A CHILD MADE TO ORDER: gripping psychological suspense Read online

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  Viola moved up to Anne and stood beside her, as everyone cheered them on.

  “Stop it, Anne! A hug would do,” shrieked Viola theatrically as a response to Anne’s challenge.

  But Anne scoffed back at her and shook her head in playful confrontation.

  “Hugs? Everybody would think I should be proud. I mean, I am not only the boss but also a mother. So maybe I should be twice as proud. Come on! What a load of BS. You want the truth?” Anne glanced over at everybody, shaking her head at all of them. Especially Viola. Then, she silenced the public with a pointed finger, demanding their complete focus.

  “The only thing going through my mind right now is... Who the hell is going to replace my top watchdog and bring me in more of those shiny Gullparaplyen statuettes for only the best investigative journalism since... well, since... I did my rounds.”

  The crowd was about to erupt into cheers, but Anne stopped them as she raised up her arm.

  “Because, as I’ve always said, great journalism is supposed to provoke anger and inspire action while it batters at our souls.” As Anne delivered her grand finale, everyone exploded into cheers and wild whistles.

  Everyone except Viola. She felt an inner sigh pass through her whole body as she heard the last sentence. This was Anne’s most treasured quote, and heard for the first time or used sparingly, it meant all the world to Viola. But in Anne’s mouth, it had turned into a rusty cliché a long time ago.

  The real trouble started when things got personal. When Anne actually attempted to be a mother. This was the stuff of nightmares only Viola knew about.

  Because when the curtain dropped, things got ugly. Not only did she have no regard for Viola’s feelings, but Anne would use the personal stuff as leverage.

  It astounded her how Anne, who had taught Viola everything about giving other writers the space to be themselves, was also the woman who needed to have the final say in all decisions in Viola’s private matters. From the most important, to the most trivial ones.

  Lately, Viola also realised that some part of Anne detested Viola’s success. With Viola being so much more engaged in actual field work, she was able to strike on some hefty stories. And Viola could sense Anne’s growing bitterness. After all, why should her daughter steal all the limelight, all the glory?

  Viola’s shrink advised her that if she wanted a proper life, some hope for an autonomous being, she should run. It was not too late to start living a life of her own. Anything to escape Anne’s middle-of-the-night visits just to check on Viola’s well-being, or her non-existent sex life. And if Viola was crazy enough to let her inside, she was barraged with a host of invasive questions, disguised as motherly worries.

  So why didn’t she run? Her shrink challenged her with a whole slew of questions. Was it only for the job’s sake? Or the sentimental value of their mutual professional history? Or was it all just a pretext to give in to her own weakness? A way to not have to face the real world. Then maybe it was about how much Anne’s professional support truly had helped Viola. Or was it just to build the family brand, another one of Anne’s ego boosters?

  But as Viola listened to her psychologist, she came to the conclusion that these questions were way too awkward. Maybe even inconvenient. If there were problems to begin with, and there were none, it wasn’t as if she didn’t want to face them. Of course not. So she let these matters be. And continued with her life in the usual manner.

  Viola was drawn back to the here and now as she noticed Anne produce a tiny bronze necklace. Inside was an old nautical compass. This item epitomised everything Anne had worked for throughout her life. The three generations of the family tradition. She barely knew her grandfather, as he was one of the most aloof people she could remember. But she always imagined that if his spirit could manifest itself back into this world, this compass would be the thing that would host it.

  “My grandfather. Few are aware what an obnoxious, cruel geezer he was. But he had one thing covered. A key to our profession. A small reminder of our family’s journalistic tradition and a guide on what truly matters for our stories,” Anne said, then draped it onto Viola’s neck. And everybody responded with more claps.

  As she accepted the token, Viola was humbled to silence. For once, she had done something without the support of her mother. And, for once, Anne hadn’t pulled her strings. This was all Viola. She rarely felt a true sense of pride. One that didn’t stem from the ego, but from dignity that came from true respect for oneself.

  And she could barely contain the emotional flood.

  “I remember a rookie. What... twenty years ago? Yeah. A kid dreaming of an unbiased look at the Middle East on behalf of the Norwegian people. Wow! That’s a tall order! But here I stand today. And what do you know? Yeah, some dreams do come true,” Viola stuttered out, barely managing to finish her sentence.

  Public speeches didn’t usually cause her any distress. She was way too good with pretences. Something her mother passed on to her. As she held up the necklace, though, tears graced her cheeks. Genuine moments like this, that’s when her shell cracked. And she was surprised that she lost a little bit of that control.

  It felt wonderful.

  The Middle East correspondent position was, perhaps, the most coveted spot a journalist could hope for. Ever since Viola had set out on the same course as the rest of her family, this had been her goal.

  But when Viola thought about this now, she realised she would have to be a complete lunatic to accept this position. After all, what sane person accepted a job where half of the time you wouldn’t know if you would live to see another day? Or where the local public opinion, or at home, was rife with cries of wanting to lynch you, accusing you of partiality to whatever side was the most convenient for their own agenda.

