He noticed Kristina glance at her husband, “Magnus Heydrich,” who seemed to be standing at attention in the doorway. Heydrich hadn’t sat down at all during the interview, but had checked his watch several times.

“We thought it would be best,” he said.

“Did she seem to be injured?”

“Not as far as we could see.”

“Did she say that somebody had hit her?”

“No,” said Kristina Bergort.

“You know that we are working on a case in which a stranger abducted a little boy and later injured him?”

“Yes. You explained that when you called yesterday,” said Kristina Bergort.

“I haven’t read anything about that,” said Magnus Bergort. “Haven’t heard anything either.”

“It has been reported in the press, but without any exact details. You understand? This is a conversation in strictest confidence. We have spoken to some other parents who have been through something similar.”

“What’s going on?” asked the mother.

“We don’t know yet. That’s why we’re asking.”

“Did Maja have any injuries?” asked Halders, just beating Winter to it.

“No,” said Mrs. Bergort.

“Weren’t there a few bruises?”

“How do you know that? And if you knew, why did you need to ask?” said Kristina.

“The inspector who met with you previously told us about it. But we wanted to hear it from you.”

“Yes, of course. Bruises, yes. She fell off the swing. On her arm, there.” She held up her own arm, as if that were proof of what she was saying. “They’re better now.”

“They couldn’t have had anything to do with this… encounter with the stranger?” Winter asked.

“No.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“As I said, it was the swing.” She was sitting on the chair, but only just. “Like I said.” She looked at her husband, who nodded and checked his watch again. He was still standing in the doorway, like a tin soldier in uniform. “She fell off the swing.” She held up her arm again. “Fell!”

There’s definitely something wrong here, Winter thought.

25

MEMORIES LIKE NAILS BEING HAMMERED INTO HIS SKULL. BANG, bang, bang, in deep, and did it hurt? Did it hurt?!

There were no dreams out on the flats. Everything was emptiness and wind. He didn’t want to look heavenward, but where else was there to look? The filthy dome covered everything up above and at the sides.

It’s different here. I can see without things splitting inside my head.

He lay on the sofa. He looked up at the ceiling on which he had painted two scenes side by side. If he looked left he could see a starry sky, bright and radiant. He had painted the constellations from memory. If he looked right, the sun was shining from a blue sky that was the most beautiful one he’d seen. He’d made it himself, hadn’t he?

Sometimes he would draw a curtain that ran along a runner in the middle of the ceiling. He could go from night to day, and vice versa, as it suited him.

He felt a jab inside his head, and another. Memories again. “That couldn’t have hurt very much?!” The shadow above him, a peal of laughter. Several shadows, a circle around him. He could see only soil. It was raining. There were boots in front of his face. “Do you want to get up?” A boot. “He wants to get up.”

Was there anybody else there? He couldn’t remember.

He got up now, went into the other room, and sought out the new memories that didn’t hurt when he touched them: the car, the ball, the charm, and the watch. He held the watch up to the light coming from the street lamps as if it were dark in the room. The watch had stopped now and he tried to wind it up again, but nothing moved. It had stopped back then. It had been pulled off the boy’s arm and hit against something hard.

How had it been pulled off?

No, no, they were not good memories and he didn’t want to see pictures like that inside his head where there were already wounds from all the other stuff.

The boy hadn’t behaved as he should have. That’s what had happened, he hadn’t acted like the others to whom he’d shown things and who understood and who were nice and wanted him to be nice to them. The boy wasn’t like that, and it was a big disappointment when he realized it. He could think about that and remember. The disappointment.

He twirled the charm around in his hand. Rolled the ball on the floor. Pushed the car between the chair and the coffee table. A lap around the table leg.

It wasn’t enough. He let go of the car and stood up.

It wasn’t enough.

In front of the television screen he felt the relief; for a moment there were no memories. He had closed his eyes.

He could see now. The children were moving back and forth without knowing they were being filmed. Just think if they had known! Everything would have been different then. Not good.

He saw the girl’s face, the zoom on the camera worked. She seemed to be looking straight at the camera, but she couldn’t know.

He knew where she lived. He had waited and watched when they picked her up. He didn’t like them. Who were they? Did the girl belong to them? He didn’t think so. He would ask her. He would… and he started to sing a song in order to keep the thought of what he would do next time out of his mind. There was once a little girlie, tra la la la la, and a little boy, da da da da da.

There would be a next time, and it would be… bigger then. Bigger.

Next time he would do what he would’ve liked to do right from the start, but hadn’t been… brave enough. Cowardy cowardy custard!

You could hold hands. That would do.

He closed his eyes, looked, closed his eyes. Now all the children were there, as if they’d been given an order by the ladies who were standing like soldiers. He smiled. Like soldiers!

They were looking in his direction, straight into the camera that they couldn’t see. Nobody could see it or him. He’d left his car and stood hidden, just as everything else had disappeared into itself among the bushes and woods and trees. Grass. Stones, rocks, everything else there. Soil.

The children set off walking, in a long line. He followed them. Here at home on the sofa he could see how his hand was shaking as he emerged from the bushes; a branch came swooping toward the lens.

They were in the street. He was in the street. He was a long way away from them, but this was a good camera. One of the supervisors turned around and looked at it.

He leaned forward. She was still looking at the camera. He had zoomed in a bit closer. She turned away. She turned back again.

Buildings in the picture now. Uninteresting buildings that simply grew and grew upward and sideways. Cars in front of the picture, making it blurry.

He had turned the camera away to avoid that stare. It wasn’t her staring he wanted. Why was she there?

The buildings had gone now. He was somewhere else. He knew where. There were rocks behind the house. The girl was on a swing. Somebody was standing behind her. The girl swung higher and higher. He followed her up and down, up and down.

He sat there, following her with his head. The swing, the girl, the hands pushing from behind the girl. It looked to funny.

Somewhere else. A family, and he’d followed them until they grew smaller and smaller and no zoom in the world could have helped anymore.

Hours later, who could say how many. He drove past all the familiar places. Everything was the same as usual, but the light was brighter and dazzled him, must have dazzled others as well. Fir trees as if the forest had come walking to the roadside and left a deserted plain behind them. Then, when it’s all over, there will be no forest left anywhere at all. Only the fields where you couldn’t escape. Nowhere to hide.