He sobbed and swayed. Annika saw that he was drunk. Watching him closely, she cautiously rounded the barrier.
'You're upset, Sven. And you're drunk. You're not yourself. Don't say anything you'll regret later.'
He started to cry, waving his arms about. He came toward her.
'You're a
She dropped her bag on the ground and ran. She couldn't see. Everything went white. She ran, raced away; a branch hit her in the face, scratching her. She fell, got up. The sounds, where were all the sounds? Oh, God, run, run, legs hitting the ground, shit, shit, where is he, oh my God, help!
She ran blindly, in among the trees, across the road, down in the ditch, disappearing in the brush. She stumbled over a root and fell flat on her face, ants crawling over her cheek. She shut her eyes tight and waited for death, but it didn't come. Instead the sounds returned, the wind in the trees, her own panting breath, then silence.
He's not behind me, she thought. And then: I've got to get to where there are some people. I've got to get help.
Warily, soundlessly, she got to her feet and brushed away ants and bits of the forest floor. Listened. Where was he?
Not right here, not now. She looked around, she couldn't be far from Old Gustav's.
Cautiously, half crouching, she ran toward Lillsjotorp. The chanterelles squashed underneath her trainers. The tree trunks were brown and rough against her hands. She crossed a creek over by the deserted sawmill.
There, she glimpsed it between the trees, Old Gustav's red cottage. She straightened up and ran as fast as she could up to the house.
'Gustav!' she screamed. 'Gustav, are you there?'
She dashed to the porch and tugged at the door. It was locked. She looked around, over to the woodshed where the old man spent most of his time, and someone was there- but it wasn't Gustav.
'I knew you'd come here, you little whore!'
Sven rushed toward her with something in his hand.
She jumped over the porch balustrade, landing in Gustav's bed of roses. Sweet fragrances filled her nose.
'Annika, I just want to talk to you. Stop!'
She stumbled into the forest, back down in the hollow, over the creek, rounding the fen- but the panting behind her didn't stop. Her feet crashed onto the moss, she flew over brush and stone, gasping, the surroundings dancing by.
I'm running, she thought, I'm not dead. I'm racing, I'm alive, it's not over, I've got a chance. Running isn't dangerous, running is the solution, I'm good at running.
She summoned up the idea of a tough workout, forcing the adrenaline back, focusing on breathing and the absorption of oxygen- breathe, breathe. Her vision returned, the roar inside her head lessened, thoughts began to take shape.
He can run faster than me, she thought, but he's drunk and I know the forest better. He's a better runner on flat ground so I'll have to stick to the rough terrain.
She immediately turned north, stopped following the road. Up there was Gorg Lake and Holm Lake; if she skirted them, she could go east, hit the big Sormland Footpath and get to the village via the works.
Her legs were getting numb- she'd just eaten a pound of chanterelles. She forced them to speed up, gritting her teeth against the pain. The panting behind her was gone. She glanced over her shoulder: trees and bushes, sky and stones.
He could have taken one of the small roads to intercept me, she suddenly thought, and stopped dead.
Her pulse was beating hard and loud, she listened to the forest around her. Nothing, only the wind.
Where were the roads?
There was a rustle behind her, and she swung around, feeling the panic rising.
Oh, God, where is the road? There is a road here, but where?
She breathed and forced herself to think. What did the road look like?
It's a logging road, they drove timber on it, it's becoming overgrown, the brush is as tall as a man.
Run for the brush, she thought.
At the same moment her cat jumped out and rubbed against her legs so that she stumbled over him.
'Whiskas, you silly thing. Get out of here.'
She kicked him lightly, tried to push him away.
'Run to Lyckebo. Run home to Grandma.'
The cat meowed and jumped into the bushes.
She sprinted eastward and suddenly the terrain became more scrubby. She was right, over there was the road. She waited for a few seconds in the bushes by the road before she emerged, holding her breath; all clear. She walked past Gorgnas, nobody at home; Mastorp, nobody at home; then headed straight east, toward the footpath, straight ahead.
He was standing in the last bend before she hit the Sormland Footpath. She saw him three seconds before he spotted her. She dashed north, up toward the cooling pond. She'd seen something gleaming in his hand and she knew what it was. She lost her wits. She ran, screamed, stumbled, scrambled, reached the water, and rushed out into it, gasping from the cold. She swam until she hit the beach snorting and spitting. She staggered toward the sheds, fences, ran to the left, climbed a tall ash tree, in among the buildings, into the works compound.
'You can't get away from me, you fucking whore!'
She looked around but she didn't see him. She dashed past a white building, pulled a faded light-blue door open, and rushed into the dark. Blinded, she stumbled over a slag heap and got ash in her mouth, moved farther in, farther away, crying. She began to see in the gloom: the shadows took shape- a blast furnace, empty ladles. Rows of grimy windows under the roof, soot and rust. The door she had come through was like a rectangle of light far away, with the silhouette of a man slowly approaching her. She saw the knife flashing in his hand. She recognized it, his hunting knife.
She turned around and ran, the metal flooring booming under her feet, past the shaft furnace. Stairs, up; darkness, new stairs; she stumbled and cut her knee; the light returned, a platform, windows, winches; she hit her head on a valve or something.
'End of the line.'
He was breathing hard, his eyes gleaming with hatred and alcohol.
'Sven,' she sobbed, backing up as far as she could. 'Sven, don't… You don't want to…'
'You whore.'
At the same instant she heard a faint meowing from the stairs. Annika peered into the shadows, searching among soot and slag. The cat; oh, the little cat, he'd followed her all the way.
'Whiskas!' she called out.
Sven took a step forward and she backed up. The cat came nearer, meowing and purring, making little turns and capering about, rubbing its nose against the rusty machine parts, playing with a piece of coal.
'Forget about the fucking cat,' Sven said hoarsely. She knew that voice, he was on the verge of tears. 'You can't leave me like this.'
He cried out. Annika couldn't respond, her throat was constricted, couldn't produce a sound. She saw the contours of the knife glint in a beam of sunlight, waving aimlessly while the crying intensified.
'Annika, for Christ's sake, I love you!' he screamed.
She sensed rather than saw the cat go up to him, stand on its back legs to rub against his knee, followed the shiny steel of the knife as it sliced through the air and landed in the cat's belly.
A nightmarish, unconscious cry. The cat's body soared through the air in a wide arc over the coke chute, leaving a bright red trail of blood, the intestines falling out of his body, coiling like a rope under his belly.
'You bastard!'
She felt the surge of power like fire and iron- like the mass her ancestors had melted and molded in this damned building- blazing, raging, and uncontrollable. Her field of vision turned red, everything came to her in slow