  Viola knew all of this. She knew half of the correspondents had broken under the excruciating pressure. And the other half who said they had made it, simply lied. She also knew there was a good chance she would too. But it was still worth it. Because if Viola wanted anything approaching a deeper meaning, she knew it existed in moments filled with injustice and cruelty.

  That’s where true human nature lay for her. Not because of the ferocity itself but because of what came with it, true human heart and compassion. Something that always went hand in hand with the inexplicable evils of this world.

  And if she could do anything worthwhile with her life, an influence she could exert, this was it. A life well served.

  The subtle cheers rang in Viola’s ears for many hours.

  Night

  The party went from noisy to laid-back as the night drew to an end. Most people had already said goodbye or would soon be on their way out.

  Viola’s attention was caught by an insistent ring of the doorbell. Her mind scrambled to reach a more lucid state, trying to recollect if she had forgotten about any last-minute invitations. But nothing of the sort surfaced, and certainly not at this late hour.

  As Viola threw the door open, she saw that it was Stine, a woman in her early fifties, whom Viola had known for a couple of years. With the night nearing dawn, Stine was the last person Viola would have expected. Stine had always been a simple woman, a farmer’s daughter, born and raised in Skiptvet, a tiny town an hour’s drive from Oslo. She was also a woman of few words, having a simpler and more direct approach few people in the city still knew anything about. But it was not Stine’s timing or etiquette that threw Viola off now. It was her facial expression, which screamed a desperate urgency.

  “Stine? Wow! Come in?” Viola mumbled out the first thing that came to her mind.

  “Ms. Viola. We talk, Miss?” Stine spat out the words, leaving Viola trying to decide if it was a question or an order. She returned a perplexed glance, letting Stine peek inside to see the party. Hopefully this would be enough to suggest the inconvenience of the moment. The worst moment for any kind of talk.

  But Stine practically trampled over Viola, obviously not prepared to listen to
Viola’s objections. Or anyone else’s, for that matter.

  Viola had met Stine three years earlier, and she still wished it could be undone. But as it went, they shared a rocky past, one that her mother and Ronny barely knew anything about.

  Three years earlier, Stine’s daughter, Marianne, had gone missing, and a nationwide search did little to solve the matter. Viola offered to help look for Stine’s daughter. After all, Marianne was no ordinary woman. She was a public figure, a known personality in the blogosphere, but most of all, she was the voice of the many childless women out there.

  For Viola, Marianne’s blog was different. It was full of desperation and pain. But the way she saw it, this pain wasn’t as self-absorbed as that of others in a similar life dilemma. Instead, it was pure, simple, and genuine. And Viola wasn’t the only one who appreciated this young woman’s intimate online shares. Marianne had gathered quite a following, her WordPress posts sparking off pages upon pages of tear-wrenching stories.

  Viola was amazed at how a blog could fulfil such a healing role. Whenever she thought that the Net was dehumanising, suddenly, gems like Marianne’s pages would shine through. A perfect example of true group intimacy and unconditional love shared over some bits and bytes.

  “I know Miss is busy. But it’s my daughter. My Marianne.” Stine shouldered her way inside as she voiced the words. Viola let her in, and tried her best to cover up a heavy sigh.

  “I know how hard it is with... And no trace and all. But...” Viola knew she was blabbering now, but Stine wasn’t interested in Viola’s inconsistency, nor in hearing her out. Instead, the older woman gripped onto Viola’s shoulder.

  “Miss. Miss was the only one who actually cared. Miss. I am a simple, stupid woman. No manners. Countryside, and all. Not like Miss. But. But...” Stine rushed ahead without so much as a breath.

  Viola felt cornered again, and she hated people doing that to her. Demanding things from her that she couldn’t possibly give them. So she did the only thing she felt she could do. While she politely nodded and smiled, she began to push Stine out the door again. But just as she had almost managed to get rid of the older woman, Stine shoved a phone into her face.

  “But. But. But... The blog has been dead since she disappeared. Right? So, what is this?”

  The first thing the police had done was make sure to very closely monitor the place where Marianne had spent most of her life. But when she had disappeared, the case got such a heavy-handed treatment from the press that nobody dared post a single comment on it. Unless that person wanted to become the prime suspect in an ongoing nationwide investigation.

  Stine pressed her finger at a snippet of text from Marianne’s blog. A fresh comment read: “Don’t let the bed bugs get under your undies. – Anon.” The comment on the blog was dated the day before. But Viola only shrugged this away.

  “Doesn’t mean anything. Could be from anyone. Most probably a prank,” Viola responded, but even before she said the words, another possibility began to dawn on her. An option she had long ago given up on.

  “These are my words, Miss! I sang them when I put her to sleep.” Stine shoved the phone screen right into Viola’s face.

  “Don’t you see? My baby...” Stine fumed at Viola’s face.

  “She is alive.” Stine’s eyes drilled themselves into Viola. And there was something unsettling hiding behind them. They weren’t those of an older woman in search of advice, nor were they of a pleading beggar.

  Stine’s eyes were filled with a determination, but one that bordered on insanity.

