Murder Plains

1.

Jonas Magnusson dropped the newspaper he had been reading into his lap and glanced up impatiently at the sound of his wife’s harrying footsteps from the bedroom. For the hundredth time since dinner he glanced at his watch, mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like a curse and picked up his paper again.

 

Hell, would she ever get started? His eyes bored into the print before him, but the news of Skanör this particular Tuesday evening held no interest for him whatsoever. The idyllic vacation destination with its pristine beaches and turquoise waters seemed a world away from the tense anticipation simmering within the living room. Anxiously, he threw the newspaper to the table, rose from his chair, and began to pace the floor. The rhythmic tick-tock of the grandfather clock seemed to mock his growing impatience.

He was standing in front of the fireplace, staring blankly into the glowing embers, a picture of restless anticipation, when Alma Magnusson finally emerged from the bedroom. The same time came a retching of brakes in the street outside, followed by the piercing shriek of a car horn.

“Thank heavens,” said Alma Magnusson with a sigh of relief as she wrapped a Spanish style shawl around her slim figure, “for once I’m on time.” Her perfectly coiffed blonde hair gleamed under the soft light of the chandelier.

“Or is it that the Sandbergs are late?” commented her husband peevishly, again casting a glance at his watch. The accusatory tone in his voice did not go unnoticed by Alma.

“You’ve been just over an hour fixing yourself up,” he said and she countered a playful glint in her eyes.

Alma Magnusson laughed, the sound tinkling like wind chimes. “Of course,” she replied, her fingers imparting lightning-swift finishing touches to her already flawless hair, “you wouldn’t want your wife to look a fright amongst the lionesses of Rottne high society.” There was a hint of irony there, “Mrs. Engström is one of the hostesses tonight, and you know how I feel with Mrs. Engström…”

The horn outside shrieked again, its urgency impossible to ignore. Mrs. Magnusson snatched up her bag, blew a hurried farewell kiss to her husband, and rushed out the door, her high-heeled shoes clicking a rapid staccato against the polished wooden floor.

“Don’t wait up for me, darling,” she said over her shoulder, her voice barely audible above the cacophony of the impatient car horn, and then she was gone.

Jonas Magnusson stood frozen for a moment, the front door swinging shut with a soft thud echoing in the sudden silence. He hurried to the window, his heart pounding in his chest. Drawing a curtain aside, he scanned the early evening street for several moments, searching for the tell-tale red taillights of the Sandbergs’ car, until they finally disappeared around the corner.

Then, with a renewed sense of purpose, he hurried back to his seat where he had left his mobile phone. A low curse broke the silence as Magnusson tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for an answer on the other end of the line.

“Hello, Alice,” he said finally, his voice barely a whisper, as a familiar voice seeped into his ear from the other side. “Kronobergsgatan in half an hour. All right?”

“Okay,” came the brief reply, followed by a click as the call ended.

A satisfied smile played on Magnusson’s lips. He tucked the phone back onto the coffee table and with a newfound spring in his step, fairly ran towards the bedroom. Twenty minutes later, he emerged dressed to the nines in a sharp suit and tie, humming a lilting tune that did little to mask the excitement dancing in his eyes. Slipping into his raincoat, he was out the door and into the cool night air, leaving behind a trail of unanswered questions and a wife completely oblivious to the secret life of her husband.

2.

It was after one in the morning when Magnusson returned. The streetlights cast an anaemic glow on the damp asphalt, reflecting off the chrome of his car in a way that used to make him feel important. Now, it just felt lonely. He parked with practiced ease in front of the house, his headlights illuminating the dark living room window. A single, sharp laugh escaped his lips – another night, another empty room. Alma had never failed to leave a light burning for him, a beacon in the storm of his late nights. It was a small gesture, but one he’d always taken for granted. A cold pang of something akin to regret twisted in his gut, but he shoved it down with practiced ease. Alma was…well, Alma. Thoughtful at times, undeniably so, but lost in her own world a good deal more.

Magnusson switched off the ignition and eased himself out of the car, a groan escaping his lips. These modern cars were getting smaller and smaller, sacrificing comfort for fuel efficiency. As his hand brushed past the worn fake-leather seat, it swept against something soft and unexpected. With a quickness that surprised even him, he snatched it up and brought it close to his face. The scent that hit him wasn't just unfamiliar, it was intoxicating – a heady blend of floral and citrus that sent a shiver down his spine. A startled sigh, half-laugh, half-curse, escaped him as he crumpled the delicate lace handkerchief into a ball. The scent lingered in his nostrils, a phantom trace that mocked him.

