The Swedish Sex Bomb (LSD, #7)

3. Bang!

Bang!

I'm a professional. I can't allow feelings to take over. There's only one way to get unwanted feelings out of your system: kill them. I have a Makarov, a Glock, and a Beretta in my backpack. All we need is a safe place where we can kill a handful of unwanted feelings without hurting innocent bystanders. Stockholm has such a place. It's the shooting range of The Target. You have to be a member, but you're also admitted for training purposes if you work for the police, the military, or NATO (field agents of every international secret service have a NATO badge to get access to facilities where they can train their skills).

We don't go to The Target's shooting range at the Västberga Allé in the centre of Stockholm. I want to take the ferry to the island of Rindö, where they have an outdoor shooting range. Also, I want to combine the trip with a visit to Frieda's parents, who live on that same island. They might have information about Agneta.

When we arrive at the bus stop, Frieda runs away. For a few seconds, I don't know what to do. I follow her, worried, and see how she empties her stomach in somebody's garden. My intuition tells me she needs chemicals more than a hand on her shoulder. In a nearby pharmacy, I buy everything the woman behind the counter suggests.

When I'm back, Frieda is in panic, not about being attacked but about what other people might think: "This is why... I never leave the clinic... Benny. I get panic attacks. Headaches. I get sick. I don't sleep. I feel awful..."

I give her two pills against the acid in her stomach, a Valium to relax, and a bottle of water to wash it away.

"You must think... I'm awful.", Frieda says.

"Please, don't tell me what I think; ask me what I think. I think your body gives you the best defence mechanism for the next time somebody tries to force himself on you. Puking is perfect for scaring any rapist away. You should be happy and confident about your body's reactions. From now on, should anyone scare you: puke in their face."

I give her some wet paper towels to clean herself.

"Are you better? Do you prefer to walk to the ferry? Or do you need some more time?"

She needs time but tries to convince me she doesn't: "I'm fine. Ferry. Go. Yes. Walk, please."

I offer her my arm but don't insist when she keeps the distance, that mysterious distance between a man and a woman. I want to close that gap, but I can't seem to find the words to do it with...

"If you have any doubts about what I think, there's only one way to find out: ask me. I promised you can trust me. I'll never lie to you. You're a brave woman and I admire you for being so strong, for not giving up, although you suffer from things you can't control. Your panic attacks, your sickness and the other symptoms are just discomforts we both need to accept. I respect that you are like you are. There's nothing to worry about, except the sickness problem itself. Let's hope these pills help and let's trust Mother Nature to do the rest."

Frieda isn't in the mood to talk, and I have some thinking to do myself, so we keep quiet until we reach the ferry. We're lucky. It's leaving, but with a long sprint, we make it on board just in time. I fill my lungs with the salty air, watch the seagulls following us, and look around at the green islands between the grey water and the cloudy sky.

"You live in a beautiful country. If only it wasn't so cold, I think I could live here and be happy. This land's a place I love, where I would like to stay, some day, far away. I love being outdoors. There's so much nature around, lakes and woods and a unique archipelago of islands that no other country in Europe has..."

"You forget Swedish people. In general, they aren't very nice."

"You're the only Swedish person I know, and you are very nice.", I say.