The Bomber

again when she realized that no one had picked up the kids from the nursery. She knew how pissed the staff could get; it had happened to Thomas about a year ago. The children would be sitting there, waiting to go home and dress the Christmas tree, and she wouldn't come. Maybe she'd never come home again. Maybe she'd never get to see them grow up. Ellen would probably not even remember her. Kalle might have vague memories of his mother, especially if looking at the photographs from last summer in the cottage. She started crying uncontrollably; it was all so horribly unfair.

The tears subsided after a while; she had no more energy for crying. She mustn't start thinking about death, then it would be guaranteed to happen, a self-fulfilling prophecy. She was going to get through this. She would be home for the Christmas Disney show at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon. She hadn't reached the end of the line yet. The bomber clearly had plans for her, otherwise she'd have been dead already, she was positive of that. Furthermore, the newspaper and Thomas would have sounded the alarm about her disappearance, and the police would start looking for her car. It was, however, lawfully and discreetly parked among a whole row of other cars, half a mile from the arena. And who would think of coming down here? No one had done so far. They would have discovered this hideout. How could the police have missed it? The entrance from the stadium must be well hidden.

The phone rang at regular intervals. She'd searched for a stick or something that she could use to pull her bag closer but had found nothing. Her range was less than ten feet in any direction and judging by the sound, her phone must be at least ten yards away. Oh, well, at least it meant they were trying to get hold of her.

She had no real grasp of what time it was or how long she'd been lying in the passage. It had been just before half past one when she walked inside, but she had no idea of how long she'd been unconscious. Neither could she judge for how long she had been panicking, but it must have been at least five hours since she got a grip of herself. That would mean it was at least half past six now, but it could be considerably later, nearer half past eight or nine. She was both hungry and thirsty and had pissed herself again- nothing much to worry about. Her excrement had started to harden and was itching. It was disgusting. This must be what it's like for children to wear a diaper. Except they get them changed.

Suddenly she was struck by another thought: What if Beata didn't come back? No one would think of coming down here during the Christmas holidays. A person could survive without water only a couple of days. Come Boxing Day and it would all be over. She started crying again, quietly with exhaustion. The Bomber would return. She had a reason for holding Annika captive down here.

She shifted positions again. She had to try and think clearly. She'd met Beata Ekesjo before. She had to start from what she knew about her as a person. During their short conversation in Satra Hall, Beata had displayed strong emotion. She had been grieving sincerely for something, whatever that may have been, and she'd been eager to talk about it. Annika could use that. The question was how. She had no idea of how to behave in a situation where you were being held captive by a lunatic. She had heard somewhere that there were courses on that kind of thing, or had she read it? Or seen it on TV? Yes, that's it, on TV!

In an episode of Cagney & Lacey, one of the female cops had been taken prisoner by a madman. Cagney, or maybe it was Lacey, had attended a course on how to behave in a hostage situation. She had told him everything about herself and her children, about her dreams and her love- anything to awaken empathy in the kidnapper. If she were talkative and friendly enough, it made it harder for the kidnapper to kill her.

Annika shifted again, this time getting up on her knees. That stuff might work on a normal person, but the Bomber was crazy. She had already blown several people to pieces. That thing about children and empathy might not stir Beata; she hadn't shown much pity toward children and families this far. She'd have to think of something else but using the lesson learned from Cagney: to establish some form of communication with your kidnapper.

What had Beata said? That Annika had misinterpreted her state of mind? Was that really why she was here? She'd better read the Bomber's mood more accurately from now on. She would listen closely to what the woman said and try to be as responsive as she possibly could.

That's what she would do. She would try to establish a communication with the Bomber, pretending to understand and agree with her. She would under no circumstances contradict her but just go with her flow. She had a plan at least.

She lay down on her right side on the mattress, facing the concrete wall, determined to get some rest. She wasn't afraid of the dark, the blackness enveloping her held no danger for her. Soon she felt that familiar tug in her body, and a short while after she was asleep.

DEATH

The school I attended was a wooden building with three floors. As we got older, we moved higher up. Once every year, in the spring, the entire school had a fire drill. In those days, old school buildings were dry as dust and burned down in minutes- there was no room for either negligence or anyone crying off.

There was a boy in my class who suffered from epilepsy. I forget his name. For some reason he couldn't hold his hands above his head. Nevertheless, he took part in the fire drill the year after the end of the war. I remember the day clearly. The sun was shining, a cold and pale light, and there was a hard and gusting wind. I hate heights- I always have- and was numb with fear as I stepped out on the fire escape. The world over by the river looked like it was about to keel over, and I gripped the railings. Infinitely slowly, I turned around and stared into the red wooden wall of the school building. I held on to each rung of the fire escape with the same desperate grip. When I finally reached the ground, I was completely exhausted. My legs were shaking, and I just stood there trying to compose myself while my classmates started walking back toward our classroom. That's when I raised my eyes and saw the epileptic boy slowly climbing down the ladder. He had just reached the last landing when I heard him say: 'I can't go on any further.' He lay down, turning his face against the wall, and died, right before our eyes.

The ambulance came and picked him up. I had never seen one before. I stood next to the back doors when they lifted him inside on a stretcher. He looked as he usually did, only a bit paler, his eyes were closed, and his lips blue. His arms shook a bit when the stretcher was put in its place inside the large car, and a last breeze ruffled his blond curls before the door shut.

I can still recall my wonder at the fact that I felt no dread. I had seen a dead person, no older than myself, and I wasn't affected by it. He was neither repugnant nor tragic, only still.

Afterwards, I have often wondered what makes a person alive. Our minds are really nothing but a neurotransmitter and some electricity. The fact that I to this day still think about the epileptic boy actually lends him continued existence. He's present here in this dimension that we call reality, not by virtue of his own neurotransmitter, but because of mine.

The question is whether there aren't worse ways of harming people than killing them. Sometimes I suspect that I myself have crushed people, much as the teacher had by forcing that boy out onto the fire escape.

So the ultimate question in that case is whether I need absolution and, if so, from whom?

FRIDAY 24 DECEMBER

Thomas sat by the window, looking out across the water. It was a cold and clear evening. The water had frozen over and lay like a black mirror far below. The grayish brown facade of the Royal Palace was illuminated and stood like stage scenery against the wintery sky. On the bridge below, the taxis glided past toward the restaurant and Gamla Stans Bryggeri bar. He could just make out the line outside Cafe Opera.

He was in the living room of the corner suite on the fifth floor of the Grand Hotel. The suite was as big as an