He navigated the darkened house, the familiar creaks and groans of the old building holding no comfort tonight. The fire in the living room had dwindled to embers, casting an orange glow on the worn armchairs and dusty books. With a practiced flick of his lighter, he coaxed the embers back to life, watching with a detached curiosity as the dainty handkerchief became part of the fiery heart of the fireplace. It burned rapidly, leaving behind a wisp of smoke that teased at the corners of the room before dissipating entirely. Yet, the memory of the scent clung to him like a bad dream.

Magnusson headed towards the bedroom, his steps heavy. The act of changing into his worn pyjamas, a routine comfort of years past, felt oddly foreign. He shuffled back to the living room, the silence pressing in on him. A drink, he needed a drink. A stiff one. Maybe two. A smile, almost triumphant, touched his lips as he realized the scent - that damning, alluring scent - was finally gone.

But before the comfort of oblivion in a glass could take hold, a strange compulsion seized him. He made his way to the bathroom, the familiar tiles cold under his bare feet. He turned on the faucet, the hiss of rushing water a stark contrast to the stillness of the house. He lathered his hands with soap, scrubbing them with a fervour that bordered on desperation. Three times, four times, he repeated the process, the skin around his knuckles turning raw. In business, Magnusson had always prided himself on being thorough. He had honed his instincts to a razor’s edge, leaving no loose ends, no room for error. This… this was an error. A glaring, undeniable misstep. They, whoever “they” were, would never catch him slipping. Yet, the memory of that scent hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of his indiscretion.

He poured himself a generous amount of amber liquid, the sting of the whiskey a welcome reprieve from the gnawing guilt. He downed it in one long swallow, the burn a fleeting comfort in the face of the storm brewing inside him. Another drink followed, then another, until the world began to blur and the firelight danced in his vision. Finally, slumped deep into his armchair, the glass clutched loosely in his hand, Magnusson confronted the ugly truth he'd been running from for weeks. He’d made up his mind on the drive home. He wouldn’t lose another night’s sleep wrestling with the decision. Tonight, he would put it all to rest. Tonight, once and for all.

3.

Magnusson did not mince matters with himself. He had ceased to love his wife and further existence under this humdrum existence would drive him mad. The thought of waking up every morning to the same beige wallpaper, the chipped enamel mug of coffee Alma always insisted on, and the scratchy fabric of his bathrobe – it all felt suffocating.

He dismissed the idea of running away with the woman whom he had become infatuated with. Alice, with her cascading dark hair and laughter that tinkled like wind chimes, was a whirlwind compared to Alma's gentle breeze. But scandal was anathema to Jonas Magnusson. He could practically hear the whispers rippling through Rottne's gossip network, reaching a fever pitch by the time they hit Rottne square and the supermarket. No, he wouldn't be the source of such a spectacle.

The thought of divorce never even crossed his mind. Lawyers were a necessary evil, and legal offices reeked of desperation in his opinion. There had to be another way, some escape hatch that wouldn't cause a social earthquake. But there was his business – Magnusson’s Supplies – a cornerstone of the community, serving everyone from weekend hackers to professional drivers all the way down to Kalmar. A scandal could taint the reputation he'd built for decades.

He poured another whiskey, the amber liquid a stark contrast to the dull brown of his surroundings. As the glass touched his lips, his eyes focused on a photograph hanging on the wall. It was a digital enlargement of Alma and him, their faces younger, smiles carefree. They were standing by a glistening lake, Alma's hand tucked in the crook of his arm. Lake Väner, that was it. A memory flickered – her sister's husband snapping the picture while they were on a weekend canoe trip.

The image sparked a macabre idea in his mind. It took root slowly, then bloomed into a monstrous plan. He stole a glance at his watch. Two in the morning. The witching hour, the time clandestine decisions are made. Jonas Magnusson, with a firmness absent from his everyday life, decided on a course of action.

When Alma Magnusson entered the house a few minutes later, the oppressive atmosphere in the room hit her like a physical blow. The air hung heavy with unspoken tension. She expected to find Jonas asleep, exhausted from a long day at the shop. Instead, the living room was illuminated, casting long, skeletal shadows from the furniture. He was awake, but not relaxed. His face was a mask of suppressed emotion, his usually steady gaze flickering nervously.

Alma, oblivious to the storm brewing inside him, approached him with a weary smile. "Don't scold me, Jonas," she said, her voice laced with apology. "The cards just wouldn't cooperate with me tonight. But look what I found!" She held up a bottle wrapped in brown paper, a triumphant glint in her eyes. "It's a special kind of aquavit Mrs. Engström recommended. You can't open it until you finish the one you have already, though. Absolutely not!"

They settled on the worn leather sofa, the crackling fire casting a warm glow on their faces. "To show you how much I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Alma," Jonas began, his voice strained, "I'm going to take you to Lake Väner this weekend. See that picture on the wall? How about we head out on Saturday afternoon and come back Sunday evening? Just the two of us, a little roughing it in the wilderness. What do you say?"

