Norrland disappeared somewhere halfway into the wall.
Anne Snapphane felt the wallpaper close in on her, as though it was pressing up against her lungs. She struggled to get up, walked around the bed to reach the window and looked out over the bridge and the small canal. The room needed airing, so she opened the window, gasping when the wind and the rain threatened to tear the window frame out of her hand. Alarmed, she shut it again, latching it with trembling fingers. She rested for a minute or so, sitting on the desk with her back to the rain. Then she went over to the door, sure that it would be locked.
It wasn’t. Opening it a crack, she heard the murmur of voices in the lounge. The hall was dark and empty, muffled sounds coming from all different directions. The light from her window fell on the door on the opposite side of the hallway, Karin Bellhorn’s room.
It was a split-second decision. Without making a sound, Anne closed her door, tiptoed a couple of steps in the darkness over to Karin’s door and opened it.
The producer was seated at the desk in her room, and she looked up in surprise, her eyes swollen and lips cracked, as Anne Snapphane entered the room and closed the door behind her.
‘What on––?’
She got halfway out of her chair. Anne put her finger to her lips.
‘I’ve got to talk,’ she whispered, ‘or I’ll go nuts.’
‘We’re not allowed to talk,’ Karin whispered back to her. ‘Go back to your room.’
Anne Snapphane’s lower lip began to tremble and so did her hands and arms.
‘Please,’ she said, ‘I can’t take it any more.’
The producer came up to her, studied her briefly, then took her hands.
‘You poor thing,’ she said softly. ‘Sit down for a while.’
Anne sunk down on the bed, buried her face in her hands and cried. The tears felt softer now, not as sharp and piercing as in her lonely room.
‘Shit,’ Anne sobbed. ‘This is so fucking awful! How could it happen?’
Karin Bellhorn sighed, a deep and ragged sound that bordered on a sob.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I can’t make sense of it.’
‘Did you see her?’
Anne looked up at the producer. Karin smoothed her grey hair and averted her gaze.
‘I saw enough.’
‘She was still warm, but it was hot inside the bus. Did you see the gun?’
The older woman swallowed and nodded.
‘Nothing this awful has ever happened to me before,’ Anne Snapphane continued, the words tumbling like the waters of a brook in springtime. ‘I’ve never even seen a dead person before, and there she was, somebody I’ve worked with for nearly four years. A person who had been alive a few hours earlier . . . murdered. Shot! Did you see the grey stuff? Did you see the mess on the wall and on the monitors? That was her brain. Christ, that was her fucking brain coating the TV screens. It’s disgusting – her memories, her childhood, her feelings, everything she was – all that was left was a sticky, yucky, blown-away mess . . .’
Anne bowed her head and cried some more, louder this time, the sobs almost like screams. Karin placed a warm, dry hand on the back of her neck.
‘Anne,’ she whispered urgently. ‘Please, Anne, you aren’t supposed to be here, the police would flip if they found you here, please pull yourself together.’
With tears streaming down her cheeks, nose and chin, Anne Snapphane took a few deep breaths.
‘Shit,’ she whispered, ‘Karin, it’s so fucking awful . . .’
‘I know,’ the producer said and put her arms around her. ‘I know . . .’
They remained like that for quite some time, the older woman holding the younger one.
‘I’m so ashamed,’ Anne whispered as soon as she had calmed down. Karin released her. ‘I was always so nasty to Michelle.’
‘No, that’s not true,’ Karin said. ‘You weren’t nasty.’
‘Yes, I was,’ Anne Snapphane said, wiping her nose with her sleeve. ‘I couldn’t stand her, all because she was prettier than me, and
Anne Snapphane felt the wallpaper close in on her, as though it was pressing up against her lungs. She struggled to get up, walked around the bed to reach the window and looked out over the bridge and the small canal. The room needed airing, so she opened the window, gasping when the wind and the rain threatened to tear the window frame out of her hand. Alarmed, she shut it again, latching it with trembling fingers. She rested for a minute or so, sitting on the desk with her back to the rain. Then she went over to the door, sure that it would be locked.
It wasn’t. Opening it a crack, she heard the murmur of voices in the lounge. The hall was dark and empty, muffled sounds coming from all different directions. The light from her window fell on the door on the opposite side of the hallway, Karin Bellhorn’s room.
It was a split-second decision. Without making a sound, Anne closed her door, tiptoed a couple of steps in the darkness over to Karin’s door and opened it.
The producer was seated at the desk in her room, and she looked up in surprise, her eyes swollen and lips cracked, as Anne Snapphane entered the room and closed the door behind her.
‘What on––?’
She got halfway out of her chair. Anne put her finger to her lips.
‘I’ve got to talk,’ she whispered, ‘or I’ll go nuts.’
‘We’re not allowed to talk,’ Karin whispered back to her. ‘Go back to your room.’
Anne Snapphane’s lower lip began to tremble and so did her hands and arms.
‘Please,’ she said, ‘I can’t take it any more.’
The producer came up to her, studied her briefly, then took her hands.
‘You poor thing,’ she said softly. ‘Sit down for a while.’
Anne sunk down on the bed, buried her face in her hands and cried. The tears felt softer now, not as sharp and piercing as in her lonely room.
‘Shit,’ Anne sobbed. ‘This is so fucking awful! How could it happen?’
Karin Bellhorn sighed, a deep and ragged sound that bordered on a sob.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I can’t make sense of it.’
‘Did you see her?’
Anne looked up at the producer. Karin smoothed her grey hair and averted her gaze.
‘I saw enough.’
‘She was still warm, but it was hot inside the bus. Did you see the gun?’
The older woman swallowed and nodded.
‘Nothing this awful has ever happened to me before,’ Anne Snapphane continued, the words tumbling like the waters of a brook in springtime. ‘I’ve never even seen a dead person before, and there she was, somebody I’ve worked with for nearly four years. A person who had been alive a few hours earlier . . . murdered. Shot! Did you see the grey stuff? Did you see the mess on the wall and on the monitors? That was her brain. Christ, that was her fucking brain coating the TV screens. It’s disgusting – her memories, her childhood, her feelings, everything she was – all that was left was a sticky, yucky, blown-away mess . . .’
Anne bowed her head and cried some more, louder this time, the sobs almost like screams. Karin placed a warm, dry hand on the back of her neck.
‘Anne,’ she whispered urgently. ‘Please, Anne, you aren’t supposed to be here, the police would flip if they found you here, please pull yourself together.’
With tears streaming down her cheeks, nose and chin, Anne Snapphane took a few deep breaths.
‘Shit,’ she whispered, ‘Karin, it’s so fucking awful . . .’
‘I know,’ the producer said and put her arms around her. ‘I know . . .’
They remained like that for quite some time, the older woman holding the younger one.
‘I’m so ashamed,’ Anne whispered as soon as she had calmed down. Karin released her. ‘I was always so nasty to Michelle.’
‘No, that’s not true,’ Karin said. ‘You weren’t nasty.’
‘Yes, I was,’ Anne Snapphane said, wiping her nose with her sleeve. ‘I couldn’t stand her, all because she was prettier than me, and
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