The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [46]
“He tried to rape me,” she said.
Suddenly she became aware of her almost naked upper body, sat up, and crossed her arms over her chest. Bolinder took off his coat and gently placed it over her shoulders.
Despite the pain and the unexpected turn of events, he had had the presence of mind to grab a towel from the bathroom and wipe the blood from his head. He pressed it against his forehead, which was throbbing, then carefully felt the outline of the cut with his fingers. He didn’t think there was a fracture, but it was an ugly wound. The bottle had caught him right above the brow, which is where the copious amounts of blood had come from. The corkscrew had penetrated his shirt and a few centimeters of his flesh but been stopped by bone and had not hurt him significantly.
Vincent Hahn was bewildered rather than confused by what had happened. He had thought he had her where he wanted her, but she had tricked him. Now he had to escape. He heard furious barking and raised voices outside. He threw the bloody towel onto the floor, picked up a clean one, pressed it against his head, and disappeared out into the night the same way he had come.
He ran. Dizziness threatened to overcome him but he kept on running. He knew the forest well and where the paths led. If he chose the nearest one he could be home in five or six minutes, but he was forced to take a longer route in order to avoid people.
Where should he go? How long could he remain at home until the police would come? Gunilla had recognized him. Of course, he was not registered at the Bergslags’ apartment since he was subletting it, but the police would eventually track him down if they started to look for him. Perhaps through the hospital or his former sister-in-law. She was the only one who had visited him since he had moved up to Sävja.
Who would take him in? There was no one to give him shelter, dress his wounds, and let him rest. And who would take care of Julia? He sobbed and stumbled on. He had to get home to her, get there before the police. No one was allowed to touch her. He could hide her in the forest. She would get cold and wet, but it was better than ending up in the fascist hands of the police.
He reached Bergsbrunna farm in a disoriented state. He had taken walks here before and now he recognized where he was. He heard the horses neighing in the barn. He was freezing. It had to be at least fifteen degrees below zero. The cut in his forehead felt stiff. He hesitated in the yard. Should he go into the barn? He didn’t have anything against horses. They were noble animals, wise, but there were cats in there too. He had seen them before, one white, one brown.
From the distance came the sound of insistent barking and it struck him that the police must have called in dogs to track him down. They would reach him soon. The barn offered no protection.
He ran on past two fields. The snow was deeper here and harder to trudge through. His energy was starting to wane and he was breathing hard. At the end of the road he saw some light. Someone had erected a Christmas tree in front of their house. He had the feeling that he had been through this before, running for his life in the cold. Without friends, able to rely only on himself. His chest burned.
He came out by the railroad tracks and followed them to the north. He would reach the crossing shortly. He had read about hobos in the United States who jumped onto freight trains and traveled across the entire continent in search of work, but here the trains simply thundered by at high speed.
He came to a stop, indecisive. A car came by across the fields on the other side of the crossing. Vincent ran over and threw himself down on the road.
The car came closer. He could hear from the sound that it had a diesel engine. Suddenly the beams from the headlights illuminated him. He closed his eyes but lifted one arm as if he were in distress at sea. He thought for a moment that the car was simply going