panned over bombed-out buildings and truckloads of grimy refugees.
‘Looks like they couldn’t care less about your homicide,’ Anne Snapphane remarked.
‘It’s not mine,’ Annika countered. ‘It’s Sjölander’s.’
After a brief flash about something that the Prime Minister had said, there was a live segment about the free-port killings. The reporter went on as they aired footage showing the spot by the silos. They featured pretty much the same information as Kvällspressen had published twelve hours earlier.
‘It’s astonishing that TV reporters never go dig up anything,’ Annika claimed. ‘They’ve had all day at their disposal, and they haven’t found a damn thing.’
‘This stuff isn’t high priority for them,’ Anne countered.
‘Television is stuck in the fifties,’ Annika continued. ‘They settle for moving pictures and sound. They don’t give a damn about journalism, or maybe they just don’t know how to do it. TV reporters suck.’
‘Amen,’ Anne concluded. ‘God’s gift to journalism has spoken. Christ, did you polish off all the candy? You could have saved some for me.’
‘Sorry,’ Annika replied sheepishly. ‘I’ve got to go.’
She left Anne behind in her attic flat and headed down Stora Nygatan towards Norrmalm. The air didn’t seem as piercing now, only fresh and crisp. Something inside came to life – she felt like singing. Waiting for the signal to cross the street by the House of the Nobility and the Supreme Court, she was humming away when a little man wheeled up alongside her to the left.
‘I rode my bike all the way from Huddinge,’ the man said, and Annika jumped. He was utterly exhausted. His whole body was shaking and his nose was running copiously.
‘Boy, that’s quite a distance,’ Annika replied. ‘Don’t your legs ache?’
‘Not one bit,’ the man said as tears started rolling down his cheeks. ‘I could keep on going just as far.’
The lights turned green. When Annika started to cross the street, the man followed suit. He stumbled after her, leaning heavily on his bike. Annika waited for him. ‘Where are you headed?’ she asked.
‘To the train,’ he whispered. ‘To get back home.’
She helped him across Tegelbacken over to the Central Station. He didn’t have a bean, so Annika paid his ticket.
‘Is there anyone to take care of you at home?’ she asked.
The man shook his head, the mucus bobbing from his nose. ‘I just got discharged from the hospital,’ he said.
She left him on a bench at the station, his head bowed and the bicycle resting against his legs.
The picture was big, dominating the middle of the spread. The main colour was a shimmering golden yellow, the subjects were in crisp, sharp focus. The police officers in their heavy leather jackets, all black in profile; the incandescent whiteness of the ambulances; grave-looking men in grey-blue holding little tools; the rubble; the stairs; the gynaecologist’s examination chair.
And the body bags: lifeless, diminished, black packages. So big they were in life, taking up all that space. So small they looked there on the ground, waste for ready disposal.
She coughed and shivered. During the course of the day, her temperature kept going up. The antibiotics didn’t seem to be helping. The wound on her forehead hurt.
I’ve got to get some rest , she thought. I’ve got to get some sleep.
She let the newspaper dip and leaned back against the pillows. The sensation of falling that heralded sleep appeared immediately: the backwards motion, the rapid intake of breath, trying to clutch at the railing. And then, the boy, his terror and his screams, her own infinite inadequacy.
She forced her eyes open. On the other side of the wall, conference delegates were laughing. She had arrived at the hotel at the same time as the busload of delegates and had managed to disguise herself as part of the group. It had helped her temporarily, but now it wasn’t enough. If her old
‘Looks like they couldn’t care less about your homicide,’ Anne Snapphane remarked.
‘It’s not mine,’ Annika countered. ‘It’s Sjölander’s.’
After a brief flash about something that the Prime Minister had said, there was a live segment about the free-port killings. The reporter went on as they aired footage showing the spot by the silos. They featured pretty much the same information as Kvällspressen had published twelve hours earlier.
‘It’s astonishing that TV reporters never go dig up anything,’ Annika claimed. ‘They’ve had all day at their disposal, and they haven’t found a damn thing.’
‘This stuff isn’t high priority for them,’ Anne countered.
‘Television is stuck in the fifties,’ Annika continued. ‘They settle for moving pictures and sound. They don’t give a damn about journalism, or maybe they just don’t know how to do it. TV reporters suck.’
‘Amen,’ Anne concluded. ‘God’s gift to journalism has spoken. Christ, did you polish off all the candy? You could have saved some for me.’
‘Sorry,’ Annika replied sheepishly. ‘I’ve got to go.’
She left Anne behind in her attic flat and headed down Stora Nygatan towards Norrmalm. The air didn’t seem as piercing now, only fresh and crisp. Something inside came to life – she felt like singing. Waiting for the signal to cross the street by the House of the Nobility and the Supreme Court, she was humming away when a little man wheeled up alongside her to the left.
‘I rode my bike all the way from Huddinge,’ the man said, and Annika jumped. He was utterly exhausted. His whole body was shaking and his nose was running copiously.
‘Boy, that’s quite a distance,’ Annika replied. ‘Don’t your legs ache?’
‘Not one bit,’ the man said as tears started rolling down his cheeks. ‘I could keep on going just as far.’
The lights turned green. When Annika started to cross the street, the man followed suit. He stumbled after her, leaning heavily on his bike. Annika waited for him. ‘Where are you headed?’ she asked.
‘To the train,’ he whispered. ‘To get back home.’
She helped him across Tegelbacken over to the Central Station. He didn’t have a bean, so Annika paid his ticket.
‘Is there anyone to take care of you at home?’ she asked.
The man shook his head, the mucus bobbing from his nose. ‘I just got discharged from the hospital,’ he said.
She left him on a bench at the station, his head bowed and the bicycle resting against his legs.
The picture was big, dominating the middle of the spread. The main colour was a shimmering golden yellow, the subjects were in crisp, sharp focus. The police officers in their heavy leather jackets, all black in profile; the incandescent whiteness of the ambulances; grave-looking men in grey-blue holding little tools; the rubble; the stairs; the gynaecologist’s examination chair.
And the body bags: lifeless, diminished, black packages. So big they were in life, taking up all that space. So small they looked there on the ground, waste for ready disposal.
She coughed and shivered. During the course of the day, her temperature kept going up. The antibiotics didn’t seem to be helping. The wound on her forehead hurt.
I’ve got to get some rest , she thought. I’ve got to get some sleep.
She let the newspaper dip and leaned back against the pillows. The sensation of falling that heralded sleep appeared immediately: the backwards motion, the rapid intake of breath, trying to clutch at the railing. And then, the boy, his terror and his screams, her own infinite inadequacy.
She forced her eyes open. On the other side of the wall, conference delegates were laughing. She had arrived at the hotel at the same time as the busload of delegates and had managed to disguise herself as part of the group. It had helped her temporarily, but now it wasn’t enough. If her old
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