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  ‘Do you want more children?’

  Annika heard the loaded subtext of her question, as if she had been working up to asking it. Anne looked up in surprise, and shook her head.

  ‘I want to be an individual,’ she said. ‘Not a function.’

  Annika raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s the whole point,’ she said. ‘Becoming part of something bigger, something more important. Voluntarily giving up your freedom for someone else; that never happens anywhere else in our culture.’

  ‘I’ve never thought of it like that,’ Anne said, taking another drink. ‘But when you put it like that, that was one of the reasons why I didn’t want to live with Mehmet. Being alone with my thoughts is vital; otherwise I’d go mad again.’

  Annika knew that Anne thought she had never understood the way she and her husband had lived, had never seen how well it worked until it suddenly collapsed.

  ‘But being an egotist doesn’t necessarily make you any truer to yourself,’ Annika said, then realized how harsh her words sounded. ‘I mean, we have to deal with any number of things every day. Not just kids, but jobs, sports, anything. How many people get to go around being individuals in their jobs? How much could I be Annika Bengtzon if I was in the national ice-hockey team?’

  ‘I knew there was a reason why I hate sports journalists,’ Anne muttered.

  ‘But seriously,’ Annika said, leaning forward, ‘being part of a context is vital, having a function that’s bigger than us individually. Why else would people be attracted to sects and other groups of nutters if there wasn’t something really appealing about it?’

  ‘I don’t like sects either,’ Anne said, taking another gulp of wine.

  An image of Svartöstaden filled the screen behind the newsreader, and Annika turned the sound up again.

  ‘Police have confirmed that the death of journalist Benny Ekland is being treated as suspected murder, and that he was killed by a stolen Volvo V70.’

  ‘They haven’t come up with anything new,’ Annika said, lowering the volume again.

  ‘He was murdered by a Volvo?’ Anne asked, putting her hands down again.

  ‘Didn’t you read my article?’

  Anne smiled briefly in apology.

  ‘Do you want some water?’

  ‘No, I’d like some more wine,’ Anne called after her.

  The passageway to the kitchen was dark and full of silent sound. In the kitchen the subdued lighting of the extraction unit looked like a campfire from a distance. The water sloshed in the dishwasher, sending cascades up against its stainless-steel walls.

  She poured two large glasses of water, even though Anne didn’t want any.

  When she came back her friend was still sitting in the sofa with her empty wineglass in her hand. The alcohol had made her face relax. Her eyes were drawn to the silent television, and Annika followed her gaze and suddenly saw the broad, dark figure of the Minister of Culture fill the screen. She turned up the sound.

  ‘From July first, every council district will be obliged to have at least one public library,’ Karina Björnlund, the Minister of Culture, announced, her gaze fluttering about. ‘This new libraries law is a great step towards equality.’

  She nodded emphatically on the screen, and the unseen reporter was evidently expecting her to go on. Karina Björnlund cleared her throat, leaned towards the microphone and said: ‘For knowledge. Equality. Potential. For knowledge.’

  The reporter withdrew the microphone with his gloved hand and asked, ‘Doesn’t this initiative tread on the toes of local accountability?’

  The microphone came back in a shot, as Karina Björnlund bit her lip.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘this is an issue that has been debated over many years, but we are proposing new state subsidies of twenty-five million kronor for the purchase of books for public and school libraries.’

  ‘God, she’s mad, isn’t she?’ Annika said, turning the volume down again.

  Anne raised her eyebrows, seemingly unconcerned. ‘I don’t understand why you’re so against it,’ she said. ‘That proposal she’s talking about is what’s making my TV channel possible.’

  ‘She should never have been made a minister,’ Annika said. ‘Something went wrong after the whole Studio Six business. She was only the Trade Minister’s press secretary back then – Christer Lundgren, you remember him … ?’

  Anne frowned, thinking hard.

  ‘And she didn’t make a very good press secretary either, and then she gets to be Minister of Culture after the election.’

  ‘Aah,’ Anne said, ‘Christer Lundgren, the minister everyone thought killed that stripper.’

