Red Wolf_ A Novel - Liza Marklund [41]
Sophia looked quizzically at him.
‘My first wife,’ he said. ‘She was a bank director. Is a bank director. She’s remarried now, with the only IT-guru who landed on his feet. Last I heard, they’d bought their own island outside Vaxholm.’
The tree of silence spread its boughs above them, mature, calm. They sat in silence and looked at each other as her cigarette burned away in the ashtray.
‘We may as well share a taxi,’ Sophia said. ‘We’re more or less going in the same direction.’
The boy stopped at the door of the bus and swallowed hard. He leaned forward to look at the road, the wind blowing sharp ice crystals into his face. There was a smell of fumes and iron.
‘Are you getting off or what?’
He looked sheepishly at the bus-driver, took a quick breath, jumped the two steps and landed on the pavement. The door closed behind him with a hiss, the bus glided away with a muffled noise caused by cold and snow.
It disappeared into Laxgatan, the sound drowning behind heaps of snow and fencing. He stood there on the pavement, looking carefully around him, listening hard. He couldn’t even hear the ironworks.
He forced himself to breathe out, calm down. There was no reason to be frightened. He spat in the snow.
Shit, soon he’d be as nervous as that reporter from Stockholm. She was really jumpy. They’d read her article in the Norrland News, and he’d shown Alex how she behaved in the hallway.
‘It’s her,’ Alex had said. ‘You know, the one who was held hostage by the Bomber. Probably left her a bit funny in the head afterwards.’
He hadn’t been much good at the game tonight, not really on form. He was actually really good at it, much better than Alex, but this evening he’d been zapped to ash by several other players. He was annoyed that he’d blown his stats; he kicked away a lump of ice so hard it made his foot hurt. Might be just as well to start again with a new character. ‘Cruel Devil’ would never be a Teslatron God with useless results like this to make up for. Ninja Master, maybe, but he was aiming for the top.
He slowly walked out of the yellow circle of the street-lamp, heading for the house. There were lights on in Andersson’s flat, blue light seeping into the darkness. The old man was probably watching the sports news.
Suddenly a shadow fell over the façade of the building, a flashing demon that gasped and disappeared. The boy struggled for breath, so hard that it froze his throat. He felt his muscles tense, his legs ready for flight. Eyes and ears open to the darkness, absorbing every trembling nuance.
Still not a sound. Blue light from Andersson’s window. Icy chill from the ground that was slowly working its way through the soles of his shoes.
Nothing. Something flashed past the window.
He forced his shoulders down again, realizing that he hadn’t breathed for a minute or so. Started panting in a loud rattle, feeling the tears rise.
Fucking shit, the boy thought, fucking bloody shit.
Without thinking any more, he gave in to his fear and raced blindly towards the door. It was just as dark as usual in the yard, but he knew where Andersson left his rubbish and crossed the hazardous path with ease.
He yanked open the outer door and hit the button to light up the hall with damp gloves. His whole body was shaking as he dug for the key in his jacket pocket.
The door fell open just as he realized he was about to wet himself. Letting out a small whine, he rushed into the bathroom and yanked up the toilet lid.
He shut his eyes and sobbed as the warm urine landed more or less in the toilet. Afterwards he just pulled up his pants and sat down on the toilet, leaving his trousers and long-johns in a puddle around his feet. The sunflowers smiled down at him from the wallpaper.
Why had he got so scared, like a little kid? He snorted at his own behaviour; he’d never been scared of the dark before.
Slowly he stood up, flushed, washed his hands and rinsed his mouth. He couldn’t