‘Oh, I see. Was it badly hurt?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Things looked pretty grim.’

  ‘What will they do with it?’

  ‘The elk?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know. I should think they’ll have to put it down. If they haven’t already.’

  ‘I feel sorry for it.’

  ‘Yes, I did too.’ He scratched the back of his neck and thought. ‘It was moving its head and looking so confused. As if it didn’t understand what had happened to it . . . and it didn’t, of course. They’re just not built for colliding with cars.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘Elk and cars shouldn’t exist on the same planet.’

  ‘You’re right. I’d never thought about that.’

  They carried on drinking their coffee. Then he got up and went into the living room. He returned with pipe and tobacco. She put her hand to her mouth for a moment.

  ‘I borrowed that, too.’

  ‘This? The tobacco and pipe?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry, but I was dying for a smoke and I’d run out of fags.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Lucky for you that I started smoking yesterday, then.’

  ‘What? You only started yesterday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? I started when I was fourteen. You must be . . . well, a bit older than that, anyway.’

  He laughed. ‘Fifty-nine. Well, it’s never too late to try something new, is it?’

  She laughed too. ‘You know what, I like talking to you. You seem so . . . well, so kind, in a way.’

  ‘Hrmm, I suppose I’m not the worst.’

  He busied himself with the pipe and tobacco.

  ‘Would you like me to light it for you?’

  ‘Well yes, maybe. I’m not much of a pro yet.’

  He passed the smoking kit over to her. She filled the pipe with tobacco and pressed it down with her index finger. He watched her moves and nodded as if in the process of learning something. She lit the pipe, puffed at it a couple of times and then passed it over.

  ‘Peace pipe,’ she said. ‘But maybe we should go outside so we don’t make it smell of smoke in here?’

  They went outside together and smoked beside the pump for a while, passing the pipe back and forth between them. The sun had disappeared and ominous dark clouds indicated rain was on the way. A couple of magpies were bouncing around by the earth cellar.

  ‘I think it’s a great house you’ve got here,’ she said. ‘Do you come every day?’

  He nodded. ‘More or less.’

  ‘But you never stay the night?’

  ‘No.’

  She thought for a while.

  ‘Why not? That is, it’s none of my business, but . . .’

  ‘I haven’t had it very long,’ he explained. ‘Only a couple of weeks, actually. So I just come for the day.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘That’s the way it is.’

  ‘What . . . do you have a job or anything?’

  He considered for a moment before answering.

  ‘No, I’ve given up work.’

  She inhaled a bit too deeply and started coughing. ‘Ooh, this is strong tobacco.’

  ‘I thought you were used to it?’

  ‘Only to cigarettes. And the hash, of course, but I’ve stopped that now.’

  ‘That was why you were in that home?’

  ‘Yes. But just because I ran away, it doesn’t mean I’m going to start again. It was only that . . . that I couldn’t stay there any more.’

  He cranked the handle of the pump a few times, cupped his hand and drank a little of the water.

  ‘Your parents, though . . . do your mum and dad know where you are?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, nobody knows where I am.’

  He wiped his mouth dry and looked at her, nonplussed. ‘Nobody?’ he asked.

  She shrugged. ‘No, I pushed off on Saturday. I’ve been here ever since and I haven’t got a mobile phone.’

  ‘Don’t you think they’re out looking for you?’

  She thought about it. ‘I honestly don’t know. But no, I don’t think so.’

  He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and looked up at the sky. ‘There’ll be more rain soon. Shall we have another cup?’

  They both went into the kitchen and sat down at the table. He poured the coffee. ‘Shall I tell you something?’ he said.

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Nobody knows where I am, either.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘No. I’m quite sure of it.’

  She bit her finger and looked at him with a sudden anxiety in her eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It probably sounds odd, but Lograna is my secret, you might say.’

  ‘Lograna.’

  He made an encompassing sweep of the arm. ‘That’s what this place is called. Lograna. I bought it three weeks ago, and I haven’t told a soul.’

  ‘Three weeks ago?’

  ‘Yes.

  ‘You’re married though, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yup. Wife and two children. And a son from further back, too . . . he’s almost forty, we aren’t really in touch.’

  ‘And your wife doesn’t know about this house?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t get it.’

  He leant back and clasped his hands on his stomach. ‘No, I daresay it does sound a bit weird, but that’s how it is, anyway.’

  ‘Yes, that’s how it is,’ he repeated a few moments later.

  She frowned, clearly thinking hard. Neither of them said anything. Half a minute passed.

  ‘Why don’t you want to tell anybody?’ she eventually asked. ‘What I mean is, I might do the same, but I’m wondering . . . no, it’s none of my business.’

  He appeared to be searching for an answer. The fly returned and landed in the middle of the table, and they both contemplated it for a while, avoiding each other’s eyes. As if they had reached a crossroads and were suddenly faced with deciding which way to go on.

