Drowned

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Drowned, set in the idyllic countryside during a short-lived Swedish summer, gets under one’s skin from the first page, creating an atmosphere of foreboding in which even the perfume of freshly picked vegetables roasting in the kitchen becomes ominous.

Marina has left behind her stalled relationship and floundering career in Stockholm to visit her sister in rural Skåne, where she lives in a house full of books, gorgeous flowers and, as Marina soon learns, many secrets. Nothing is as it seems in this spellbinding novel of psychological suspense that combines hothouse sensuality with ice-cold fear on every page.

More than a mere thriller, this debut novel delves deep into the feminine soul and at the same time exposes the continuing oppression of women in Sweden’s supposedly enlightened society. Mixing hothouse sensuality with ice-cold fear on every page, Drowned heralds the emergence of a major new talent on the international scene.“A slim novel with a taut narrative line and a sense of impending disaster…A tale of identity and tense personal relationships, one that as a film property would have appealed to Hitchcock or de Palma.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“The seasonal and structural changes are deliberately understated and carry emotional weight into the climax, which Bohman deftly makes both foregone and suspenseful, leaving the reader wondering if everyone was doomed from the start.” —Publisher’s Weekly

“A horrifyingly compelling psychological thriller set in modern-day Sweden…Bohman manages to flesh out characters, setting, and plot in just over 200 pages, a feat that makes for a highly engaging and fast-paced read, yet one with great depth.” —Booklist

“[Bohman] writes with simplicity and restrain, and each detail adds to the slowly building tension…This is an artful psychological thriller, and utterly riveting, as it delves into the dark side of lust, sex and obsession.” —Herald Sun (Australia)

“Therese Bohman’s Drowned is a flawless story written in razor sharp prose, and is extremely hard to put down.” –Coffin Factory

“Drowned puts both its protagonist and its reader on edge almost from the beginning and never really allows either to become settled or comfortable. It’s an effective, suspenseful psychological mystery.” –Shelf Awareness

“Action is absent, as are bold, aggressive female heroes. No politics, at least overtly, either. Just a wholly controlled, absorbing account of inexplicable female passivity in the 21st century, a condition that seems to affect certain twenty-somethings of Sweden as much as it does those in New York, if the TV show Girls is any indication…The translation, by Marlaine Delargy, is supple and effective and frequently mesmerizing.” –Reviewing the Evidence

“Most thrillers conclude by exposing a killer. Drowned, on the other hand, ends with a larger, more upsetting truth: how we expose ourselves…Author Therese Bohman could be lumped in with the other Scandinavian authors who have taken over the mystery world since The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, but her story is more quiet and nuanced, her writing lush enough to create a landscape painting with every scene. No shoot-outs, showdowns or explosions end this story, but be prepared to gasp all the same, not with fear, but with understanding.” –Oprah
Therese Bohman is a columnist for Expressen, writing about literature, art, culture, and fashion. Her debut novel Drowned was published by Other Press in 2012. She lives in Sweden.
 
Marlaine Delargy has translated novels by John Ajvide Lindqvist, Kristina Ohlsson, and Helene Tursten, as well as The Unit by Ninni Holmqvist (Other Press) and Therese Bohman’s Drowned (Other Press). She lives in England.I am slightly embarrassed by his scrutiny, I imagine he must think I look pale, wrong in some way, ugly. But that is not what his expression suggests. I wonder what he’s thinking.
   A lock of hair has fallen into his eyes, he pushes it back with his hand and leaves a red mark on his forehead. When he looks at his hand and sees that it is sticky with paint, he realizes what has happened. “Have I got red paint on my forehead?” “Yes.” I smile. So does he, slightly embarrassed again. “A lot?” “No, not really…let me.”
   I move a step closer and run my thumb gently over the mark on his forehead. He looks at me, no longer smiling. There is a strong smell of paint, as if the hot, still air is intensifying the smell, making it linger. The lock of hair falls into his eyes again, and I gently push it aside to get at the paint. I can feel his breath against my cheek, he is close now, bending his head toward me so that I can reach. His forehead is brown from the sun, his whole face, his arms, he is wearing a faded black T-shirt and he smells wonderful, warm. 
   “Has it gone?” 
   “Yes.”
   I hold up my hand to show him, red paint on my thumb and forefinger, and he suddenly grabs hold of my wrist, twists my hand around, and looks at my fingers. It is a rapid movement, decisive, his grip is hard, just like when I met him on that first evening, the firm handshake. Perhaps he isn’t aware of how strong he is. “Pretty nail polish,” he says. I did my nails last night, a cool pink, shimmering like mother-of pearl in the sunlight. “Thanks,” I say quietly.US

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