A foal? Marek asked.

  As lively and happy as a little horse, she promised. He thought about this for a long time.

  I’d really like to be a little horse, he declared in his most earnest voice. Horses don’t have hands that can do awful things.

  That was how it had been in real life. She had stayed awake for a long time, close beside him, listening to his snuffling breaths and wondering about his questions, and in the morning a doctor and a whole flock of nurses had come round and told her there wasn’t anything in the least wrong with Marek, and then the two of them had gone home. She never told her mother about her conversation with Marek in the hospital bed and Marek never returned to the subject either. His stomach problem recurred a few times in the weeks that followed, but then it stopped.

  In the dream, things developed differently. When she woke up in the hospital bed the next morning, Marek wasn’t there. She tried to find out – from all these people in white – where her little brother had gone, but no one could give her a sensible answer. She ran round the big hospital, asking everywhere, but most people didn’t have time even to listen to her. She made her way through long corridors and dark tunnels, but nowhere was there a four-year-old boy who had come in the day before with stomach pains. And nobody knew anything.

  In the end she found him in a big room down in the basement, a kind of storeroom, in fact; it was full of little white coffins and in every coffin lay a dead child. There really was an immense number of coffins, and it wasn’t until she opened the very last one that she came across her little brother.

  He wasn’t just dead, he also had a noose round his neck, and on his chest was his favourite teddy, its head cut off.

  She was woken by her own tears. When she realized it was only a dream, she felt a surge of relief of course, but her tears continued flowing for a long time.

  Why do I have dreams like that? she thought. How is life going to turn out for Marek and why do things always get so horrible when we aren’t on our guard?

  She checked the time. It was twenty to eight.

  High time to get up. Have some breakfast and decide whether she was going to leave or stay.

  When she came out of the house – to go for a pee, over by the earth cellar – she found it was raining.

  15

  Excellent, thought Ante Valdemar Roos. She won’t feel like leaving in this weather.

  But no sooner had Wilma left him alone at the breakfast table than the rain stopped, and ten minutes later the sun came out. He took this as a salutary reminder of the transience of all things; nothing was what it appeared to be, not even from one minute to the next. As he sat in the hall tying his shoelaces, Signe poked her head out of her room. She looked as if she had just that instant woken up.

  ‘Can you give me a lift?’

  ‘Where to?’ asked Valdemar.

  ‘Only as far as Billundsberg,’ said Signe. ‘I’ve got a job interview at Mix, and you go right past there anyway, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ said Valdemar. ‘That is . . . not today. I’ve got a few things to sort out in . . . in town first.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ said Signe.

  ‘It’s just the way things have turned out,’ said Valdemar.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Signe. ‘I’m running late.’

  ‘You ought to get up a bit earlier, then,’ said Valdemar. ‘And go to bed before midnight.’

  But by then she had already closed the door.

  But that little slip of the tongue annoyed him. I must concentrate better from now on, he thought. Not get careless with the details. These little lives have got ears and brains too, I mustn’t forget.

  There had been a traffic accident just before Rimmersdal. No fatalities, but there was a red car upside down in the ditch and two police cars were at the scene. Come to think of it, he’d passed an ambulance a few minutes before, going the other way, near Åkerby church.

  It took a while to get past, and only a couple of hundred metres further on he saw something else in the ditch. At first he couldn’t make out what it was, but as he passed it he saw it was an elk. A big elk, lying on its side and tossing its head to and fro; steam seemed to be rising from the body and one front leg was sticking up at an odd angle.

  That was what had happened of course, thought Valdemar. The red car had collided with an elk; presumably the creature had carried on running for a short distance, badly injured, and then collapsed in the ditch. He had read that this could happen.

  He weighed things up in his mind for a few seconds, then took out his mobile and rang 112. It was the first time he’d ever done that. He’d once rung the old emergency number 90000, one summer’s evening when he and Espen Lund were sitting on Espen’s balcony drinking beer and suddenly noticed a fire in the building next door.

  That time it turned out the fire brigade was already on its way – but today’s dying elk clearly had not been reported by anyone else.

  ‘Could I have your name please?’ asked the woman on the police switchboard to which he had been connected.

  ‘I’d prefer to remain anonymous,’ explained Ante Valdemar Roos.

  ‘I need your name,’ said the woman.

  ‘Why?’ asked Valdemar. ‘All I want is for someone to see to it that the elk doesn’t suffer any longer than necessary. It makes no difference what my name is, does it?’

  ‘You might think that,’ said the woman. ‘But we have a set procedure for this sort of thing.’

  Valdemar took a deep breath. ‘With all due respect, I don’t give a damn about your procedure,’ he said. ‘I’m just an honest taxpayer who’s done my duty and reported a wounded animal near the scene of the accident in Rimmersdal. The police are already there, so all you’ve got to do is ring and tell them. I’ve no intention of giving you my name.’

  The line went quiet for a few seconds and he thought she might have hung up.

