Midwinter Sacrifice

just get on board . . .’

Malin leans back in her chair. Closes her eyes, letting herself be embraced by the music, and when she looks up the next song has started and she can see that Zeke and the others really enjoy being up on stage, that they’re somehow united in their singing, in its simplicity.

And suddenly Malin feels an oppressive loneliness. She isn’t part of this, and she feels that this loneliness means something, that the sense of being an outsider somehow has a meaning beyond this room.

Over there is a door.

An opening into a closed room.

Intuition, Malin. Voices. What are they trying to tell me?

63

Bad deeds.

When do they start, Malin? When do they end? Do they go in circles? Are there more of them over time, or is the practice of evil constant? Is it diluted or enriched whenever a new person is born?

I can think about all this as I move over the landscape.

I look at the oak where I hung.

A lonely place. Perhaps the tree liked my company? The balls. I fetched the balls and threw them back, and they came back again and again and again.

Maria?

Did you know?

Was that the reason for your friendliness? The connection between us? Does it matter? I don’t think so.

Air beneath and above me, I reside in my own vacuum. All the dead around me whisper, Carry on, Malin, carry on.

It isn’t over yet.

I’m scared again.

Is there a way out?

There has to be.

Just ask the woman down there. The woman that black-clad person is approaching from behind, hidden behind a row of bushes.

The early evening is silent and cold and dark. The garage door refuses to open, creaking and squealing, and the sound seems to catch on the frozen air. She presses the button on the wall again; the key is where it should be and the power is on, that much is sure.

Behind her the buildings, the deep-frozen vegetation, lights in most of the windows. Almost everyone is home from work. The garage door won’t move. She’ll have to open it by hand. She’s done it once before. It’s heavy but not impossible, and she’s in a hurry.

Rustling in the bushes behind her. Maybe a bird. At this time of year? Maybe a cat? But don’t they stay indoors in this sort of cold?

She turns round and that’s when she sees it, the black shadow racing towards her, taking one two three four steps before it is on her and she flails with her arms, screaming but nothing comes out; something that tastes chemical pressed into her mouth and she tears and hits but the gloves on her hands turn her blows into caresses.

Look out of your windows.

Look at what’s happening.

He – because it must be a he? – is wearing a black balaclava and she sees the dark brown eyes, the rage and pain in his gaze, and the chemical smell is in her brain now, it’s soft and clear yet it still makes her disappear, her muscles relax and she can no longer feel her body.

She can see. But she is seeing double.

She sees the person, people standing over her. Are there several of you?

No, stop it, not like this.

But there’s no point fighting. As if everything has already happened. As if she is defeated.

The eyes.

His, hers, theirs?

They aren’t here, she thinks. The eyes are somewhere else, far away.

Sweet breath, warm, and it ought to be unfamiliar, but it isn’t.

Soon the chemical feeling reaches her eyes, then her ears. And pictures and sound are gone, the world is gone and she doesn’t know if she’s falling asleep or dying.

Not yet, she thinks. I’ve been drugged, haven’t I? His face there at home, my face.

Not yet, yet, yet, yet . . .