Alma's eyes lit up. "Oh, Jonas, that's perfect! Like a second honeymoon! I love it!" Excitement bubbled over in her voice. "I'll pack everything we need for a picnic tomorrow."

Jonas barely registered her words. His gaze was locked on the dancing flames, where he saw not flickering embers, but a vision of Alice – her dark hair a cascade of desire, her smile a promise of escape. He stood mechanically, feeling Alma's hand on his arm.

"You look exhausted," she said, concern etched on her face. "Come to bed, darling. You'll feel much better in the morning." Her voice sounded distant, muffled, as if he were sinking deeper and deeper into a dark, swirling vortex.

4.

Friday night found the Magnussons enjoying a quiet evening home. Everything had been meticulously prepared for the trip starting at noon on the following day. Alma, with her brow furrowed in concentration, sat diligently tapping away at her laptop, composing some last-minute emails. Her husband, Jonas, nestled comfortably in his favourite armchair, was engrossed in a captivating detective thriller, a steaming cup of tea and a half-eaten plate of biscuits resting on the side table beside him.

An extended silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the rhythmic tapping of Alma's fingers on the keyboard and the occasional rustle of turning pages from Jonas's book. Finally, Alma leaned back in her chair and stretched, her gaze flitting across the room to settle on Jonas.

"Jonas," she began hesitantly, "don't you think it might be prudent to speak with Arthur about acquiring some additional shares in that new electric company instead of the ones we originally planned? I just checked the market trends, and their stock seems to be performing exceptionally well..."

Jonas grunted noncommittally, his eyes glued to the thrilling climax unfolding on the page before him. Stock market investments were Alma's domain, a small hobby that brought her a sense of accomplishment and a minor source of additional income, something Jonas had acknowledged a few months ago. He held no interest in the intricacies of the market, preferring the stability and tangibility of his own business ventures. The stock market, to him, resembled a high-stakes gambling den, and gambling, like lotto, held no appeal for him.

Another lengthy silence descended upon them, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft glow emanating from their respective screens. Alma glanced up, startled by the clinking of glass against glass as Jonas refilled his teacup. She returned her attention to the laptop screen, her brow furrowing once more.

"Damn it!" she exclaimed, a hint of frustration tingling her voice.

"What is it, dear?" Jonas inquired, his gaze finally flickering upwards from the book.

"Jonas, we completely forgot to pay our insurance! If something were to happen to either of us..."

A gentle smile played on Jonas's lips as he turned back to his novel, the sound of Alma's rapid typing filling the room once more. She navigated to their bank's website, her fingers dancing across the keyboard as she initiated the online payment for their overdue insurance bills.

The following day, at precisely noon, Jonas Magnusson and his wife, Alma, were busy loading a picnic basket filled with an assortment of delicious treats and refreshing drinks into the back of their spacious five-door car. Their destination: the serene shores of Lake Väner, a place that held a special place in their hearts and promised a relaxing escape from the everyday hustle and bustle.

Before leaving the familiar confines of Rottne, Jonas pulled into the ...sheik’s local gas station – a personal joke connected with a poster that decorated the front of the gas station - to fill up the car's tank. As he stepped out to use his card on the machine, he bumped into Emil Ahlberg, a friendly business associate whose car was parked ahead of his at the pump. They exchanged pleasantries and engaged in a brief conversation about the upcoming weekend, their voices mingling with the rhythmic clinking of the pump filling their respective tanks.

A mere five minutes later, Jonas found himself pulling over once more, this time flagging down Simon Hansson, a colleague who was hurrying home from his office. It appeared that Jonas, much to Alma's amusement, had momentarily forgotten the most efficient route out of town.

"Have a fantastic getaway, Jonas," Simon called out after providing the necessary directions. "The sky looks a little ominous, though. Perhaps let Alma handle the canoe if you decide to rent one; she's much more adept at navigating those waters than you, you know."

"Absolutely, Emil," Jonas grinned, reaching out to affectionately squeeze Alma's hand that rested on the steering wheel in front of him. Jonas Magnusson, despite his occasional forgetfulness, was a man of meticulous planning.

However, less than twenty-four hours later, the peaceful town of Rottne was rocked by a devastating tragedy. The news, first trickling in through online news outlets, spread like wildfire throughout the close-knit community. A dark cloud descended upon the usually quiet town centre as word of the Magnussons' misfortune reached every corner.

Alma Magnusson, while enjoying a peaceful canoe ride with her husband on the vast expanse of Lake Väner, had met an untimely demise. Their canoe had capsized, throwing them both into the churning waters. Unable for some unknown reason to swim, Alma was swept away by the powerful current and tragically drowned nearby. Jonas, overcome with grief and exhaustion after a valiant but futile attempt to save his wife, was eventually pulled ashore by a passing fishing boat.