  ‘Josefin Liljeberg, exactly. Even though he didn’t do it.’

  They sat in silence again, watching Karina Björnlund talk soundlessly. Annika had an idea of why the press secretary had become a minister, and suspected that she herself, entirely innocently, had been a contributing factor to her appointment.

  ‘Do you mind if I turn it off?’ she asked.

  Anne shrugged. Annika considered getting up and fetching something else, anything else, to eat or drink or look at, something to consume, but she stopped herself, gathered her thoughts, allowed the grey anxiety to wash over her, and hopefully go away.

  ‘I got a load of really sensitive information from a policeman in Luleå today,’ she said. ‘About a bloke from the Torne Valley who probably blew up that plane at F21 and went on to become an international terrorist. What would make anyone leak that after thirty years?’

  Anne let the words sink in.

  ‘Depends on what the policeman said,’ she replied. ‘I don’t suppose he was stupid, so there’s a reason behind the leak. What do you think he was after?’

  Annika played with her glass of water.

  ‘I’ve been wondering that all day,’ she said. ‘I think the terrorist has come back, and the police want him to know that they know.’

  Anne frowned, then her gaze cleared, intoxication fading. ‘Isn’t that a bit of a long shot?’ she said. ‘Maybe they want to scare someone who knows him. His old friends. Warn political groups, left and right alike, against God knows what. You can’t possibly know what the police’s motives are.’

  Annika took a sip of water, swallowed with difficulty, then put the glass down.

  ‘The officer said he’d checked with the press officer at the airbase, which means the military have discussed it, so this is something they’ve been planning for a while. But why now, and why me?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know why now,’ Anne said, ‘but why you is pretty obvious, isn’t it? How many famous crime reporters are there on Swedish papers?’

  Annika thought in silence for a few seconds, as an emergency vehicle drove past outside.

  ‘But what if this has something to do with Benny Ekland’s murder. It all fits too neatly.’

  ‘Well, it’s not impossible,’ Anne said. ‘Are you going to run the story?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said with a sigh, ‘although it’s up to Schyman to decide. I think he’s starting to get tired of me.’

  ‘Maybe you’re just getting tired of him,’ Anne said, taking a biscuit.

  Annika’s face was impassive. She pulled her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms round her legs.

  ‘I just want to be left to get on with my job.’

  14

  The young waiter put two gin and tonics on the table, removed the coffee cups and cognac glasses, replaced an almost finished candle and emptied the ashtray.

  ‘The kitchen closes at ten, but the bar is open till one, so just say if you’d like anything else.’

  He vanished silently up the thickly carpeted staircase.

  ‘Who knew that this was here!’ Sophia smiled, throwing her arms out.

  Thomas couldn’t help laughing. The atmosphere in the cellar of the bar was almost surreally oriental; the walls and floor covered in layer upon layer of thick, dusty carpets, gleaming bronze dishes piled in the corners, oil-lamps on lo
w stone tables. They were alone, facing one another across a large oak table on heavy leather chairs. The ceiling consisted of vaulted brickwork that appeared to be seventeenth century.

  ‘These old brick buildings hold a lot of secrets,’ Thomas said, embarrassed that he was slurring his words.

  ‘You live on Kungsholmen?’ Sophia asked, looking at him over the rim of the gin glass.

  He nodded, sipping his drink.

  ‘Old stove,’ he said, ‘lots of ornate plasterwork, creaking parquet floors, the lot.’

  ‘Your own?’

  ‘These days. We bought out the tenancy a year ago. What about you?’

  Sophia lit a menthol cigarette, sucking in the nicotine, and blew the smoke out in small rings.

  ‘Östermalm,’ she said. ‘My family own a building there.’

  He raised his eyebrows, impressed. She lowered her eyes and smiled.

  ‘We’ve had it for generations,’ she said. ‘Mine’s small, only three rooms, there are other members of the family who need the fancy rooms more than me.’

  He took a handful of the peanuts that had been on the table since they started.

  ‘You live alone?’