  Late night

  Viola shut the door after Stine’s retreating figure. And just as she turned around, her glance met her mother’s inquisitive eyes. The disapproving glare could be felt across the room; it stiffened her neck and shuddered her body. How long had Anne been watching them? Any other day, this would have been the beginning of a conflict between them, but this time Viola tore her eyes away from Anne, turned her back on her, and shuffled away from the guests.

  Was this a vanished woman’s call for help? And if so, why this way, why the blog, and why a message with exactly this content? A message that only her mother would understand. If it was meant for Stine, why didn’t she simply contact her mother directly? Or at least the police? Was someone preventing her from reaching out? And why after two years? This didn’t make sense. Any of it.

  She should know by now, this was useless. Marianne’s disappearance had never led to any concrete answers. And if it did, the single answer led only to a dozen new questions. She should stop this right now. It was a clear dead end. She had her guests, and she had her own life to live. She should get back to them, take care of them. And she should prepare to leave for Syria. Do what was expected of her.

  But her legs wouldn’t listen, and instead carried her away from the people, and their laughter. Her body seemed to switch to autopilot.

  For two years, she had tried to shove all of this into some murky recess of her mind. A place where it wouldn’t ever come out again. But however much she tried, however much she reasoned with herself, all that could change now.

  She felt herself disconnect from the faint murmurings of the conversations around her apartment as a flood of thoughts overwhelmed her mind. If Stine’s message turned out to be true, she knew what this meant for her. And she wasn’t sure she would be able to handle it this time around. If Marianne was indeed still alive, this changed everything.

  Chapter 3

  Tuesday, 9th February 2016

  Morning

  As Viola froze the stream from Marianne’s blog on her laptop, she eyed Marianne’s frustrated face. Viola’s body quivered with a junkie’s exhilaration. She realised she was out of control. And knew it was bad for her.

  That’s why she hadn’t opened this video for over two years. But after Stine’s visit, there was no way around it. Marianne’s confessions were like extinguishing a forest fire gone amok. However much she wanted to escape from the whole thing, some part of her was fuelled by the blogger’s pain. After so many years of hosting her own demons, this was the thing her mind and body responded to best. Marianne’s pain was simply a sounding bell that found the exact same frequency, the exact same tune to play.

  And she needed more.

  But before she could restart the blog stream, she felt someone behind her. A mildly-confused Ronny watched Viola amidst the clothes strewn all over her room. She had completely forgotten her packing. Her plane was leaving for Syria in two days.

  “All set, I see, huh? The trip, you know?” he started off with a good dose of caution.

  She threw a glance at the mess, then just sighed. Ronny knew almost nothing about Marianne. Just a few scraps of information, here and there, something she had shared over two years ago. Everything concerning Marianne was way too close to home for comfort. And she had learned the hard way that this kind of stuff was best left alone. Because this was what people, even good people, used against you sooner or later.

  So she waved away the mess with an innocent grin.

  And as he eyed her, he responded by throwing an envelope into her lap. She ripped it open and revealed a flight ticket to Damascus. What was this, another pair of tickets? Her mother’s secretary had already taken care of her ticket. Paid by the paper and ready to go.

  Then it struck her. This wasn’t about her.

  This idea had been so remote to her from the beginning that she never spoke to Ronny about it. But now that she saw the ticket in her lap, her mind flashed with an uneasy thought.

  Even before Ronny spoke it out loud, she knew he would ask to go with her. But this was not some two-week vacation. This was a rest-of-your-life kind of proposition. And just this very idea sent her mind into panic mode.

  “Is this for me?” she asked, referring to the ticket. “I mean, we’ve been together for what? Two years? I just...”

  How could she even think of saying yes to this adorable and trustworthy guy? After all, their relationship was based on her l
ies. And this piece of paper was the decisive kick in the gut.

  No.

  This was the perfect time to come clean. She had to tell him the truth. Get it over with. He would never forgive her, and she would lose him forever, but at least she would regain some decency.

  “For you? Come on! Don’t flatter yourself.” He attempted to recover his dignity by chuckling it away.

  “Do you have any idea how much cash a medical practice in Damascus can bring in?” He grinned back while he searched her face for a reaction, anything that would make this moment less humiliating.

  But his joke was only met with even more silence. She knew she had to break this off. She couldn’t just keep standing there.

  She realised this was it. Everything in her screamed for some courage to be truthful. He deserved it after two amazing years that had been everything she had longed for. She would ask him to sit down for a moment, and then she would apologise to him for not telling him the truth about her long-standing problem. Then she would fall into his arms and cry. It would be a genuine tear-jerker. Prime-time drama, maybe even ending in her redemption.

  And however much she had convinced herself he would leave, there was the remote chance he would actually stay. However minuscule that chance was, it was worth the risk. For the sake of their relationship and a fresh start.

  She raised her eyes and braced herself for what she had to do.

  The truth.

  But then something in her skipped a beat.

  And instead, she just jumped into his arms and screamed out in joy.

  “Is that a yes?” He eyed her, flustered. She sensed his body let go of the worst tension. After all, they were inches away from their whole future falling apart.