Åke Edwardson - Frozen Tracks

Elsa mumbled in her sleep when Angela picked her up and put her to bed in her own room, where the light was on.

Winter was in the kitchen now, and had put the kettle on.

“How about a cup of tea?”

“Yes, please. I need that after all the coffee at the meeting.”

“Would you like a slice of pie?”

“No thank you.”

“Half a baguette with brie and salami?”

“

Non, merci.”

“Smoked mussels.”

“Erik, I’m not hungry.”

“How did it go?”

“There was some talk about that… that incident. The Waggoner boy.”

“We’re going to try to speak to him tomorrow.”

“Any leads?”

“We’re checking all the local loonies now. Nothing yet.”

“What does Pia say?”

Angela had met Pia Fröberg, the forensic pathologist, several times.

“She can’t see any signs of sexual assault,” he said. “It’s probably just your usual assault.”

“Just?”

“Didn’t you hear the quotes? I prefer not to write them in the air.”

“Where’d that tea go?”

The wind was blowing rain all over the big windshield. There was something wrong with one of the wipers: It was out of sync with the other one. Or perhaps it was the other one that was faulty. In any case, it was like watching somebody with a limp, dragging one leg. He’d have to report it.

Gothenburg glittered as he drove around the city. It would soon be Christmas again. The old man had asked him. He’d said no.

Hardly anybody in the streetcar, but he wasn’t complaining. Somebody got off at Vasaplatsen, but nobody got on. There’d been a woman standing in a doorway, watching him. Didn’t people have anything better to do? There was a restaurant on the corner to her left. She could have gone there.

Several people got on at the Central Station, on their way to the northern wildernesses that he was also heading for, of course. Wastelands with high-rises so tall they looked as if they were trying to fly up to heaven, but they could ask him about heaven and he would’ve told them the truth about it. There’s nothing there.

He drove alongside the river, which was as black as it always was. He could see the other bridge to the west that was bigger and more beautiful. You could see a lot of beautiful things from here. There were fir trees decorated with a thousand Christmas candles.

The boy had put up a fight.

He bit his hand so hard it hurt.

Bill was dangling on his string beside him. The parrot was positioned in such a way that nobody getting on would be able to see it unless they sort of bent around the driver, and why would anybody want to do that? Besides, it wasn’t allowed.

He stopped the streetcar, and lots of people got on. Why on earth did they want to be out at this time? It was starting to get late.

Why hadn’t he driven the boy back to where he’d found him?

He’d intended to do that. He always did that. Assuming that he’d driven away in the first place.

I don’t understand why I didn’t take him back. Perhaps because he put up a fight. That was no doubt why. He didn’t want to be nice when I was being nice. I tried.

Somebody to his right said something. The doors were open. He could feel the wind coming in from the outside. This could create a sort of spiral of wind in the streetcar.

“Why aren’t we moving?”

He turned to look at the man standing next to his cab.

“Sixteen kronor,” he said.

“Eh?”

“A ticket costs sixteen kronor,” he said. People should know that if they were going to take a streetcar ride. Some didn’t pay at all. Cheated. Some of them got caught when an inspector came onboard. He never talked to the inspectors, who were known as the Tenson gang because they always wore ugly Tenson jackets. They did their job and he did his.

“I don’t want a ticket,” said the man. “I’ve already got one and I just got it stamped.”

“No ticket?”

“Why are we standing here? Why don’t you start moving?”

“This is a stop,” he said. “I have to stop so that people can get on and off.”

“They’ve already done that, for Christ’s sake!” said the man, who appeared to be drunk. There were always drunks on the streetcars. He could tell you all about that!

“We got on and off about a hundred years ago, and now we want to go,” said the man, leaning forward. “Why the hell don’t you start moving?”

“I’ll call the police!” he said, without having intended to say that the second before he did so.

“Eh?”

He didn’t want to say it again.

“Call the police? That’s a fucking brilliant idea. Then we might finally get moving. They can give us an escort,” said the drunk. “I can call them myself, come to that.” He produced a mobile.

Now I’m off.

The streetcar started with a jerk, and the man with the mobile was flung backward and almost fell over, but managed to hang on to one of the straps. He dropped his mobile and it crashed to the floor.

They were off.

“You’re a fucking lunatic,” yelled the man. His posture was most peculiar. A drunk who couldn’t stand up straight. Now he was bending down. He was visible in the mirror. “I dropped my mobile.” It was impossible to hear what he said next. Now he was back by the driver’s cab again. It was forbidden to talk to the driver while the streetcar was in motion.

“If it’s busted I’ll fucking report you to the fucking police, you fucking idiot.”

He decided to ignore the drunk. That was the best way.

He came to a halt at the next stop. People were waiting to get on. The drunk was standing in the way. The newcomers forced him back. He had to make way. A lady got on. A ticket? Of course. That’ll be sixteen kronor, please. Here you are, a ticket and four kronor change.

He took off, stopped, took off again. It was quiet now. He stopped once more. Opened the doors.

“Consider yourself lucky that my mobile’s still working, you fucking idiot,” yelled the drunk as he got off. Good riddance.

Unfortunately there would be more of them. Some more would get on after he’d turned around and started on his way back. It was always the same. They were a traffic hazard. He could tell the authorities all about that. He had, in fact.

“It’s as if I’ve lost all my enthusiasm for Christmas,” said Angela. “It was a sort of sudden feeling I had in the elevator. Or an insight.”

“An insight into what?”

“You know.”

“You shouldn’t have come with me the first time we saw the boy,” said Winter.

“Yes, it was important for me to be there.”

He didn’t reply, listened for a moment to the fridge, and to the radio mumbling away in its corner.

“Is it the twenty-third our flights are booked for?” Angela asked.

“Yes.”

“It’ll be nice.”

“I expect so.”

“A warm Christmas,” she said.

“I don’t think it will be all that warm.”

“No, there’s bound to be subzero temperatures on Christmas Eve in Marbella.” She continued warming her hands around the cup she hadn’t yet finished. “Stormy, freezing cold, and no central heating.”

“There might be snow,” said Winter.

“There is snow,” she said. “On top of Sierra Blanca.”

He nodded. The trip would work out. His mother would be pleased. There would be sun there. Five days on the Costa del Sol, and then it would be New Year’s again, and the weather would turn and spring would begin to advance, and then summer, and there was no need to look any further ahead than that.

“I met a woman at the nursery-school meeting who had something interesting to tell me,” she said, looking at him. “It was a bit strange.”