Coke.
‘Didn’t someone get killed out in the free port this morning?’ Anne said as she shovelled in the last of her food and filled the electric kettle.
‘Two people, yesterday,’ Annika replied and put her plate in the dishwasher.
‘Great,’ Anne exclaimed. ‘When did they reinstate you as a reporter?’ She poured water into the Bodum coffee maker.
‘Don’t jump to any conclusions. The deep-freeze they’ve put me in is deeper than you’d know,’ Annika said and went out to the living room with its timbered ceiling.
Anne Snapphane followed, carrying a tray with two mugs, the coffee maker and a bag of marshmallow candy bars.
‘But they have let you start writing again, haven’t they? For real?’
They sat down on the couch and Annika swallowed. ‘No, they haven’t. I just couldn’t stand being at home, that’s all. A double homicide is still a double homicide.’
Anne made a face, blew on her steaming beverage and took a slurp. ‘I don’t know how you manage,’ she said. ‘I’m so grateful for female relationships, fashion and eating disorders.’
Annika smiled. ‘How’s it going?’
‘The programming supervisor sees The Women’s Sofa as a raging success. Personally, I’m not quite as thrilled. The entire staff is working itself to death, everyone detests the show’s host and the producer is having an affair with the project manager.’
‘What kind of ratings do you have? A million viewers?’
Anne Snapphane gazed at Annika with mournful eyes. ‘My dear,’ she said. ‘We’re talking about the satellite universe here. Audience shares. Target group impact. Only boring public-service outfits still talk about ratings.’
‘In that case, why do we always write about them?’ Annika said before opening the bag of candy.
‘How the hell should I know?’ said Anne. ‘I guess you guys don’t know any better. And The Women’s Sofa will never amount to much unless we get some real journalists on board.’
‘So it’s that bad, is it? Wasn’t someone new supposed to join you?’ Annika asked and stuffed her mouth full of candy.
Anne Snapphane groaned. ‘Michelle Carlsson. Incompetent, brainless, but red-hot for the camera.’
Annika laughed. ‘Isn’t that the TV industry in a nutshell?’
‘Hey,’ Anne replied, ‘watch it with the attitude. Tabloid journalists in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.’
Anne switched on her TV right in the middle of the theme song heralding a newscast on one of the public-service channels. ‘ Voilà , the pretentious news hour!’
‘Hush,’ said Annika, ‘let’s see if they feature the free-port killings.’
The newscast opened with the aftermath of the hurricane that had hit the southern part of Sweden. The local news team down in Malmö had shot footage of twisted bus shelters, barn roofs that had been swept away and shattered shop windows. An old man in a Farmers’ Union cap scratched his neck anxiously while he surveyed the remains of his greenhouse and, in the drawling dialect of the province of Skåne, uttered something that ought to have been subtitled to be comprehensible. Then viewers were transported inside a power company, where a hollow-eyed representative testified that every possible effort was being made after the blackout to get things up and running again by nightfall. This or that many households were still affected in Skåne, Blekinge and Småland.
Annika sighed silently. So incredibly boring.
The segment continued with an estimate of the damage, which came to millions upon millions. A woman in Denmark had been killed when her car was crushed by a falling tree.
‘Denmark has forests?’ Anne Snapphane remarked.
Annika gave her friend, who hailed from the far north of Sweden, a weary look. ‘Haven’t you ever ventured below the tree line?’
Next came the compulsory voice-over drone to feed-footage from Chechnya and Kosovo. Russian troops had blah, blah, blah and the UCK had yada, yada . . . The cameras
‘Didn’t someone get killed out in the free port this morning?’ Anne said as she shovelled in the last of her food and filled the electric kettle.
‘Two people, yesterday,’ Annika replied and put her plate in the dishwasher.
‘Great,’ Anne exclaimed. ‘When did they reinstate you as a reporter?’ She poured water into the Bodum coffee maker.
‘Don’t jump to any conclusions. The deep-freeze they’ve put me in is deeper than you’d know,’ Annika said and went out to the living room with its timbered ceiling.
Anne Snapphane followed, carrying a tray with two mugs, the coffee maker and a bag of marshmallow candy bars.
‘But they have let you start writing again, haven’t they? For real?’
They sat down on the couch and Annika swallowed. ‘No, they haven’t. I just couldn’t stand being at home, that’s all. A double homicide is still a double homicide.’
Anne made a face, blew on her steaming beverage and took a slurp. ‘I don’t know how you manage,’ she said. ‘I’m so grateful for female relationships, fashion and eating disorders.’
Annika smiled. ‘How’s it going?’
‘The programming supervisor sees The Women’s Sofa as a raging success. Personally, I’m not quite as thrilled. The entire staff is working itself to death, everyone detests the show’s host and the producer is having an affair with the project manager.’
‘What kind of ratings do you have? A million viewers?’
Anne Snapphane gazed at Annika with mournful eyes. ‘My dear,’ she said. ‘We’re talking about the satellite universe here. Audience shares. Target group impact. Only boring public-service outfits still talk about ratings.’
‘In that case, why do we always write about them?’ Annika said before opening the bag of candy.
‘How the hell should I know?’ said Anne. ‘I guess you guys don’t know any better. And The Women’s Sofa will never amount to much unless we get some real journalists on board.’
‘So it’s that bad, is it? Wasn’t someone new supposed to join you?’ Annika asked and stuffed her mouth full of candy.
Anne Snapphane groaned. ‘Michelle Carlsson. Incompetent, brainless, but red-hot for the camera.’
Annika laughed. ‘Isn’t that the TV industry in a nutshell?’
‘Hey,’ Anne replied, ‘watch it with the attitude. Tabloid journalists in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.’
Anne switched on her TV right in the middle of the theme song heralding a newscast on one of the public-service channels. ‘ Voilà , the pretentious news hour!’
‘Hush,’ said Annika, ‘let’s see if they feature the free-port killings.’
The newscast opened with the aftermath of the hurricane that had hit the southern part of Sweden. The local news team down in Malmö had shot footage of twisted bus shelters, barn roofs that had been swept away and shattered shop windows. An old man in a Farmers’ Union cap scratched his neck anxiously while he surveyed the remains of his greenhouse and, in the drawling dialect of the province of Skåne, uttered something that ought to have been subtitled to be comprehensible. Then viewers were transported inside a power company, where a hollow-eyed representative testified that every possible effort was being made after the blackout to get things up and running again by nightfall. This or that many households were still affected in Skåne, Blekinge and Småland.
Annika sighed silently. So incredibly boring.
The segment continued with an estimate of the damage, which came to millions upon millions. A woman in Denmark had been killed when her car was crushed by a falling tree.
‘Denmark has forests?’ Anne Snapphane remarked.
Annika gave her friend, who hailed from the far north of Sweden, a weary look. ‘Haven’t you ever ventured below the tree line?’
Next came the compulsory voice-over drone to feed-footage from Chechnya and Kosovo. Russian troops had blah, blah, blah and the UCK had yada, yada . . . The cameras
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