The Fire Witness

The man takes out the knife and stares at it. The polished wooden handle is worn, and the blade has been sharpened many times.

‘I haven’t got time to wait,’ Joona says.

‘You shouldn’t have broken my—’

Suddenly Joona detects movement behind him. Bare feet running across the floor. He only has time to move sideways slightly without taking his eyes off the knife. A shadow rushes towards him from behind. Joona twists his body, raises his arm, and follows through, adding force to the blow as he hits the rushing figure with his elbow.

Keeping the barrel of the pistol aimed at the man with the knife, he hits a boy in the chest with his elbow. The boy sighs, and all the air goes out of him, he reaches out for support, and sinks to his knees.

He breathes in deeply, curls up on the floor, crumpling the rag-rug beneath him, and lies there gasping on his side.

‘They’re from Afghanistan,’ the man says quietly. ‘They need help, and—’

‘I’ll shoot you in the leg if you don’t put the knife down,’ Joona says.

The man looks at the knife, then tosses it on the bed. Two smaller children suddenly appear in the doorway. They stare at Joona, wide-eyed.

‘You’re hiding refugees?’ Joona asks. ‘How much do you get for that?’

‘As if I’d take money,’ the man says indignantly.

‘Do you?’

‘No, I don’t.’

Joona meets the boy’s dark gaze.

‘Do you pay him?’ he asks in English.

The boy shakes his head.

‘No human being is illegal,’ the man says.

‘You don’t have to be afraid,’ Joona tells the older boy. ‘I promise I will help you if you are abused in any way.’

The boy looks into Joona’s eyes for a long time, then shakes his head.

‘Dennis is a good man,’ he whispers.

‘I’m glad,’ Joona says, meets the man’s gaze, then leaves the room.

Joona goes down the stairs, all the way to the garage. He stands for a while looking at the dusty Saab parked there, and thinks about the fact that Vicky and Dante have disappeared, and they have no more places to look.

33 (#ulink_3048aeb8-52ba-5285-888e-0064f45a1821)

Flora Hansen is mopping the shabby linoleum floor in the hall of the flat. Her left cheek still stings from the slap, and there’s an odd buzzing sound in her ear. The floor has lost its shine over the years, but mopping it makes it look better for a little while at least.

The smell of detergent spreads through the rooms.

Flora has beaten all the mats, and has already mopped the living room, the cramped kitchen, and Hans-Gunnar’s room, but she’s waiting to do Ewa’s bedroom until Solsidan starts on television.

Ewa and Hans-Gunnar both watch the series, and would never miss an episode.

Flora mops the floor energetically, the grey fabric of the mop-head keeps slapping into the skirting boards. She moves backwards, and bumps into the picture she made thirty years ago, when she was at preschool. All the children stuck different types of pasta to a piece of wood, then the whole thing was sprayed with gold paint.

The programme’s theme tune comes on.

Now’s her chance.

Flora feels a jolt of pain in her back as she picks up the heavy bucket and carries it into Ewa’s room.

She shuts the door behind her and puts the bucket in the way to stop the door being pushed open easily.

Her heart is already beating hard as she dunks the mop in the bucket, squeezes out the excess water, and looks at the wedding photograph on the bedside table.

Ewa hides the key to the bureau in the back of the frame.

Flora takes care of all the housework in return for being allowed to live in the box room. She had to move back in with Ewa and Hans-Gunnar when her unemployment benefit ran out after she lost her job as an auxiliary nurse at Sankt Göran’s Hospital.

When she was a child, Flora always thought her real parents were going to come and get her, but they were probably junkies, seeing as Ewa and Hans-Gunnar say they don’t know anything about them. Flora arrived here when she was five years old, and has no memories from before then. Hans-Gunnar has always described her as a burden, and she’s been desperate to get away ever since she was a teenager. When she was nineteen she got a job at the hospital and moved into her own flat in Kallhäll the same month.

The mop drips as Flora goes over to the window and starts mopping the floor. The linoleum is black under the radiator, from water damage. The old blinds are broken and hang crookedly between the inner and outer panes of glass. There is a wooden Dala horse from Rättvik on the windowsill between the pelargoniums.

Flora moves slowly towards the bedside table, stops and listens.

She can hear the television.

Ewa and Hans-Gunnar look young on the wedding photograph. She’s wearing a white dress, him a suit with a silver-coloured tie. The sky is white. A black, onion-domed bell tower stands on a mound beside the church. The tower is sticking up behind Hans-Gunnar like a peculiar hat. Flora has never been able to put her finger on why she’s always found the picture unsettling.

She tries to breathe calmly.

She gently leans the handle of the mop against the wall, but waits until she hears her aunt laugh at something on television, before picking up the photograph.

The ornate brass key is hanging from the back of the frame. Flora removes it from its hook, but her hands are shaking so much she drops it.

It hits the floor with a tinkle and bounces under the bed.

Flora has to reach out for support as she bends down.

She hears footsteps in the passageway, and lies still and waits. Her pulse is throbbing in her temples.

The floor outside the door creaks, then everything is quiet again.

The key is nestled among the dusty cables by the wall. She reaches in and picks it up, then gets to her feet and waits a few seconds before walking over to the bureau. She unlocks it, folds the heavy lid down, and pulls out one of the small drawers. Beneath the postcards from Paris and Mallorca is the envelope where Ewa keeps the money for the regular expenses. Flora opens the envelope containing the money for next month’s bills, and takes half of it, puts the notes in her pocket, quickly puts the envelope back, and tries to slide the little drawer back in, but there’s something stopping it.

‘Flora,’ Ewa calls.

She pulls out the drawer again, but can’t see anything odd, and tries again, but her hands are shaking too much now.