Åke Edwardson - Frozen Tracks

“Yes.”

“I tried to call her but there was no reply, and when I got home there was nobody there.”

“Yes.”

“Where is she then? Did she go shopping?”

Ringmar could hear her rapid breathing.

“She’s gone away for a while.”

“Eh? Gone away? Where to? Why? What’s going on?”

That was a lot of questions, and she answered one of them: “I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“Where she’s gone.”

“Didn’t she say?”

“No.”

“What the hell is this?!” said Ringmar. I’d better sit down, he thought. “I don’t understand a goddamn thing,” he said. “Do you, Moa?”

She didn’t reply.

“Moa?” He could hear a noise in the background, as if something was moving fast. “Moa? Where are you?”

“I’m on the streetcar,” she said. “On my way home.”

Thank God for that, he thought.

“We can talk when I get there,” she said.

He waited on edge, opened a beer that he didn’t drink. The thousand lights in the neighbor’s garden suddenly started flashing. What the hell, he thought. They’re winking like a thousand yellow compound eyes, like stars sending messages down to earth. Pretty soon I’ll have to stop by and pass on an unambiguous message to that stupid bastard.

The front door opened. He went into the hall.

“It’s probably not all that bad,” was the first thing his daughter said. She took off her coat.

“What is going on?” asked Ringmar.

“Let’s go into the living room,” she said.

He trudged after her. They sat down on the sofa.

“Martin called,” she said.

“I understand,” he said.

“Do you?”

“Why didn’t she talk to me first?”

“What do you understand, Dad?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? He wants to see her but under no circumstances does he want to see me.” He shook his head. “And she had to promise not to say anything to me.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” said Moa.

“When’s she coming back?”

“Tomorrow, I think.”

“So he’s not that far away?” said Ringmar.

She didn’t answer. He couldn’t see her face, only her hair, which was speckled with the flashing light from the idiot’s garden.

“So he’s not that far away?” Ringmar said again.

“She’s not going to meet him,” Moa said eventually.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mom isn’t going to meet Martin,” said Moa.

“What do you know that I don’t know?”

“I don’t know much more than you do,” she said. “Mom called me and said that Martin had been in touch and she would have to go away for a short while.”

“But what the hell did he say, then? He must have said something that made her take off?!”

“I don’t know.”

“This is the kind of thing that happens to other people,” he said.

She said nothing.

“Aren’t you worried?” he asked.

She stood up.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Up to my room. Why?”

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” he said. “I can see it in your face.”

“No,” she said. “I have to go to my room now. Vanna’s going to call me.”

He stood up, went to the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of beer, went back to the living room, and sat down on the sofa again. Birgitta didn’t have a mobile: If she did he could have left her a message, said something, done something. This is a situation I’ve never been in before. Is it a dream? Or is it something I’ve said? Something I’ve done? What have I done?

Why had Martin called? What had he said? What had he said to make Birgitta pack a bag and take off? Without telling her husband.

He took a swig of beer, and the illuminations outside continued to flash and twinkle. He looked out of the window and saw that some kind of portal with lights had been created outside the neighbor’s front door. That was new. He clutched the bottle in his hand and stood up. He saw his neighbor come out and turn around to admire his garden of light. Ringmar heard the phone ring and Moa’s voice when she answered. He waited for her to shout down to him, but she continued talking. Vanna, no doubt, a fellow student who wore flowery shirts. Would do well as a lawyer.

He kept on staring at his idiotic neighbor. It looked as if the stupid bastard were fixing up some more floodlights in one of the maple trees. Ringmar slammed the bottle down onto the glass table with a loud bang and went out onto the veranda facing the lights. He didn’t feel the frost through his socks.

“What the hell are you doing now?” he yelled straight across the flashing Dipper and the Great Bear and the Little Bear and everybody and their brother.

The neighbor’s discolored and moronic face turned to look at him.

“

What the hell are you doing?!” screeched Ringmar, and even as he did so he recognized that this was not the way to behave, that you didn’t take out your own frustration or worries on other people, he knew that full well, but just then he didn’t give a shit about that.

“What’s the matter?” asked the neighbor, who Ringmar knew was some kind of administrator in the health service. A real butcher, in other words, as Winter’s Angela would have said. I’ll bet that bastard administrates fucking light therapy at the hospital, Ringmar thought.

“I can’t take any more of your stupid lights in my face,” said Ringmar.

The neighbor stared back with his stupid face. How can anybody like that be allowed to live? Where are you, God?

“My whole house is bathed in light all night long from your goddamn yard, and it only gets worse,” said Ringmar in a louder voice than usual, to make sure the administrator heard. “Thank God Christmas will be over soon.” He turned on his heel, went back inside, and slammed the door behind him. He was shaking. I managed that quite well. Nobody got hurt.

He was woken up at midnight, out of a dream that was brightly lit.

“Bertil, it’s Erik. I need your help. I know it’s late, but it can’t be helped.”

He could see the light was on in Winter’s office as he crossed the parking lot. It was the only lit window in the north wall of police headquarters.

A man was sitting on the chair opposite Winter.

“This is Bengt Johansson,” said Winter. “He’s just arrived.”

Ringmar introduced himself. The man didn’t respond.

“Have you been there?” Ringmar asked, turning to Winter. “To Nordstan?”

“Yes,” said Winter. “And I wasn’t the only one searching. But the place is empty.”

“Oh my God,” said Bengt Johansson.

“Tell us your story one more time,” said Winter, sitting down.

“This isn’t the first time,” said Johansson. “It’s happened once before. They called from the kiosk. It was only a few minutes that time.”

Ringmar looked at Winter.

“Tell us about what happened,” said Winter.

“She was supposed to pick up Micke,” said Johansson. “And she did. Eh! We’d agreed that they’d go out for an hour or so and buy some Christmas presents, and then she’d bring him back home to me.” He looked at Ringmar. “But they never showed up.” He looked at Winter. “I called her at home, but there was no answer. I waited and called again. I mean, I had no idea where they might go.”

Winter nodded.

“Then I called various people I-we-know, and then I checked the hospital.” He mimed a phone call. “And then, well, then I called here. Criminal emergency, or whatever they call it.”

“They called me,” said Winter, looking at Ringmar. “The mother-Carolin-had left the kid at H & M near the entrance, and vanished.”