A teenage boy? Two teenage boys?
‘Stop!’ Zeke shouts. ‘Stop!’
Malin runs after it, following the black shape, but as she runs her boots cut through the crust of the snow and she stumbles, gets up again, runs, falls, gets up, hunting, calling, ‘Stop! Stop! Come back here!’
Zeke’s voice behind her, deadly serious: ‘Stop or I’ll shoot!’
Malin turns round. She sees Zeke standing on the porch in front of the cabin, holding his pistol out, taking aim at the empty darkness.
‘Hopeless,’ Malin says. ‘Whatever it was, it’s long gone now.’
Zeke lowers his weapon. Nods.
‘And it came on skis,’ he says, pointing with his torch at the narrow tracks through the snow.
41
Tove in Malin’s arms.
How much do you weigh now?
Forty-five kilos?
A good job Mum sometimes goes to the gym, isn’t it?
Her legs ache, but at least the warmth has started to return to her feet.
They followed the tracks for two kilometres. In the meantime a storm blew up over the forests around Hultsjon and by the time they reached the end of the trail it was as good as hidden by white powder. The tracks ended at a forest road, and it was impossible to tell if there had been a vehicle parked there waiting. There was no oil on the ground. And any tyre tracks had been obliterated by the snow.
‘Swallowed up by the forest,’ Zeke said, then he made a note of their position from his mobile.
‘It’s only five kilometres. It’ll be quicker to walk back to our car than wait for the station to send one.’
Tove was asleep on the sofa when Malin got home. The television was flickering and Malin’s first thought was to wake Tove, get her to put herself to bed.
But then, as she saw the figure stretched out on the sofa, tall and slim for her age, her fine blonde hair over the cushion and her closed eyes, peaceful mouth, she wanted to feel her daughter’s weight, the burden of living love.
She had to summon all her strength to move her, and was sure Tove would wake up, but eventually she was standing there in the silent, dark living room with Tove in her arms, and now she is staggering through the hall, pushing the door to Tove’s room open with her foot.
And then down on to the bed. But Malin loses her balance because of the uneven weight, she feels its warmth glide away from her and the body tumbles on to the mattress with a soft thud.
Tove opens her eyes. ‘Mum?’
‘Yes.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I just carried you in here to bed.’
‘Oh.’ Then Tove closes her eyes and falls asleep again.
Malin goes out into the kitchen. She stops by the sink and looks at the fridge. It is rumbling in the dark, the cooler-unit dripping tiredly.
What was it you weighed, Tove?
Three thousand, two hundred and fifty-four grams.
Four kilos, five, and so on, and for every kilo of body, less dependent, less a child, more adult.
Maybe the last time I carry her like that, Malin thinks, closing her eyes and listening to the sounds of the night.
Is the phone ringing in a dream? Or in the room outside the dream?
Either way, it’s ringing, and Malin reaches out a hand to the bedside table, to where the receiver ought to be, on the other side of the vacuum where she is now, the border between sleep and waking, where everything can happen, where for a few moments nothing can be taken for granted.
‘Malin Fors.’
She manages to sound firm, but her voice is hoarse, so hoarse.
Their nocturnal walk must have found its way into her lungs, but she feels fine otherwise, her body is where it should be, her head as well.
‘Did I wake you, Malin?’
She recognises the voice, but can’t quite place it at first. Who? I hear this voice a lot, but not over the phone.
‘Malin, are you there? I’m calling between two tracks and I haven’t got long.’
