence, you go to the lazareth and Gottlieb checks you for concussion. Then he tries to give you a cold pack for the swelling, which you refuse, and sends you on your way.
As you walk back into the main office, you notice Trant look in your direction, but then he turns back to the patrol officer standing by his desk. You sit down and press a handkerchief to your nose.
You take some more drouamine and focus on writing up your reports. There are a few things that it occurs to you to get Trant's opinion on, but you do as you have been doing while he was away, and leave them. You can't. You can't face talking to him. You'll lose your shit and humiliate yourself in front of everyone. As you continue to write, you press your pen hard against the paper as if it has wronged you.
A few hours pass. The throbbing pain in your head has eased a little, but your nose still hurts like a bastard. It's quieter in the office. Judit has gone out for lunch, so have Kim and Harry. Mack and Torso are out at a crime scene.
"Jean?"
You jump. You don't know how Trant got there without you noticing, you didn't even hear him approach.
It physically hurts, but you force yourself to lift your head and look at him. You've fixed your sunglasses with tape, so at least he can't see your eyes. That makes you feel a bit less exposed. He's wearing a slight smile, but with Trant that may well be his neutral expression. "Can I… have a word?" he asks.
You consider telling him that you're too busy. But you find yourself saying, "Yeah."
Trant walks off towards one of the meeting rooms. You think about calling him back, demanding he say whatever he has to say right here. Regain some power over the situation. But then you question what's the point in that.
You grab your notebook, out of habit, and well, you don't want to act like you're assuming this is a personal matter. You don't know who you're trying to kid: Trant, everyone else, yourself?
You take a surreptitious deep breath as you turn to close the door behind you. Trant is sitting at the table, one leg crossed over the other. You put your notebook on the table, but remain standing. "Yes?" you say.
Trant clears his throat. "I thought it prudent that we clear the air between us. We should put our personal feelings aside in order to continue to have a good working relationship."
You place your hands on the back of a chair and start to peel at the cracked leather with your fingernails. "Yeah. Right. Because I wasn't going to do that. Obviously fucking not. I was gonna cause problems on purpose."
"I know you're being sarcastic, Jean."
"No," you say, feigning innocence.
"I don't want things to be difficult between us. We're all on the same side. I'm here to help you, and that's what I intend to do. That has not changed."
You pick up your notebook. "Okay. Great. Yeah. Great talk. I think we've really made some progress today. This was a fucking great use of time for both of us."
Trant strokes his chin and looks down, his brow creasing. He glances up at you briefly. "If you want to talk, I'm available for a phone call after work."
The breath catches in your lungs. You read between the lines and see that he means you are no longer welcome in my home.
"We have nothing to talk about," you say, keeping your voice carefully level.
You want him to beg you. To present a solid argument that you can't knock down. But all he says is, "Okay. I understand."
You know you should leave, but something is keeping you there, frozen to the spot. Trant gets up, walks towards the door, towards you. As he comes level with you, he meets your eyes and touches your shoulder.
You stand there for another two minutes after the door has shut behind him. Fucking hell. Now that. That's a fucking power move.
Trant leaves the office some time in the afternoon. What do you care? You're not his fucking keeper. Unlike the rest of you sorry fucks, he's not bound to any particular working schedule. Still, you wonder if it was something you said. Or didn't say.
You, on the other hand, put in some overtime. It's not paid. It's never paid, apart from in exceptional circumstances, but it's somewhere to be. Something to do to fill the gaping void inside you where most people have a personal life.
On the way home you pick up some noodles from the Samaran place after you realise you haven't eaten all day. Between the hangover, the punch in the face and feeling on edge, you haven't had much appetite.
You never really thought much before about eating alone. But today it really gets to you. Nothing to take your mind off your goddamned stupid thoughts but the blank walls of your apartment. It was far nicer to eat Laila's home-cooked meals at the Heidelstam residence. Well, not any more. You stab your chopsticks into the box of noodles and open the bottle of gin. It, and your glass from last night are helpfully still sitting there.
Time passes. You don't know how it came to be in your hand, but you find yourself running the blade of a razor over your skin. You had the foresight to take off your shirt and your trousers at least, so you don't get blood on them. You haven't the motivation to make more than shallow cuts on your skin today. You just want to feel something. Maybe one day this is how you'll do it. Maybe one day you'll slice open an artery and watch the blood spurt from the wound until you bleed out.
But not today. Blood drips from one cut on your leg, but the others are already starting to heal. Your body hopelessly trying to mend itself as you persist in trying to destroy it. It's pathetic really.
You've got those cases to finish first. You promised you'd hang on until that was done. But nothing else. There's nothing else in this world worth hanging on for. What do you want a promotion for? And Trant doesn't need you. You laugh. And realise that it was always going to be this way. It was inevitable that you'd have that conversation anyway, even if you didn't – how did he put it? – disappoint him. Trant is fine, his tests came back fine. At least you don't have to feel guilty about abandoning him. He doesn't need you. He's never needed you.
Only, you wish he did. Feeling responsible for taking care of him gave you a sad little sense of purpose in your life. You miss that. You miss him.
You squeeze the razorblade in your hand, and feel its edges cut into your palm.
Nobody has ever needed you. Not for long, anyway. It happened with Harry too.
You'll die alone. And nobody will give a fuck.