  ‘You know what,’ he said once he had batted the fly away. ‘I think it’s nice that you found your way in here and gave the old place a bit of a lived-in feel. Really nice.’

  She felt tears well up all of a sudden. ‘Thank you. But you must be crazy. I stole your food and all sorts of other stuff. I’ll pay you as soon as I—’

  He shook his head. ‘I won’t hear of it,’ he said. ‘Someone in need is someone in need, and you haven’t done any harm.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What have you done with your things?’

  ‘I put them in the outhouse.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought . . . um, I don’t know.’

  Again there was silence between them, and they suddenly heard torrential rain. Beating on the roof, the metal windowsills, the leaves of the apple trees, like three different voices coming from the sky, but what they were saying wasn’t easy to interpret.

  He got to his feet. ‘I think we should light a fire,’ he said. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We might as well.’

  17

  The rain continued for the rest of the morning. Heavy downpours gradually gave way to sweeping veils of finer rain, but it never stopped completely. She went and fetched her rucksack and guitar. She draped her damp washing over the backs of the chairs again, checking first that it was all right to do so, and he said it was.

  Then he lay in bed doing crosswords while she sat reading at the table. They talked to each other, but sparingly. The occasional comment, with long intervals in between. It felt to her like the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Örebro. My mother is from Poland.’

  ‘Poland? I’ve never been there.’

  ‘I was born in Sweden, but I speak Polish as well.’

  ‘Mhmm.’

  A while later:

  ‘A lot of people get caught up in drugs these days.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It isn’t easy.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No reason to look behind you? Six letters, ends in a t. What do you reckon?’

  ‘Could be regret?’

  ‘Yes, that fits.’

  ‘Or fright.’

  A random mix of questions and answers. Fairly evenly distributed, too; it wasn’t just him wanting to know about her.

  ‘What was your job when you were still at work?’

  ‘Finance. I was the finance manager at a small business not far from Kymlinge.’

  ‘Did you like your job?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was that why you left?’

  ‘Yes. Isn’t your mum worried about you?’

  She told him about her mother. That she was in Warsaw for the time being, looking after her sick mother.

  ‘Your grandmother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So she isn’t likely to know you’ve run away?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And your dad, do you ever see him?’

  ‘Hardly ever.’

  ‘That’s the way it is sometimes.’

  ‘Yes.’

  At twelve thirty they had lunch. Packet soup and some bread and cheese and liver paté plus a carrot each.

  ‘I’ve never been that keen on cooking,’ he said. ‘It’s just the way things turned out.’

  ‘Nor me,’ she said. ‘I often make do with bread and stuff, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Same here,’ he said. ‘But there are worse things.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘There are worse things than bread.’

  She did the washing-up and he went back to bed and his crossword magazine; when she came in from the kitchen she saw he had dozed off. A sudden feeling of doubt came over her as she resumed her seat at the table. What am I doing? Here I sit in a room in a house out in the middle of the forest. Lying in bed in the same room there’s a man older than my father. His name is Valdemar, and I only met him today. He’s snoring a bit.

  She got out her pad of paper and wrote it down. Just as she had thought it, sentence for sentence, exactly as it was. Here I sit in a room . . . She didn’t really know why she was doing it; perhaps she thought she could make song lyrics out of it sometime, or perhaps there were other reasons. After a while she remembered something Uncle Julek had once told her.

  There are a lot of questions in life, Anna, he had said; it must have been one Christmas or Easter, all the family was there. Pirogi, bigos and the breaking of bread, the whole rigmarole, but he and she had found somewhere quieter, which was what he liked to do when he grew tired of the other grown-ups and their political chatter.

  A lot of questions, but only three important ones.

  Where have you been?

  Where are you?

  Where are you going?

  If you can answer those three, you have your life in your hands, Anna, he said. And he laughed his loud laugh and tapped his index finger on her forehead to make sure his advice stuck.

  There was more to it than your location itself, she realized. You had to know why, as well. That above all else.

  Why did you live the life of an addict, Anna?

  Why are you here in this house right now?

  Why are you going wherever you choose to go next?

  I can’t answer the first two, she thought. And the third – even harder.

  Maybe she wasn’t on her way anywhere at all? And in that case, could there be some point in her staying here for now? Possibly?

  If you don’t know where you’re going, the best thing is to stand still. It sounded pretty obvious.

  For a few moments she watched Valdemar over in the corner in his bed. He had taken off his shoes and she noticed he had a hole in one of his socks. His hands were clasped together on his stomach and his faint snores sounded safe and reassuring somehow. They fitted well with the gentle whisper of the rain on the windowsills and roof tiles. She wondered whether he was expecting her to leave, now they had finally met. She didn’t know, and he hadn’t said anything about it. She decided she would ask him when he woke up, and perhaps she could ask to stay another night if it was still raining. Or perhaps he could drive her to Kymlinge, and then she could hitchhike from there.

