I’m alone.
Have you gone? Don’t leave me here alone.
I’m whimpering. I can hear it.
But I’m not freezing and I wonder when the cold stopped being cold.
When does pain stop hurting?
How long have I been hanging out here now? The forest is thick around me; dark but white with snow. There’s a little clearing, and a door leading down to a hole.
My feet don’t exist. Nor my arms, hands, fingers or cheeks. My cheeks are burning holes, and everything around me lacks any smell.
Away.
Away from here.
That’s all that’s left.
Away, away, away, at any cost.
But how can I run if I don’t have any feet?
Something is approaching again.
Is it an angel?
Not in this darkness.
No, it’s something black approaching.
‘What have I done?’
Is that what the black thing says?
‘I have to do this.’ That’s what the black thing says.
She tries to lift her head but nothing happens. She makes a real effort and there, there, she slowly lifts her head and the black thing is close now and is swinging a cauldron of boiling water backwards and she thinks herself away, and then the sound, someone roaring as the water is thrown at her.
But it doesn’t reach. No heat arrives, just a few drops of warmth.
Now the black thing itself again.
With a branch in its hand?
What’s that for?
Shall I scream?
I scream.
But not because anyone will hear me.
66
Candles are burning in the dining room and on the wall behind Hasse and Tove hangs a large oil painting by an artist called Jockum Nordstrom, who according to Biggan is supposed to have become some sort of big noise in New York. The painting is of a coloured man dressed in boy’s clothes against a blue background, and Malin thinks the painting looks naive and mature at the same time; the man is alone but still anchored in a sort of context on the blue background, and in the sky drift guitars and billiard-cues.
The pheasant tastes good, but the wine is even better, a red from a region of Spain that Malin doesn’t know, and she has to exert all her willpower not to slug it down, it’s so good.
‘More pheasant, Malin?’ Hasse gestures towards the pot.
‘Have some more,’ Markus says. ‘It’ll make Dad happy.’
The conversation during the evening has covered everything from Malin’s work to weight-training, the reorganisation of the hospital and local politics and the ‘reaaally dull’ programme at the city’s concert house.
Hasse and Biggan. Equally politely and genuinely interested in everything, and no matter how Malin has tried, she hasn’t been able to find a single false note.
‘Great about Tenerife,’ Hasse says, and Malin looks at Tove across the table. Tove looks down.
‘Are the tickets all booked?’ Hasse asks. ‘We need an account number before you go so we can pay in some money. Remind me, will you?’
‘I . . .’ Tove begins.
Malin clears her throat.
Biggan and Hasse look at her anxiously and Markus turns towards Tove.
‘My dad changed his mind,’ Malin says. ‘I’m afraid they’ve got other guests that week.’
‘Their own grandchild!’ Biggan exclaims.
