Åke Edwardson - Frozen Tracks

“Which nursery school was it?” somebody asked.

“Hepatica.”

“Where’s that?”

“In Änggården.”

“But that’s not very far from here.”

“They were in Slottskogen.”

“It’s terrible.”

“Yes, awful.”

“Has anything like this happened before?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“How’s the boy?”

“I don’t know.”

Angela listened, but said nothing. She had seen the boy the evening it happened, and then again today. One day later. Simon. His parents. His father had said “fuck” at one point, maybe a couple of times.

Angela was sitting on the edge of the group, next to the window, on a chair that was intended for a much shorter and younger person. A street lamp illuminated the swings and the slide. Car headlights lit up the street down the slope. She thought about the hole in the fence. Had it really been mended?

She could see the church tower in the park on the other side of the street; that was lit up as well.

A woman sat down on the other little chair.

“Who knows if we’ll be able to stand up again,” she said.

“I’m afraid to try,” said Angela.

“Lena Sköld,” said the woman, reaching out her right hand.

“Angela Hoffman.”

Angela had never met Lena Sköld before. It was usually Erik who took Elsa to the nursery school, and collected her. But come to think of it, she did recognize her after all. And she thought she could remember what her child looked like. A girl with dark hair.

“I’m Ellen’s mom,” said Lena Sköld.

“I’m Elsa’s mom,” said Angela.

“Yes, of course.” She picked up her cup. “We-Ellen and me-haven’t been here for very long.” She took a sip of coffee. “We used to go to a different nursery school before.”

“I think I can remember what Ellen looks like,” said Angela.

“She’s in the picture behind you.”

Angela turned to look at the little photograph behind her, stuck onto a bigger sheet of paper. The girl was standing on a beach, laughing out to sea. It was windy. The photograph was framed by all the colors of the rainbow. Arrows with the girl’s name pointed at the picture. A little exhibitionist.

“She wanted to make it clear that she was the one in that picture and nobody else,” said Lena Sköld with a smile.

“She’s got plenty of self-confidence,” said Angela.

“Hmm… I don’t know about that.” She took another sip of coffee. “We’ll find out about that eventually, I suppose.” She looked at Angela. “I’m a single parent.” She put down her cup and smiled.

Angela nodded. Through the window she could see people leaving the nursery school on their way home. She checked her watch.

“Yes, I suppose it’s time to make a move,” said Lena Sköld. “If we can stand up.” She made an effort with her legs. “Eh, I failed at the first attempt.”

“I don’t think I’m even going to try,” said Angela.

Lena Sköld also stayed put, looking through the window in which her face was mirrored.

“I keep thinking about what we were talking about earlier,” she said.

“About the boy who, er, disappeared?” said Angela.

“Yes.” She looked as if she wanted to say more, and Angela waited.

“Something odd happened to me not long ago. Or rather, to Ellen.” She looked at Angela. “It feels almost creepy. Yes, it definitely does. What with what happened to the boy and all that. But I mean this incident with Ellen. Given the rest of it.”

What on earth is she talking about? Angela wondered.

“It was very strange,” said Lena Sköld. “What happened to Ellen. She came home and, well, I suppose you could say she told a story. About how she’d met somebody while her group was on an outing.”

“What do you mean, met somebody?”

“A man. A mister, as she called him. She said she met this mister and sat with him for a while. In a car. If I understood it correctly they were sitting in a car.”

“That’s what she told you?”

“That’s how I understood it, at least,” said Lena Sköld. “And there was another thing. Something disappeared that day.”

“What was it?” Angela asked.

“A little silver charm that she had in her overall pocket. It vanished. The police asked me to check if there was anything missing, and it was that charm.”

“The police?”

“That evening when Ellen came home, I mean, when she said she’d met somebody, I called the police about it.”

“The police where?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you call the local police station, or the communications center?”

“I don’t know what it’s called. I looked up a number in the phone book and got through to a call center, and they passed me on to another number.” She put her cup down on the floor. “It was a police station close to where I live.”

“Your local station,” said Angela.

“Yes.” She looked at Angela. “You seem to know about these things. Are you a police officer?”

“No.”

“I think they said it was the Majorna and Linnéstaden police.”

“What else did they say?”

“The man I spoke to wrote down what I said. At least, it sounded like he did. And then he said that stuff about me checking to see if anything was missing and I did and I phoned back to tell him about the charm.”

“Have they been in touch with you again? The police, I mean?”

“No.”

“How’s Ellen?”

“Same as ever. I expect it was just her imagination.” She looked around the playroom, which was neat and tidy. All the toys were in big boxes along the walls. There were Christmas drawings all over the walls.

There was still a smell of candle wax and hot punch, in anticipation of Christmas. There was a sound of voices from the other rooms, but fewer now. “But when you hear what happened to that poor boy, it makes you wonder.”

Angela said nothing.

“What do you think?” asked Lena Sköld.

“Have you tried talking to Ellen about it again?”

“Yes, several times.”

“What does she say?”

“More or less the same thing. I’ve been thinking about that. She doesn’t seem to have forgotten about it. It’s the same little story. Or maybe it’s just a… fairy story. A fantasy.”

ANGELA WALKED HOME DEEP IN THOUGHT. SANTA CLAUS WAS IN most of the shop windows, but there was no snow on the ground. The pavements glistened damply in the electric light from the streetlamps and windows. She thought about the injured boy and his parents. She thought about Lena Sköld and her life as a single parent. No man in her life now, and no father for Ellen. Maybe later.

She paused outside the front door. Vasaplatsen was quiet this evening, but the wind was picking up from the north and blowing along the Allé. She raised the collar of her overcoat and paused to take in the scene. A streetcar stopped on the other side of the street, then trundled off again in the same direction as the wind. She could see two people in the front car, but nobody at all in the second one. A way of traveling for someone who wanted to be alone. She noticed the driver looking at her as he drove past.

Driving a streetcar was one way of seeing Gothenburg. Anyone who drove the same route for a long time would get to know all the surrounding streets and the intersections and the parks. And the streetcars didn’t go fast, either. In fact, they were annoyingly slow, and she was glad she had her Golf; but then again, she also had the usual guilty conscience about ruining the quality of the air that everybody was forced to breathe, whether they wanted to or not.

She would leave the car at home. Occasionally.

Elsa has to breathe this air. Vasaplatsen isn’t the best place to be, from that perspective. Elsa is still a tender rosebud. What do we do? Do we have any choice but to move? We’ll have to discuss it again, Erik and I, seriously. She had shouted from the hall but there was no reply, so she’d gone to the bedroom. They’d fallen asleep in the double bed. There were about ten picture books scattered around them in a rough circle.