paid for his ticket.
‘Is there anyone to look after you when you get home?’ she asked.
The man shook his head, snot dribbling from his nose.
‘I’ve just been discharged,’ he said.
She left him by a bench outside the station, his head hanging, the bike leaning against his legs.
The picture was big, spreading over two pages of the paper. It was mostly yellow, the detail sharp and clear. Police in their heavy leather jackets, dark in profile; the luminous white of the ambulancemen; serious-looking men in greyish blue holding hand-tools; debris; the staircase; the gynaecologist’s chair.
Then there were the two bundles, lifeless, crumpled, black. So large when they were alive, taking up so much space. They looked so small now, on the ground. What a waste.
She coughed, still shivering. Her fever had risen during the day. The antibiotics didn’t seem to be helping. The wound in her forehead ached.
I have to rest
, she thought.
I have to sleep
.
She let the newspaper drop and leaned back on the pillows. She got the falling sensation that always preceded sleep straight away, falling backwards, shallow breathing, fumbling for something to hold onto. And the boy, his fear, his screams, and her own infinite inadequacy.
She opened her eyes wide. From the other side of the wall came the sound of conference guests laughing. She had arrived at the hotel at the same time as a coach load of them, and had managed to sneak in as one of the participants. That had saved her for the time being, but not for much longer. If her old medication didn’t start to work soon, she’d have to get some proper help. The thought scared her: that would make her so easy to find. She drank some water, her arm stiff and heavy, then tried to concentrate on the article again.
A gangland dispute. Yugoslavian mafia. No suspects, but several lines of inquiry. She turned the page. A picture of a taxi-driver.
She stopped, focused, struggled to sit upright against the pillows.
The taxi-driver, the one who hadn’t wanted her to mess up his nice car. She recognized him. He had spoken to a reporter. The article told how he had driven a woman away from the oil terminal that night, wet as a drowned rat. The police were keen to contact the woman for questioning.
For questioning
.
She sank back on the pillows and closed her eyes, breathing fast.
What if they’d started an official search for her? That would mean she definitely couldn’t seek medical help.
She groaned loudly, panting for breath. The police were looking for her.
Don’t panic
, she thought.
Don’t get hysterical. Maybe they aren’t looking for me
.
She forced herself to calm down, and gradually managed to slow her pulse and her breathing.
How could she find out if they were looking for her? She could hardly call and ask, because they’d pick her up straight away. Maybe she could try to find out by pretending she had information, and see if the police gave anything away.
She groaned out loud again, and picked up the paper to read the rest of the article. There wasn’t much more to it, and it didn’t say if the police were actively looking for her. Then she saw the name at the bottom of the article. The reporter. Reporters sometimes made things up, made out they knew more than they did. But sometimes they knew more than they let on.
She coughed hard. She couldn’t go on like this. She needed help. She picked up the paper and read the name again: Sjölander.
She reached for the phone.
10
Annika was just taking off her jacket when Sjölander called her name, waving the phone.
‘It’s some bloody woman saying she wants help. Can you take it?’
Annika shut her eyes. He was implying this was her subject.
Play along, keep it together
.
The woman on the other end sounded tired and unwell, and she spoke in a thick accent.
‘I need help,’ she panted.
Annika sat down, suddenly empty inside again, desperate for coffee.
‘He’s after me,’ the woman said. ‘He’s
‘Is there anyone to look after you when you get home?’ she asked.
The man shook his head, snot dribbling from his nose.
‘I’ve just been discharged,’ he said.
She left him by a bench outside the station, his head hanging, the bike leaning against his legs.
The picture was big, spreading over two pages of the paper. It was mostly yellow, the detail sharp and clear. Police in their heavy leather jackets, dark in profile; the luminous white of the ambulancemen; serious-looking men in greyish blue holding hand-tools; debris; the staircase; the gynaecologist’s chair.
Then there were the two bundles, lifeless, crumpled, black. So large when they were alive, taking up so much space. They looked so small now, on the ground. What a waste.
She coughed, still shivering. Her fever had risen during the day. The antibiotics didn’t seem to be helping. The wound in her forehead ached.
I have to rest
, she thought.
I have to sleep
.
She let the newspaper drop and leaned back on the pillows. She got the falling sensation that always preceded sleep straight away, falling backwards, shallow breathing, fumbling for something to hold onto. And the boy, his fear, his screams, and her own infinite inadequacy.
She opened her eyes wide. From the other side of the wall came the sound of conference guests laughing. She had arrived at the hotel at the same time as a coach load of them, and had managed to sneak in as one of the participants. That had saved her for the time being, but not for much longer. If her old medication didn’t start to work soon, she’d have to get some proper help. The thought scared her: that would make her so easy to find. She drank some water, her arm stiff and heavy, then tried to concentrate on the article again.
A gangland dispute. Yugoslavian mafia. No suspects, but several lines of inquiry. She turned the page. A picture of a taxi-driver.
She stopped, focused, struggled to sit upright against the pillows.
The taxi-driver, the one who hadn’t wanted her to mess up his nice car. She recognized him. He had spoken to a reporter. The article told how he had driven a woman away from the oil terminal that night, wet as a drowned rat. The police were keen to contact the woman for questioning.
For questioning
.
She sank back on the pillows and closed her eyes, breathing fast.
What if they’d started an official search for her? That would mean she definitely couldn’t seek medical help.
She groaned loudly, panting for breath. The police were looking for her.
Don’t panic
, she thought.
Don’t get hysterical. Maybe they aren’t looking for me
.
She forced herself to calm down, and gradually managed to slow her pulse and her breathing.
How could she find out if they were looking for her? She could hardly call and ask, because they’d pick her up straight away. Maybe she could try to find out by pretending she had information, and see if the police gave anything away.
She groaned out loud again, and picked up the paper to read the rest of the article. There wasn’t much more to it, and it didn’t say if the police were actively looking for her. Then she saw the name at the bottom of the article. The reporter. Reporters sometimes made things up, made out they knew more than they did. But sometimes they knew more than they let on.
She coughed hard. She couldn’t go on like this. She needed help. She picked up the paper and read the name again: Sjölander.
She reached for the phone.
10
Annika was just taking off her jacket when Sjölander called her name, waving the phone.
‘It’s some bloody woman saying she wants help. Can you take it?’
Annika shut her eyes. He was implying this was her subject.
Play along, keep it together
.
The woman on the other end sounded tired and unwell, and she spoke in a thick accent.
‘I need help,’ she panted.
Annika sat down, suddenly empty inside again, desperate for coffee.
‘He’s after me,’ the woman said. ‘He’s
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