The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [142]
The fireflies danced.
“I don’t want to die!” she screamed. “Erik!”
She was overcome by a violent rage. If Laura had been in front of her she would have killed her with a bottle of wine, she was sure of it. This wasn’t fair! Her earlier calm was completely gone. It was as if she knew deep down that, in spite of her situation, she was going to wake Erik up the following morning, drop him off at day care, and then have a morning meeting with Ottosson and all the rest of her colleagues. Just like every other day, one indistinguishable from the next.
The fire had meant a change that she unconsciously had regarded as positive. Now she realized the full extent of the approaching catastrophe.The fire changed the situation, but for the worse. To be locked in was bad enough, to fry to death was worse.
It was only now that she started to actively plan for her survival. Soon even greater parts of the floor joists would give way and that which was the basement ceiling would cave in. She would be buried by burning timber.
Even though she didn’t want to face up to how badly things looked, she was forced to try to estimate how far along the fire had progressed. The ceiling was now burning in several places. Wood shavings that had caught on fire and were whirling around gave the illusion of fireworks.
It occurred to her that somewhere in the basement she had seen a bathtub. It was probably in the far end of the basement where it was burning the most. She went down on all fours and crawled along the corridor. With the help of the light from the fire she caught sight of the recessed area where she believed the bathtub was.
A beam that collapsed tore down large amounts of wood shavings that immediately caught fire. The heat became more intense. She kept crawling. The tension, or perhaps the wine, made her vomit. She crawled, vomited, coughed, and crawled on.
In the narrow recess she saw the bathtub. It was an older model, heavy and awkward. Would she have the energy? After having kicked away a piece of plank blocking the entrance she grabbed the tub with her left hand and tried to drag it toward her. It was heavier than she had imagined. The heat singed her cheeks and bare arms. On the floor there was a rag that she draped over her head and she tried to turn the tub so she could pull it farther.
She turned around in order to assess her options. It was burning behind her now. A rat ran past, then another. They were leaving their feast and running toward certain death.
With her last ounces of strength—she had to use her right arm and the pain was brutal—Lindell managed to tip the bathtub on its side and pull it out of the recess. Then it suddenly came to an abrupt stop. One of the legs had caught in the door opening. She laid down on her back and braced herself with her foot while she tugged with her left arm. The tub came loose.
The fire was spreading quickly. New areas were burning and Ann was having a harder time being able to stand the heat and smoke. She pulled the tub, on its side, all the way to the wine cellar. In this part of the basement the heat was not quite as bad. She reached in and grabbed a bottle of wine, smashed the neck of it and let wine run over her face and chest. It was a white wine. She licked her lips. Before she tossed the bottle to the side she tried to read the label. She thought it said “Peter Pan.”
Now larger and larger pieces were tumbling down from the ceiling. Soon the whole basement would be on fire.
Forty-eight
Sammy Nilsson became increasingly impatient. The interpreter had still not arrived and Sammy set off on his own. He wanted to see the inscription with his own eyes. He drove south on Kungsgatan at a death-defying clip. At the traffic lights shortly before the Samaritan home he took a risk and drove against a red light. He almost crashed into a city bus that was coming out of Baverns Alley.
“Damn farmers!” he yelled for no reason.
The bus driver gestured, car drivers beeped, and Sammy sped up. He had his first doubts as he drove over the Fyris River