  ‘With Socks, my cat. Named after the Clintons’ cat, if you remember …’

  He laughed loudly. ‘Of course, Socks in the White House.’

  ‘And you’ve got a family?’ she said, putting her cigarette out.

  Thomas pushed his chair back a bit.

  ‘Yep,’ he said happily, crossing his hands on his stomach. ‘Wife, two kids. No cat, though …’

  They laughed.

  ‘Does your wife work?’ Sophia asked, sipping her drink.

  He let out a deep sigh. ‘Far too much.’

  She smiled, and lit another cigarette. The silence between them grew like a soft deciduous tree full of promise, trembling leaves and sunlight. Everything was sweetness and light in their oriental cellar.

  ‘She spent a while at home last winter,’ he said, more sombre now. ‘That was great. It suited the children, it suited me. It suited the apartment too; we renovated the kitchen and even managed to keep it clean.’

  Sophia had leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. He could see the look in her eyes, and realized the effect his words had had.

  ‘I mean,’ he said, swallowing more gin, ‘I don’t mean women should be housewives and just stand by the stove and have babies, nothing like that. Of course women should have the same opportunities for education and careers as men, but there are loads of nice jobs in journalism. I don’t see why she insists on writing about violence and death for a tabloid.’

  All of a sudden he could hear his mother’s voice in his head, words she had never said but he knew she was thinking: Because that’s what she is. A tabloid person who attracts trouble. You’re too good for her, Thomas; you could have found a good woman.

  ‘She’s a good woman,’ he said out loud. ‘Intelligent, but not very intellectual.’

  Sophia looked at him, her head on one side. ‘The two don’t have to go together,’ she said. ‘You can be talented without being well-read.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Thomas took a large gulp of gin. ‘That’s exactly it. Annika’s incredibly smart. The problem is that she’s so bloody unpolished. Sometimes she goes about things like a bulldozer.’

  Sophia covered her mouth with her hands and giggled. He looked at her in surprise, then started laughing as well.

  ‘But it’s true!’ he said, then got serious again. ‘She’s pretty unusual, in all sorts of ways. Never lets go once she’s decided to do something.’

  Sophia had stopped laughing and was looking at him sympathetically.

  ‘It must be hard to live with that sort of stubbornness,’ she said.

  Thomas shook his head slowly, emptying his glass. ‘My mother can’t stand her,’ he said, putting the glass down. ‘She thinks I married beneath me, that I should have stayed with Eleonor.’

  Sophia looked quizzically at him.

  ‘My first wife,’ he said. ‘She was a bank director. Is a bank director. She’s remarried now, with the only IT-guru who landed on his feet. Last I heard, they’d bought their own island outside Vaxholm.’

  The tree of silence spread its boughs above them, mature, calm. They sat in silence and looked at each other as her cigarette burned away in the ashtray.

  ‘We may as well share a taxi,’ Sophia said. ‘We’re more or less going in the same direction.’

  The boy stopped at the door of the bus and swallowed hard. He leaned forward to look at the road, the wind blowing sharp ice crystals into his face. There was a smell of fumes and iron.

  ‘Are you getting off or what?’

  He looked sheepishly at the bus-driver, took a quick breath, jumped the two steps and landed on the pavement. The door closed behind him with a hiss, the bus glided away with a muffled noise caused by cold and snow.

  It disappeared into Laxgatan, the sound drowning behind heaps of snow and fencing. He stood there on the pavement, looking carefully around him, listening hard. He couldn’t even hear the ironworks.

  He forced himself to breathe out, calm down. There was no reason to be frightened. He spat in the snow.

  Shit, soon he’d be as nervous as that reporter from Stockholm. She was really jumpy. They’d read her article in the Norrland News, and he’d shown Alex how she behaved in the hallway.

  ‘It’s her,’ Alex had said. ‘You know, the one who was held hostage by the Bomber. Probably left her a bit funny in the head afterwards.’