  ‘Valdemar Roos?’ she said. ‘That’s right, isn’t it? If you’re calling from your own phone, that is.’

  Before he had time to answer she had thanked him for calling and disconnected him.

  Badly handled, he thought. Why did I get her back up like that? Now the police have my name on file.

  Though what the hell does it matter? he asked himself. My reporting a wounded elk in Rimmersdal is neither here nor there, when I haven’t set foot in Wrigman’s for over a fortnight. I’m skating on thin ice in any case, no point pretending otherwise.

  In the course of the short phone conversation he had gone past the ICA store and most of the village; he had been intending to go in and buy some fruit and a new crossword magazine, though once he had missed the turning he decided they could wait until the next day.

  But the image of the wounded elk remained on his retina all the way to the turning into Rödmossevägen. The steam rising from the great body and the head moving so pointlessly from side to side, as if the dying creature had been trying to tell him something. To impart some sort of information. About . . . well, what? he wondered.

  The key in which the day was set?

  The inherent fragility of life? The path we all must tread?

  Strange thoughts again, he registered, and firmly dismissed them from his mind. Not fruitful ones, either. If she’s there she’s there, and there’s nothing I can do to influence that state of affairs.

  Beyond hoping a little, he added as the cottage came into sight.

  She saw him coming from her usual vantage point on the forest edge above the earth cellar. She had decided she didn’t want to be in the house when he arrived; it was a late decision and she grabbed up her belongings in a rush, including her washing which was still slightly damp, and stuffed everything into her rucksack any old how. She shoved her guitar into its cover – she had played a bit the previous day – and took everything to the outbuilding. It was wet in the tall grass after the rain, so she decided to put her stuff in the store shed, rather than leaving it outside. Right inside the door, so he would see as soon as he opened it that she was still there.

  If he hadn’t already worked it out, that was. She’d been torn. Should she spend another day in the forest? She didn’t think so, and she didn’t feel like getting a packed lunch ready. She would let him be the one to decide; once she had stowed away her things she went back indoors, thought for thirty seconds and then wrote another note.

  She left it on the table, as they usually did. It certainly was a strange means of communication they had, she thought, and in a way it already felt like an old habit.

  He stopped in exactly the same spot as on the Monday and the Tuesday. By the apple tree, just a few metres from the road. He switched off the engine, climbed out and stretched a little. He hadn’t brought anything with him today, no carrier bags, not even his brown bag. Before he went into the house he stood still, looking about him. Rather uncertainly, it seemed to her, as if he were tying to work something out in his mind. He’s trying to guess if I’m still here, she thought. And that’s hardly surprising of course. Whoever he is, he must think this is completely nuts.

  He was dressed as he had been on the other days. Light-coloured trousers, a shirt and a thin blue jacket. He looked fairly . . . what was the word she was looking for? Innocuous? Yes, exactly, that was precisely the impression he gave. Innocuous. Someone you would be very unlikely to notice in a crowd. Not a person to be afraid of, nor a person who would wish you any harm.

  He reminds me of Reinhold, she thought, and as the thought hit her it made her happy but also a little sad. Reinhold was a teacher of hers in Year 5 – their usual teacher was on maternity leave and Reinhold had turned up in January, after the Christmas break.

  He was so nice. Everybody liked him, and some of the girls – maybe she had been one of them – were a bit in love with him. And yet they were so rotten to him, especially the boys of course, the girls just sat there as usual and let it happen. Secretly enjoying it, as if being nice wasn’t enough. Reinhold did everything for them: gave a party at his place for the whole class, with cake, went to the cinema with them, organized discos, and they thanked him for all this by slowly and methodically breaking him down.

  It was just horrible, thought Anna, and when Reinhold went off sick three weeks before the summer holidays, it was too late to do anything about it.

  And now there was another Reinhold, a Valdemar, outside his little house in the forest, waiting to meet her. Many years older, admittedly, maybe twice the age Reinhold had been, but there was something about the way he stood and his way of looking around him that revealed he wasn’t one to make any fuss.

  What a psychologist I am, she thought, and gave a giggle. I don’t even need to say hi to people before I know their character.

  He was taking down the key. Putting it in the lock, opening the door and going into his cottage.

  Wait and see, she thought, aware that her knees were getting damp.

  The place looked neat and clean. As if she really had left Lograna, and tidied up after herself by way of thanks.

  But then he saw the note on the table.

  Aren’t you angry with me?

  I’m a bit scared of meeting you, but if you come outside and shout ‘Come on in, you’re welcome’, I might just dare.

  Yours sincerely,

  Anna

  He read it twice and found himself smiling. He went into the kitchen and put a saucepan of water on the stove. He waited for it to boil, turned off the hotplate and moved the pan to one side.

  Then he went outside. He scanned the scene again but couldn’t see anything in particular. He suddenly felt foolish, not knowing which way to look. He assumed she was somewhere in the forest, presumably very close to the house, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to hear him.

