that really a suitable job for a woman?’ Aunt Märta demanded.
He didn’t reply and started heading for the kitchen.
‘Märta, please,’ his mother said in a disapproving voice. ‘These days women can do anything a man can do.’
She turned to Thomas and said:
‘Holger arrived this morning.’
‘Daddy,’ Ellen crowed while kicking her legs and reaching her arms out to him. ‘Da-da-daddy!’
Thomas removed his daughter from his mother’s lap and swung her up to ride on his shoulders. Then he set off on a wild gallop around the whole floor while she gurgled with delight above him and Kalle clung to his robe and squealed: ‘Me too, Daddy, me too!’
‘Playtime’s over, kiddies!’ Holger informed them as he entered the house. ‘It’s time we had ourselves a pick-me-up!’
Anne Snapphane sat bolt upright in bed, woken by a sound that she couldn’t quite recall. Her heart hammered away in her chest, her hair was glued to her temples and her bare feet were cold. For a few seconds she was suspended in a void. Then it all came crashing down on top of her again and she fell back against the pillows, groaning. The room had closed in on her even more. Under the down duvet it was hot and damp. Apart from socks and shoes, she was fully dressed and her clothes smelled.
I don’t want to , she thought. No more . . .
Her hangover had receded and had been replaced by another kind of malaise. Maybe it was shock or fear. She listened to the sounds of the old building – the faint creaking of the beams, the rain as it beat against plaster and tiling – and sensed the presence of the others nearby. Curling up on her side, she concentrated on directions and distances.
Upstairs Gunnar Antonsson paced slowly back and forth. In the room on the right, Bambi Rosenberg never stopped crying. The sound rose and fell, and Anne Snapphane turned over to shut the noise out. In the room on her left she could hear the radio muffling Mariana’s murmured words. Anne understood what was going on – Mariana had turned on the clock radio to drown out the sound of cellphone calls. Pretty transparent.
She kicked off the sweaty covers, pushing them to the foot of the bed, then burrowed her feet into the damp mass while she stared at the ceiling. Restlessness churned inside her. This waiting was sheer torture.
Anne closed her eyes and breathed shallowly, listening to the chirpy backdrop of sound on the other side of the thin wall: two radio-show hosts were squabbling good-naturedly. The music in the background faded and was replaced by jingles followed by the news.
The flat tones of the woman in the news studio signalled how nervous she was about filling in on a holiday when most people had the day off. Anne heard about a terrorist attack on a bus in central Jerusalem without really listening and the spot gave way to a statement that the government was expected to finalize this autumn. The next item was Michelle’s death. Anne Snapphane concentrated on this, but the announcement was so short, matter-of-fact and without speculation that it almost seemed indifferent. Michelle Carlsson, the journalist, had been found dead in a control room after participating in a TV programme. The police suspected foul play. Investigations had not yet been concluded, and the police spokesman had declined to make further comments at this time.
The newswoman paused for a split second before moving on to the story of two men who had been reported missing after their boat was found drifting keel up on Lake Vänern. Then came a report of a flood in Poland, and a weather forecast. The cold front would continue to move south and would be followed by new low-pressure zones coming in from the Atlantic. The province of Svealand could expect a steady downpour of rain and some local thunderstorms during the day. These would clear up, beginning in the northernmost regions, this evening.
Suddenly, Mariana turned down the volume, and the weather conditions of
He didn’t reply and started heading for the kitchen.
‘Märta, please,’ his mother said in a disapproving voice. ‘These days women can do anything a man can do.’
She turned to Thomas and said:
‘Holger arrived this morning.’
‘Daddy,’ Ellen crowed while kicking her legs and reaching her arms out to him. ‘Da-da-daddy!’
Thomas removed his daughter from his mother’s lap and swung her up to ride on his shoulders. Then he set off on a wild gallop around the whole floor while she gurgled with delight above him and Kalle clung to his robe and squealed: ‘Me too, Daddy, me too!’
‘Playtime’s over, kiddies!’ Holger informed them as he entered the house. ‘It’s time we had ourselves a pick-me-up!’
Anne Snapphane sat bolt upright in bed, woken by a sound that she couldn’t quite recall. Her heart hammered away in her chest, her hair was glued to her temples and her bare feet were cold. For a few seconds she was suspended in a void. Then it all came crashing down on top of her again and she fell back against the pillows, groaning. The room had closed in on her even more. Under the down duvet it was hot and damp. Apart from socks and shoes, she was fully dressed and her clothes smelled.
I don’t want to , she thought. No more . . .
Her hangover had receded and had been replaced by another kind of malaise. Maybe it was shock or fear. She listened to the sounds of the old building – the faint creaking of the beams, the rain as it beat against plaster and tiling – and sensed the presence of the others nearby. Curling up on her side, she concentrated on directions and distances.
Upstairs Gunnar Antonsson paced slowly back and forth. In the room on the right, Bambi Rosenberg never stopped crying. The sound rose and fell, and Anne Snapphane turned over to shut the noise out. In the room on her left she could hear the radio muffling Mariana’s murmured words. Anne understood what was going on – Mariana had turned on the clock radio to drown out the sound of cellphone calls. Pretty transparent.
She kicked off the sweaty covers, pushing them to the foot of the bed, then burrowed her feet into the damp mass while she stared at the ceiling. Restlessness churned inside her. This waiting was sheer torture.
Anne closed her eyes and breathed shallowly, listening to the chirpy backdrop of sound on the other side of the thin wall: two radio-show hosts were squabbling good-naturedly. The music in the background faded and was replaced by jingles followed by the news.
The flat tones of the woman in the news studio signalled how nervous she was about filling in on a holiday when most people had the day off. Anne heard about a terrorist attack on a bus in central Jerusalem without really listening and the spot gave way to a statement that the government was expected to finalize this autumn. The next item was Michelle’s death. Anne Snapphane concentrated on this, but the announcement was so short, matter-of-fact and without speculation that it almost seemed indifferent. Michelle Carlsson, the journalist, had been found dead in a control room after participating in a TV programme. The police suspected foul play. Investigations had not yet been concluded, and the police spokesman had declined to make further comments at this time.
The newswoman paused for a split second before moving on to the story of two men who had been reported missing after their boat was found drifting keel up on Lake Vänern. Then came a report of a flood in Poland, and a weather forecast. The cold front would continue to move south and would be followed by new low-pressure zones coming in from the Atlantic. The province of Svealand could expect a steady downpour of rain and some local thunderstorms during the day. These would clear up, beginning in the northernmost regions, this evening.
Suddenly, Mariana turned down the volume, and the weather conditions of
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