  He hadn’t been much good at the game tonight, not really on form. He was actually really good at it, much better than Alex, but this evening he’d been zapped to ash by several other players. He was annoyed that he’d blown his stats; he kicked away a lump of ice so hard it made his foot hurt. Might be just as well to start again with a new character. ‘Cruel Devil’ would never be a Teslatron God with useless results like this to make up for. Ninja Master, maybe, but he was aiming for the top.

  He slowly walked out of the yellow circle of the streetlamp, heading for the house. There were lights on in Andersson’s flat, blue light seeping into the darkness. The old man was probably watching the sports news.

  Suddenly a shadow fell over the façade of the building, a flashing demon that gasped and disappeared. The boy struggled for breath, so hard that it froze his throat. He felt his muscles tense, his legs ready for flight. Eyes and ears open to the darkness, absorbing every trembling nuance.

  Still not a sound. Blue light from Andersson’s window. Icy chill from the ground that was slowly working its way through the soles of his shoes.

  Nothing. Something flashed past the window.

  He forced his shoulders down again, realizing that he hadn’t breathed for a minute or so. Started panting in a loud rattle, feeling the tears rise.

  Fucking shit, the boy thought, fucking bloody shit.

  Without thinking any more, he gave in to his fear and raced blindly towards the door. It was just as dark as usual in the yard, but he knew where Andersson left his rubbish and crossed the hazardous path with ease.

  He yanked open the outer door and hit the button to light up the hall with damp gloves. His whole body was shaking as he dug for the key in his jacket pocket.

  The door fell open just as he realized he was about to wet himself. Letting out a small whine, he rushed into the bathroom and yanked up the toilet lid.

  He shut his eyes and sobbed as the warm urine landed more or less in the toilet. Afterwards he just pulled up his pants and sat down on the toilet, leaving his trousers and long-johns in a puddle around his feet. The sunflowers smiled down at him from the wallpaper.

  Why had he got so scared, like a little kid? He snorted at his own behaviour; he’d never been scared of the dark before.

  Slowly he stood up, flushed, washed his hands and rinsed his mouth. He couldn’t be bothered to brush his teeth tonight. He kicked off his trousers, gathered up his clothes and went into his room. />
  There was someone sitting on his bed.

  The thought came from nowhere and he didn’t believe it, even though he could see for himself.

  There was a shadow sitting on his bed.

  His arms fell, his clothes landing in a heap on the floor. He tried to cry out, but probably made no sound because the shadow was moving very slowly, got up, came towards him, filling the room, right up to the ceiling.

  A howl emerged, echoing off the walls, the boy turned and tried to run, then all sound was switched off, colour vanished, the picture went fuzzy. He aimed for the light in the hall, saw his own hand fly past his face, felt his weight shift from one foot to the other. Breathless, the doorway came closer, then slid sideways, a clammy glove against his forehead, another on his left arm. The hall light reflected in something shiny.

  Chaos, a howling in his head. Warm liquid on his chest.

  Then a thought. A final, radiant, clear thought: Mum.

  Friday 13 November

  15

  The train rumbled hypnotically through the night, rattling monotonously. The man lay in his first-class compartment staring out of the window, trying to make out the line of treetops against the dark starry sky. The pain was pushing through the morphine, making him gasp.

  With an effort he took out another tablet from the case under the pillow and swallowed it without water. He felt its effects before it had even hit his stomach, soothing him to peace at last.

  As he relaxed, he found himself at one of the vast meetings of his youth, in a huge campsite outside Pajala. Thousands of people on hard wooden benches, the smell of damp wool and sawdust. The men up on the platform made speeches, first one in Finnish, then the other translating into Swedish, the endlessness of their voices, rolling, rising, falling.

  With a jerk the train pulled in to a station. He looked out along the platform. Långsele.

  Långsele?

  Panic hit him hard. Good grief, he was going in the wrong direction! His arms flew up, his head rising from the synthetic pillow, breathless.

  Dans quelle direction est Långsele?

  South, he thought. It’s south, just above Ånge.

  He sank back onto the pillow, trying to ignore his own smell, checking that the duffel bag was still at the end of the bed. He coughed weakly. He heard a door slam, felt a jolt as the train got ready to leave. He looked at his watch: 05.16.