The Boy in the Suitcase - Lene Kaaberbol [72]
“Yes. And I really don’t want to break that promise.”
Julija sat there, frozen like a trapped animal. It hurt to look at her.
“I’ll try tomorrow morning,” she finally said, “before the secretary gets there. But what if I can’t find it?”
“You can,” said Sigita. “You have to.”
THE PHONE RANG a little before nine the next morning.
“His name is Jan Marquart,” said Julija. “And this is his address.”
NINA WOKE BECAUSE someone was beating on the car window, a series of hard rythmic blows. She opened her eyes in time to see a stooping figure reel across the street and continue in the direction of the Central Station. Above Reventlowsgade’s numerous streetlights the sky was brightening to pale gray.
The back of her neck was sore, and the ache called back a vague memory of struggling with the weight of her own head during the night. It had not been a good way to sleep, but even this lack of comfort had not been enough to keep her awake. Cautiously, she released her knees from their braced position against the back of the seat. Tendons and muscles protested sharply as she opened the door and stretched her legs onto the pavement.
The boy was still asleep. He had rolled over during the night and his outflung arms rested on the seat, palms upward. He had forgotten where he was, thought Nina with a degree of envy. Even in sleep that mercy had eluded her, and she felt no less tired than the night before.
She rose slowly and walked a few steps beside the car, trying to ease the pins and needles in her legs. It was still more than six hours before she could meet the girl from Helgolandsgade, and in a little while, the sun would begin the process of turning Vesterbro into a diesel-stinking oven. She had to find some temporary refuge for herself and the boy, preferably somewhere that included the possibility of a shower. She could smell her own body—the sour odor of old sweat assaulted her nostrils every time she moved. She felt sticky and exhausted.
The boy stirred in the back seat, still half asleep, but surfacing slowly. He stretched, and then lay there for a long moment, eyes open and staring into the gray upholstery of the seat in front of him. Then he turned his head and looked at her. The smooth, soft look given to him by sleep vanished in an instant and was replaced by recognition and disappointment. But there was a change. The sulky resignation was still there, but the hostility had gone. Perhaps there was even a hint of familiarity, a sense of belonging inspired by everything they had been through together the day before. Karin’s empty gaze, the nauseating pool of congealing blood beneath her head. The chaotic escape from the cottage, the hookers in Helgolandsgade, and the slices of untoasted white bread.
He knew whom to stick with right now. He just didn’t know why.
Nina produced a faint smile. That was all she could manage. It was still only 5:43, and the thought of yet another long and lonely day with the boy on her hands seemed to leech her of all strength. Completely unsurmountable.
She might go home.
The idea felt heretical after yesterday’s long flight, but the cold and stilted conversation with Morten seemed so distant now, floating only somewhere at the very back of her mind. Had he really been as angry as she thought? Maybe not. He might even be capable of understanding why she and the boy had had to disappear. If she could only find the right way to tell him. She might say that the story about Karin was only an excuse she had made up, that it had been the network that had called her, and that the boy would only be with them for a few days before being sent on to relatives in … in England, maybe. That might seem sufficiently safe and manageable even for Morten.
Morten didn’t like that she worked with the illegal residents. In principle, he agreed that something must be done. He was unwavering in his opposition to the government’s policy when it came to refugees and other immigrants, and when yet another story about grotesque deportations and broken families hit the news