  Where should he stand? Which way should he face? He stuck his hands in his pockets and tried to look nonchalant. As if this was something that happened to him on a daily, even hourly, basis. As if a situation like this wasn’t remarkable in the least.

  He cleared his throat a few times, looked over towards the car and then announced in a loud voice:

  ‘Hello Anna, you’re welcome to come in. I’ve made coffee!’

  He gave it ten seconds, then shrugged his shoulders and went back indoors.

  16

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi.’

  He sat at the kitchen table, she was in the doorway.

  ‘I’m Anna.’

  ‘And my name’s Valdemar.’

  He got up and they shook hands. He nodded to her to sit down and they took a chair each. There were two cups on the table, his already filled with coffee. A plate of ginger cake and some cardamom biscuits.

  ‘I expect you’d like coffee?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  He poured her some from the pot. They sat for a few seconds in silence, not really looking at each other.

  ‘I want to say sorry,’ she said. ‘Sorry for getting in here.’

  He adjusted his glasses and looked at her.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Aren’t you angry with me?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Perhaps you have your reasons?’

  She considered this for a moment. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s right. I have my reasons.’

  He sat quietly as she put sugar and milk in her coffee and stirred it. ‘You can’t be very old?’ he said.

  ‘Twenty-one.’

  ‘Twenty-one?’

  ‘Yes, my birthday was about a month ago.’

  ‘I would have guessed eighteen or nineteen.’

  ‘I’m quite childish. Maybe that shows on the outside too.’

  A loitering fly landed on the edge of his cup and he waved it away. It circled and then settled on her hand; he watched it and cleared his throat.

  ‘I’ve got a daughter about your age.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Not my actual daughter. I’m just her stepdad.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘Yes, that’s how it is.’

  He helped himself to a biscuit, dunked it briefly in his coffee and took a bite. She opted for a slice of ginger cake and ate it without dunking. Half a minute went by.

  ‘Maybe you want to know why I came here?’

  ‘Yes, I’d like you to tell me about that.’

  ‘I’m on the run.’

  That made him lean forwards and look at her over the top of his glasses. He looked like some children’s TV presenter about to tell a story, she thought. But they’d forgotten the make-up.

  ‘On the run?’

  ‘Yes. Well, sort of. I was in this home, this treatment centre, but I couldn’t stay there.’

  ‘Not on the run from prison, then?’ he asked, and gave a nervous little laugh.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not a criminal.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you’re not a criminal.’

  She gave a cautious smile. ‘And I’m glad you’re not angry with me. It’s just that I had nowhere to go, so that was why I ended up here.’

  ‘When did you come?’

  ‘I came on Saturday. Saturday morning. I really only meant to come in for a few hours’ sleep; I was worn out.’

  ‘And then you stayed?’

  ‘Yes. I kind of . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Kind of didn’t get round to moving on.’

  He pondered this.

  ‘Where? Where are you moving on to?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Haven’t you got a home? I mean . . .?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not at the moment. I had a flat before I went into that place, but I haven’t now.’

  ‘Your parents then? Your mum and dad?’

  More head shaking. He slowly stirred his coffee for a while. Keeping his eyes fixed on the inside of the cup.

  ‘That residential home. What sort of thing was it for?’

  ‘For addicts. I’m an addict.’

  He looked at her in surprise. ‘But I mean, you can’t be? You’re only . . . that is, you’re so young.’

  ‘Well, true, I’m not very old.’ She drank a mouthful of coffee and tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. ‘I started too early, that was the thing.’

  ‘What did you start with?’

  ‘Beer and hash.’

  ‘Beer and hash.’ It wasn’t a question, just a restatement. ‘Well I never.’

  ‘Yes, those have been my drugs the whole way through, you might say. Things have been pretty haywire in my life these past few years.’

  He leant back in his chair and peered at her through slightly narrowed eyes. Over the top of his glasses again.

  ‘You know what, I don’t think I really understand what you’re telling me.’

  She turned her head and looked out of the window. A bird came and perched on the windowsill outside. Suddenly she didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘You needn’t be. There are lots of things I don’t understand. But I don’t believe you’re a bad person.’

  ‘Thank you. And what . . . what sort of person are you?’

  He gave a laugh. ‘Me? I’m just an old man. I’m dull as ditchwater and I don’t gladden anybody’s heart.’

  ‘Well you seem kind, anyway.’

  ‘Kind?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The hell I am. What gave you that idea?’

  ‘You let me stay here. Other people would have thrown me out or called the police.’

  ‘But I did call the police.’

  She went very quiet and stared at him in consternation. The corner of his mouth twitched but then he was serious again.

  ‘Not about this business. Though I did call the police this morning, as a matter of fact, about an injured elk I saw lying by the side of the road.’

  ‘An elk?’

  ‘Yes, a car ran into it. It’s nothing to do with you, I was only joking.’