Midwinter Sacrifice aka Midwinter Blood

there was time, listening to them talk about their lives. A lot of them wanted to talk, to delve into their memories, those who could still speak. A question to get them started, and they were off, then just a few comments to keep the story going.

A white reception desk.

Some old men in wheelchairs that look like armchairs. Strokes? Late-stage Alzheimer’s? ‘You’ll water the plants, won’t you?’

‘Hello, I’m from Linkoping Police, I’m looking for a Sister Hermansson.’

Old age smells strongly of chemicals and unperfumed cleaning products.

The young carer, with greasy skin and newly washed, rat-coloured hair, glances up at Malin with a look of sympathy.

‘Ward three. The lifts are over there. She should be at the nurses’ station.’

‘Thanks.’

While Malin is waiting for the lift she looks at the old men in the wheelchairs. One of them is drooling from the corner of his mouth. Are they supposed to be sitting there like that?

Malin goes across to the wheelchairs, takes out a tissue from the inside pocket of her jacket. She leans over towards the old man, wipes the saliva from his mouth and chin.

The nurse behind the desk stares, not in a hostile way, then smiles.

The lift pings.

‘There,’ Malin whispers in the old man’s ear. ‘That’s better.’

He gurgles quietly, as if in response.

She puts her arm round his shoulder. Then she dashes over to the lift. The door is closing; damn, now I’ll have to wait for it to come down again.

Sister Hermansson has short, permed hair which looks like crumpled wire-wool on her angular head. Her eyes are hard behind thick, black-rimmed glasses.

Maybe fifty-five, sixty years old?

She is standing in a white coat at the nurses’ station, a small space situated between two corridors of hospital rooms. She is standing legs apart, arms crossed: my territory.

‘Gottfrid Karlsson?’

‘I’m really not in favour of this. He’s old. In this sort of extreme cold, it doesn’t take much to stir up anxiety on the ward. And that’s not good for our old folk.’

‘We’re grateful for any help we receive. And he evidently has something to tell us?’

‘I doubt it. But the carer who was reading today’s Correspondent out loud to him insisted.’

Hermansson pushes past Malin and starts walking down the corridor. Malin follows, until Hermansson stops at a door, so abruptly that the soles of her Birkenstock sandals squeak.

‘Here we are.’

Then Hermansson knocks on the door.

A faint but crystal-clear: ‘Come in.’

Hermansson gestures towards the door. ‘Welcome to Karlsson’s territory.’

‘Aren’t you coming in?’

‘No, Karlsson and I don’t get on particularly well. And this is his business. Not mine.’

15

It’s nice lying here waiting, not longing for anything in particular, watching time pass, being as heavy as I am yet still able to drift about.

So here I go, flying out of the cramped mortuary box, out into the room, out through the basement window (I prefer going that way, even if walls are no obstacle).

And the others?

We only see each other if we both want to, so I’m mostly alone, but I know all the others, like molecules in a great big body.

I want to see Mum. But maybe she doesn’t know I’m here yet? I want to see Dad. I want to talk to them both, explain that I know that nothing is easy, talk to them about my trousers, about my flat, about how clean it was, about the lies, about the fact that I was someone, in spite of everything.

My sister?

She had enough problems of her own. I understood, understand that.

So I drift over the fields, over the Roxen, take the long way round to the beach and campsite in Sandvik, over Stjarnorp Castle, where the ruins seem somehow to glow white in the sunlight.

I drift like a song, like little German Nicole in the Eurovision Song Contest: ‘Ein bisschen Frieden, ein bisschen Sonne, das wunsch’ ich mir.’

Then over the forest, dark and thick and full of the very worst secrets. So you’re still here?

I’ve warned you. There are snakes slithering along a woman’s leg, their poisonous fangs biting her genitals bloody.

A glasshouse, a nursery, a vast field of strawberries where I sat as a lad.

Then I drift downwards, past the place of nasty kids. I don’t want to linger there, and on instead to Gottfrid Karlsson’s corner room on the third floor of Vretaliden’s oldest building.

He’s sitting there in his wheelchair, Gottfrid. Old and happy with the life he’s lived, and which he will carry on living for a few years yet.

Malin Fors is sitting opposite him, on a rib-backed chair, on the other side of a table. She is rather subdued, unsure whether the old man opposite has good enough eyesight to meet her gaze.

Don’t believe everything Gottfrid says. But most of it will do as ‘truth’ in your dimension.

The man opposite Malin.

Doses of creatine have made his nose broad and full and red; his cheeks are grey and sunken, but still full of life. His legs are bony under the thin beige fabric of the hospital trousers, his shirt white and well-ironed.

The eyes.

How much can he see? Is he blind?

The instinct of old people. Only life can teach us. When Malin sees him, memories of the summer in the nursing home come back to her. How some of the old people had come to terms with the fact that most of their life was behind them, and had found peace, while others seemed absolutely furious that it would all soon be over.

‘Please don’t worry, Miss Fors. It is Miss Fors, isn’t it? I can only see the difference between light and dark these days, so there’s no need for you to try to catch my gaze.’

One of the peaceful ones, Malin thinks, and leans forward, articulating clearly and speaking louder than usual.

‘So you know why I’m here, Gottfrid?’

‘Nothing wrong with my hearing, Miss Fors.’

‘Sorry.’

‘They read out the story in the paper to me, about the awful thing that’s happened to Cornerhouse-Kalle’s boy.’

‘Cornerhouse-Kalle?’

‘Yes, that’s what everyone called Bengt Andersson’s father. Bad blood in that family, bad blood; nothing wrong with the lad really, but what can you do with blood like that, with that bloody restlessness?’

‘Please, tell me more about Cornerhouse-Kalle.’

‘Kalle? By all means, Miss Fors. Stories are all I have these days.’

‘Then please, tell me the story.’

‘Cornerhouse-Kalle was a legend in this community. They say he was descended from the gypsies who used to