hanging behind his head forms a corona around his brown curls.
Her stomach is still hurting. Worse than before. And over and above the pain, outside the pain, is something warm and wet. Blood. She realizes with terror that Curt didn’t punch her.
He stabbed her with a knife.
“This isn’t exactly what we planned,” says Thomas Soderberg firmly. “We must reconsider.”
She turns her head. Sara and Lova are lying head to tail on the bed. Their hands are tied to the bedposts. Bits of white cloth are sticking out of their mouths. On the floor by the bed lies a torn-up sheet. That’s what they’ve got in their mouths. She can see their chests moving up and down rapidly as they fight to take in enough air through their noses.
Lova has a cold. But she’s breathing.
Keep calm, she’s breathing. Fuck, fuck.
“The idea was,” says Thomas Soderberg thoughtfully, “the idea was to set fire to the cabin. And we were going to give you the keys to your snowmobile so you could get away, just in your nightdress or a T-shirt. You’d take the chance, of course; who wouldn’t? With the storm and the windchill factor when you’re traveling by snowmobile, I reckon you’d have got about a hundred meters at the most. Then you’d have fallen off and frozen to death in a matter of minutes. It would have shown up as a simple accident on the police report. The cabin catches fire. You panic, leave the kids and rush out just as you are. You try to escape and freeze to death just a little distance away. No major investigation, no questions. Now it’s going to be more difficult.”
“Are you intending to let the children burn to death?”
Thomas bites his lip thoughtfully as if he hasn’t heard her.
“I think we’ll have to take you with us,” he says. “Even if your body burns, the mark of the stab wound might still be there. I can’t risk that.”
He breaks off and turns his head as Vesa Larsson comes in with a red plastic gasoline can in his hand.
'No gasoline,' says Thomas angrily. 'No accelerants and no chemicals. Anything like that will show up in a technical examination. We’ll set fire to the curtains and the bedclothes with matches.'
He nods at Rebecka.
“We’ll take her with us,” he continues. “You two go and spread a tarpaulin over the trailer.”
Vesa Larsson and Curt disappear through the door. The storm roars, then falls silent as the door closes. Now she is alone with him. Her heart is pounding. She must hurry. She knows that. Otherwise her body will fail her.
Did Curt put the gun down by the door? Difficult to spread out a heavy tarpaulin in a storm with a gun slung on your back. Come closer.
“I can’t understand how you could do this,” says Rebecka. “Doesn’t it say ‘Thou shalt not kill’?”
Thomas sighs. He is squatting by her side.
“And yet, the Bible is full of examples of when God has taken life,” he says. “Don’t you understand, Rebecka? He is allowed to break his own laws. And I couldn’t do it. I told him that. Then he sent me Curt. It was more than a sign. I had to obey him.”
He stops to wipe away the snot running from his nose. His face is beginning to redden in the heat from the stove. It must be warm in that suit.
“I don’t have the right to allow you to destroy God’s work. The media would have blown these financial difficulties up into a full-scale scandal, and then it would all have been over. What has happened in Kiruna is something great. And yet, God has made me understand that this is only the beginning.”
“Did Viktor threaten you?”
“In the end he was a threat to everyone. Not least to himself. But I know that he is with God.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Thomas shakes his head impatiently.
“There is neither the time nor any reason to do so, Rebecka.”
“And what about the girls?”
“They can tell people things about their uncle that… We still need Viktor. His name must not be dragged through the dirt. Do you know how many people we help to come off drugs every year? Do you know how many children are reunited with their lost mummies and daddies? Do you know how many find faith? Job opportunities? A decent life? Marriages saved? In the night God has talked to me about all this again and again.”
He breaks off and stretches out his hand to her. Lets his fingers trail over her mouth and down to her throat.
“I loved you just as much as I love my own daughter. And you…”
“I know,” she squeaks. “Forgive me.”
Come closer.
“But what about now?' she sobs. 'Do you love me now?”
His face becomes as hard as stone.
“You killed my child.”
The man who has only daughters. Who wanted a son.
“I know. I think about him every day. But it wasn’t…”
She turns her head to the side and coughs and presses her hand against her stomach. Then she looks up at him again.
There it was. She could see it. Thirty centimeters from her head. The stone Lova had painted Virku on. When he’s close enough. Grab it and hit him. Don’t think. Don’t hesitate. Grab it and hit him.
“There was someone else as well. It wasn’t…”
Her voice tails away in an exhausted whisper. He leans toward her. Like a fox listening for voles under the snow.
Her lips form words he cannot hear.
Finally he bends over her. Don’t hesitate, count to three.
“Pray for me…” she whispers in his ear.
“… you weren’t the only one I…”
“… it wasn’t your child.”
He stiffens for a second and it’s enough. Her arm shoots out like a striking cobra, grabs the stone. She shuts her eyes and hits him with every ounce of strength she has. On the temple. In her mind’s eye she sees the stone shooting like a missile straight through his skull and out through the wall. But when she opens her eyes the stone is still in her hand. Thomas is lying on his side next to her. Perhaps his hands are making an attempt to shield his head. She doesn’t really know. She is already up on her knees and she hits him again. And again. On the head every time.
That’s enough. Now she’s in a hurry.
She drops the stone and tries to get to her feet, but her legs won’t bear her weight. She crawls across the floor to the corner by the door. Curt’s shotgun is next to the axe. She drags herself along on her knees, using her right hand. She keeps her left hand pressed against her stomach.
If she can only manage it in time. If they come in now it’s all over.
She grabs hold of the weapon. Gets to her knees. Fumbles. Her hands are shaky and clumsy. Slips the bolt. Breaks the gun. It’s loaded. Snaps it shut and releases the safety catch. Scrabbles backwards toward the middle of the floor. The rag rugs are spattered with blood. Drops of her own blood as big as a one-krona coin. Blurred prints from her right hand, the hand that held the stone.
If they go around the house they’ll be able to see her through the window. They won’t do that. Why would they go tramping off round there? She feels ill. Mustn’t throw up. How is she going to manage to hold on to the gun?
She shuffles farther back in a half-sitting position, one hand pressed against her stomach. Moves the other hand toward the table and pushes with her legs. Gets hold of the gun and drags it along with her. Sits with the table leg supporting her back. Legs slightly drawn up. Lays the gun along her thighs so that it is pointing upward at the door. And waits.