  Gothenburg? That had been the vague idea on Saturday morning. Now, five days later, it wasn’t tempting at all. What was there for her in Gothenburg?

  If I at least felt some kind of urge to get away from here, she thought. If I at least had some sort of willpower in me.

  But all she really felt like doing – truth to tell – was curling up under a blanket and having a sleep, like him.

  They were both in use though, the bed and the blanket. Yes, I shall ask to stay until tomorrow, she resolved again. Ask, at any rate, and the worst that can happen is that he says no.

  Ask if he feels like smoking a peace pipe with me, as well.

  He woke without really realizing he was doing so. He had dreamt that he was sitting behind his usual desk at Wrigman’s, and when he opened his eyes he couldn’t identify the room he was in. There was a girl sitting at a table, reading a book; she was small and slender, with thick auburn hair, and she was chewing on her knuckle with a look of fierce concentration.

  Where am I? thought Ante Valdemar Roos. What’s happened? Am I dead, or could I be in hospital?

  Or am I still dreaming, like I was just now?

  It didn’t take more than a few seconds for him to bring the situation under control, but it felt longer. He lay still, looking at her for a while.

  So she was the same age as Signe. It was strange; they seemed so unalike that you could almost believe they were from different planets. Why was that? This girl seemed much older to him. Older than she actually was. But at the same time, if you just caught a glance, she somehow looked younger.

  There’s a special kind of experience in her, he thought. For better or worse, because she’s clearly been through a lot.

  And she read, and wrote. Signe never did. Wilma was slightly better in that respect – at least she’d got through the whole of Harry Potter.

  I don’t know what to say to her, he thought suddenly. I wonder if she’s thinking of leaving today, in which case I’d like to tell her she’s welcome to stay a few days.

  Will she misinterpret that? Does she think I shall want something from her for letting her live here for a while? And, what is it . . . what is it I actually want?

  The thought made him melancholy.

  But to make off from a residential centre just like that? What had brought her to it? And were they really not trying to apprehend her? Was he perhaps committing a criminal act by providing her with a roof over her head?

  ‘Anna,’ he said.

  It made her jump, and she looked at him. ‘You’re awake?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sleep well?’

  ‘Oh yes. I expect I snored as well.’

  ‘Only a little.’

  ‘Ha. Anna, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why did you run away from that place?’

  She hesitated, sucking the pen she had in her hand.

  ‘I’d never really have got well there.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And why was that?’

  ‘They never let you be yourself, everyone had to be the same, and the woman in charge didn’t like me.’

  ‘You haven’t done anything criminal, have you, Anna?’

  She shook her head. ‘Only using the drugs. And selling some a few times, but that’s all over now. The police aren’t after me, if that’s what you’re wondering about.’

  He sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed. He retrieved his glasses, which he had set aside on the window ledge, and put them on.

  ‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘Sorry for asking.’

  ‘Thanks for saying sorry,’ she said.

  He stretched his arms above his head, yawned and straightened his back. ‘It feels a bit odd,’ he said.

  ‘What, you and me sitting here?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t you think so?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course I do.’

  ‘What on earth would we have to talk about, two people like you and me?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ she said. ‘Have you got any hobbies?’

  He mulled this over. ‘I watch sport on TV,’ he said. ‘But nothing much else. What do you like doing?’

  She ran her fingers through her hair and thought about it.

  ‘Reading,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘I like reading too.’

  ‘Playing the guitar,’ she said. ‘Singing.’

  ‘Can you play a bit of something for me?’

  ‘Do you want me to?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘I’m not very good.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. Do you write your own songs as well?’

  ‘I try to. But I know some real ones as well.’

  ‘Real ones?’

  ‘That I didn’t write myself.’

  He got up and put a couple of logs on the fire. ‘Why don’t you sing a song, and then we’ll have our afternoon coffee?’

  ‘And a peace pipe?’

  ‘Yes, a peace pipe too.’

  She got out her guitar and started tuning it. ‘I think I’ll do a real one first. How old did you say you were?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  She gave a little laugh. ‘Just thought you might recognize this one. It’s from the sixties. “As Tears Go By”.’

  ‘“As Tears Go By”? Yes, I remember that. Is it an old Stones song?’

  ‘I think so. OK, I’ll give it a go.’

  And she sang ‘As Tears Go By’. He realized right away that he knew the words, or the beginning, at any rate. The bit about the children playing in the evening, and the smiling faces and the the singer’s sense of exclusion.

  She had a lovely voice. Husky and deep – deeper when she sang than when she spoke. If he had just been hearing it, not seeing her at the same time, he would have guessed it was the voice of a woman at least twice the age of the one sitting in front of him, concentrating as she moved her fingers on the neck of the guitar to pick out the chords – and before he knew it, tears were welling in his eyes. She noticed, but did not stop singing. She just smiled at him, and he thought that if he died now, at this precise moment, it wouldn’t matter terribly much.