A few days later, Jonas Magnusson returned to Rottne, a shell of his former self, following behind the sombre hearse carrying Alma'

5.

The first evening stretched long after the last mourners shuffled out, leaving behind the pungent, sickeningly sweet odour of the lilies and carnations piled high on every available surface. In his usual armchair in the sitting room, Magnusson sat rigid, a thin, unsettling smile plastered on his lips. He finally admitted to himself, with a tremor that ran through him like a death chill, that it had been far harder than he'd anticipated.

Memories flickered behind his tightly shut eyes, a relentless slideshow of horror. The shriek, sharp and piercing as shattered glass, that tore through the tranquil afternoon as the canoe capsized. Astrid's frantic thrashing in the water, the air bubbles rising like panicked whispers around her struggling form. The raw, primal fear etched on her face, contorted in a silent scream, moments before she disappeared beneath the churning surface. Then, the white hand, a beacon of terror against the murky water, fingers clawing convulsively until they too were swallowed by the unforgiving depths.

He had played his part well, of that he was certain. The villagers of Rottne, simple and trusting souls, were doubtlessly convinced. A choked sob escaped him, a strangled sound that echoed hollowly in the cavernous silence of the house. But it quickly morphed into a harsh, humourless laugh that scraped its way out of his throat, a monstrous sound that seemed to mock the death knell hanging heavy in the air. The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing in on him like a physical weight. He had to wait, endure this suffocating stillness, until he could finally laugh again without the spectre of suspicion poisoning the sound.

A few days. Then freedom. He could finally claim the vision of voluptuous beauty who had been the catalyst for this whole charade. The thought of her, her fiery red hair and emerald eyes that held the promise of a life unburdened by the confines of propriety, momentarily deadened the last flicker of doubt in his soul. They'd disappear; melt into the anonymity of bustling European cities – Zurich, perhaps, or Vienna, or maybe even a voyage down the Nile in exotic Egypt. Nothing else would matter.

Jonas Magnusson rose from the chair, his movements surprisingly steady considering the emotional turmoil churning within him. He walked with a practiced nonchalance towards a massive, ornately carved closet where he kept his private stock of liquor. As he swung the double doors open, the sight inside made him pause. A low, surprised gasp escaped his lips. Nestled amongst the familiar bottles, gleaming like a forbidden treasure, stood his wife's last gift to him – a bottle of pre-war cognac, a prized possession from the Åkesson family's private collection. The irony of it was a bitter pill to swallow. It would undoubtedly bolster him during the final act, the tearful goodbyes to Rottne and the thrilling prospect of a new life with his mistress. But if there was ever a time he needed the numbing comfort of a strong drink, it was now.

He carefully retrieved the bottle, the smooth, cool glass a stark contrast to the tremor running through his hands. He walked back to the armchair, the weight of the crystal decanter strangely comforting in his hand. He removed the leaden cap with a flick of his wrist, the sharp sound echoing in the deafening silence of the house. Reaching into a drawer, he fumbled for the corkscrew, his movements clumsy and erratic. Finally, with a triumphant flourish, he uncorked the bottle. The sharp pop, like a gunshot in the stillness, sent a jolt through him.

Magnusson coughed nervously, his eyes stinging as he poured himself a generous glass of the amber liquid. He downed it in one long, burning gulp, the fiery sting momentarily chasing away the creeping dread that had taken root in his gut. Another glass followed, and then another, each one a desperate attempt to drown the memories that threatened to engulf him.

As the warmth of the alcohol spread through his veins, a sigh of relief escaped his lips. He reached for the light switch, plunging the room into an inky blackness that felt strangely comforting. He stumbled towards the worn leather sofa near the fireplace, a single log glowing embers of bloody red in the hearth. Collapsing onto the cushions, he closed his eyes, desperately seeking solace in sleep.

Sleep, however, remained stubbornly elusive. But just as he was about to resign himself to another night of tormenting memories, a sound pierced the stillness – a strangled gasp that ripped through the house like a banshee's wail.

Magnusson lurched back on the sofa, a jolt of terror electrifying him. His fingers dug into the worn leather, knuckles turning white as he tried to anchor himself to reality. A horrifying feeling of emptiness washed over him, a cold dread that coiled itself around his heart. The colour drained from his face, leaving him a ghastly shade of gray. His body, racked.

After several tortured moments, Magnusson drew a chocking breath and started to crawl desperately towards the coffee table where his telephone was. With death agony written on his face, his eyes wide open and staring like a basilisk, the dying man wormed his way across the carpet.

After what seemed an endless nightmare of pain he reached the little mahogany table and tried to lift his body from the floor. Just as clammy fingers clutched at the table another violent convulsion seized him and send him writhing t the floor, a horrible sound issuing from his throat. With a crash the mobile and the coffee table clattered down on his prostrate body.
Magnusson was dead.

THE END