motion. She bent down and reached for a pipe, black and rusty. She grabbed it with both hands, strong as iron. She wielded it with a power that she didn't really have. She walked down to where he stood, her eyes fixed on his.
The pipe hit him flat on the temple. She saw in her slow-motion vision how it smashed his skull bone, cracked it like an eggshell; his eyes rolled up and showed the whites; something squirted out from where she had hit him. His arms flailed out to the sides and the knife flew through space. His body was thrown to the left, tumbling; his feet scraped the ground, dancing, falling down.
The next blow hit his midriff, she could hear the ribs crack. His whole body moved with the power. He stood. Blindly he flailed around, swept along by fire and iron. He staggered to the rail and slowly tipped over the edge, down into the furnace throat.
'You bastard,' Annika panted.
Using the pipe, she heaved him into the furnace. The last she saw of him was his feet following the rest of the body over the lip.
She dropped the pipe on the concrete floor, the metal ringing out in the sudden silence.
'Whiskas,' she whispered.
He lay behind the stockhouse, his breastbone slit open, a bubbling, sticky mass inside. Still breathing faintly, his eyes looked into hers and he tried to meow. She hesitated before picking him up. She didn't want to hurt him even more. She carefully pushed some intestines back into the belly with her forefinger, sat down, and held him in her arms. She gently rocked him as his lungs slowly came to rest. His eyes let go of her, turned blank and still.
Annika cried, rocking the torn little body in her arms. The sounds coming from her were plaintive, drawn-out, monotonous howls. She sat there until the crying stopped and the sun was setting behind the factory.
The concrete floor was hard and cold. She was shivering. Her legs were numb, and she clumsily struggled to her feet with the cat still in her arms. She walked toward the stairs, the dust dancing in the air. It was a long climb down; she moved toward the light, toward the shining rectangle. Outside, the day was just as clear, a bit chillier, the shadows longer. She wavered for a moment and then walked off toward the factory gates.
The eight men still employed at the works had obviously just been leaving for the day. Two of them were already in their cars. The others stood talking while the foreman locked up.
The man who spotted her gave a shout and pointed in her direction. She was covered in blood from her head down to the waist, carrying the dead cat in her arms.
'What happened?' The foreman was the first to collect himself and run over to her.
'He's over there,' Annika said in a flat voice. 'In a furnace.'
'Are you hurt? Do you need help?'
Annika didn't respond, just walked toward the exit.
'Come here, we'll help you,' the foreman said.
The men gathered around her; the two who'd started their cars switched the engines off and walked back. The foreman unlocked the door and escorted her into his office.
'Has there been an accident?'
Annika didn't answer. She sat on a chair, clutching her cat tight.
'Check the forty-five-tonner in the old plant,' the foreman said in a hushed voice.
Three of the men walked away.
The foreman sat down next to her, looking at the dazed woman. She was covered in blood but didn't seem to have any injuries herself.
'What's that you're holding?'
'Whiskas. My cat.'
She leaned her head and gently rubbed her cheek against his soft fur, blew softly into his ear. He was so ticklish, always used to scratch his ear with his back leg when she did that.
'Do you want me to take care of him?'
She didn't reply, only turned away, clutching the dead cat tighter. The man sighed and walked out of the room.
'Keep an eye on her,' he said to one of the men standing in the doorway.
She had no idea how long she'd been sitting there when a man put his hand on her shoulder. How cliched, she thought.
'How are you, miss?'
She didn't reply.
'I'm Captain Johnsson from the Eskilstuna police department. There's a dead man in a furnace over there. Do you know anything about that?'
She didn't react.
The man sat down next to her. He watched her closely for a couple of minutes, then said, 'You seem to have been involved in something really serious. Is that your cat?'
She nodded.
'What's her name?'
'His. Whiskas.'
So she could talk. 'What happened to Whiskas?'
She started to cry again. The police officer waited silently by her side until she stopped.
'He killed him, with his hunting knife,' she said finally. 'There was nothing I could do. He slashed his whole belly open.'
'Who did?'
She didn't reply.
'The men out there think the dead man is Sven Matsson. Is that correct?'
She hesitated, then looked up at him and nodded. 'He shouldn't have gone for my cat. He really shouldn't have gone for Whiskas. Do you understand?'
The man nodded. 'Absolutely. And who are you?'
'Annika Sofia Bengtzon.'
He took out a notepad from his pocket. 'When were you born?'
She met his gaze. 'I'm twenty-four years, five months, and twenty days old.'
'Well! You're very precise.'
'I keep a count in my diary,' she said, and leaned over her dead cat.
Epilogue
Oh, hello! It's Karina Bjornlund. Am I disturbing you?'
The prime minister sighed soundlessly into the phone. 'No, not at all. What can I do for you?'
'Quite a lot, actually. As you must understand, I've been having quite a difficult time. In the middle of the election campaign and all…'
She fell silent; the prime minister waited for her to continue.
'Yes, well, I only got to work for eight months, so my severance pay wasn't very big.'
Yes, he had to agree with that.
'So I was wondering if maybe I could go on working for the government. I've learned a lot and I think I could make quite a big contribution.'
The prime minister smiled. 'I'm sure, Karina. Working that close to the eye of the storm changes one forever. And I'm positive you'll find new work soon. Nobody can take your merits away from you.'
'Or my knowledge.'
'True. But you know the ministers like to have a say when it comes to choosing their press secretaries. I couldn't make any promises.'
