Åke Edwardson - Frozen Tracks

She looked at the girl, who had left the armchair now. It was almost a miracle that she had sat on it for so long.

Would Dad come back to the Sköld family, or what was left of it?

“You told Mom that you went for a ride with a mister,” said Djanali.

“Not ride,” said Ellen.

“You didn’t ride in the mister’s car?”

“Didn’t ride,” said Ellen. “Stood still.”

“The car stood still?”

She nodded.

“Where was the car?” asked Djanali.

“In the woods.”

“Was it a big forest?”

“No! At the playground!”

“So the woods were at the playground?”

“Yes.”

“Was Victoria with you when you sat in the car?”

Ellen nodded again.

“Did Victoria want to drive the car?”

“No, no.” Ellen burst out laughing. “The car was big!”

“Was the mister big as well?”

The girl nodded.

“Tell me how you met this mister!” said Djanali. Ellen was now standing next to the brightly colored armchair. A split had developed in the cloud cover that lay like paper over Gothenburg as it waited for Christmas to arrive, and the split let through a beam of sunshine that shone in through the window and onto the back of the armchair. Ellen shouted in delight and pointed at the sunlight that suddenly disappeared again as the clouds closed.

“Tell me about when you met the mister with the car,” said Djanali.

“He had candy,” said Ellen.

“Did he give you some candy?”

She nodded.

“Was it good?”

She nodded.

“What kind of candy was it?”

“Candy,” she said dismissively. Candy was candy.

“Did you eat all the candy?”

She nodded again. They had searched the place looking for candy wrappings, but had naturally realized before long that it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. This was a playground, a park, children, parents, candy…

“What did the mister say?”

Ellen had started to dance around the room, like a ballerina. She didn’t answer. It was a difficult question.

“What did the mister say when he gave you the candy?”

She looked up.

“ ‘You want a candy?’ ”

Djanali nodded, waited. Ellen performed a little pirouette.

“Did he ask you anything else?”

Ellen looked up again.

“Ca-ca-ca-ca,” she said.

Djanali waited.

“Swee-swee-swee-swee,” said Ellen.

Time for a break, Djanali thought. Past time, in fact. The girl is tired of all this. But Djanali had intended for Ellen to look at a few different men from around police headquarters-a twenty-year-old, a thirty-year-old, a forty-year-old, a fifty-year-old, and a sixty-year-old, and ask her to point out the one that looked most like the man in the car. If that was possible. This collection of Swedish manhood was so vain that the fifty-year-old wanted to be forty, and the forty-year-old would have looked devastated if she’d guessed his age correctly. Only the twenty-year-old and sixty-year-old were unconcerned. That must mean something. Perhaps for men most of all. Men were people too. She must try to remember that.

She’d also hoped that Ellen would be persuaded to draw something, including a car in some trees.

“Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa,” said Ellen now, and she danced around the room again.

“Do you mean your papa, your dad?”

The girl shook her head and said, “ Pa-pa-pa-pa!”

“Did the mister say that he was your dad?”

She shook her head again.

“We-we-we-we,” she said.

Djanali looked at the camera, as if seeking help.

“Why did you say that?” she asked.

The girl didn’t understand the question; or perhaps it was Djanali who didn’t understand if she’d understood.

“Co-co-co-co,” said Ellen.

Djanali said nothing. She tried to think.

“Had a radio,” said the girl now. She’d moved closer to Djanali.

“This man had a radio?”

Ellen nodded.

“Did he have a radio in the car?”

Ellen nodded again.

“Was the radio on?”

Ellen nodded again.

“Was the radio playing a song?”

Ellen didn’t answer.

“Was there somebody singing on the radio?” Djanali asked.

“The mister said bad words,” said Ellen. By now she was standing next to Djanali, who was sitting on the floor that was colder than it looked.

“Did the man in the car say bad words to you?”

Ellen shook her head. But her expression was serious.

“Who said bad words?” Djanali asked.

“The radio,” said Ellen.

“The radio said bad words?”

Ellen nodded, solemnly.

“Did a mister on the radio say bad words?”

Ellen nodded again. That’s not allowed.

A man on the radio says bad words, Djanali thought. It’s afternoon. Somebody is sitting in the studio and swearing. Does that happen every day? Can we trace the program? And what do children think is a bad word? Often the same ones as we do. But children are so much better at picking up on them. But I won’t ask her now what the words were.

“I held my hands over Victoria ’s ears,” said Ellen.

“So Victoria didn’t hear anything?” asked Djanali.

Ellen shook her head.

“Has she said anything about it to you?”

She shook her head again, more firmly this time.

Djanali nodded.

“

Bad words,” said Ellen.

“What did the mister in the car say about these bad words?” asked Djanali.

Ellen didn’t answer.

“Did he think they were bad words too?”

Ellen didn’t answer. There must be something in the question that’s too subtle, Djanali thought. Or in her failure to answer. She’s not answering because the man didn’t make any comment about the bad words. He didn’t hear them.

“Bi-bi-bi-bi-bi-bi,” said Ellen.

He made a cup of hot chocolate for the boy the old-fashioned way: First he mixed the cocoa with milk and sugar, then he added the hot milk and stirred it with a spoon. In fact, he had made an extra effort, and had mixed the cocoa and sugar with cream!

But the boy didn’t want it. Would you believe it? He must be both hungry and thirsty, but he drank nothing, ate nothing, he cried, and he shouted, and it had been necessary to tell him that he had to be quiet because the neighbors needed to sleep.

“Sl-sl-sl-sl,” he said. He tried again: “Sl-sl-sleep. You must sleep.”

He pointed at the chocolate, which was still quite hot.

“Cho-cho-cho-chocolate.”

He could hear his voice. It had to do with the excitement. He could feel a hot force gushing through his body.

The boy had been asleep when he carried him into the building, and then into the apartment. He had driven him around the main circular roads and through the tunnels until he was so fast asleep that nothing would wake him up.

The stroller was in the trunk. It was safe there, just as the boy is safe here, he thought, nodding at the chocolate once again. Now he felt calmer, as if he had found peace and knew what was going to happen, maybe not right now, but shortly.

He knew that the boy was called Micke.

“Micke Johansson,” the boy had said. His pronunciation was good.

“Drink now, Mick,” he said.

“My name’s Micke,” the boy said.

He nodded.

“Want to go home to Daddy.”

“Don’t you like it here?”

“Want to go home to

Daddy.”

“Your dad’s not at home.”

“I want to go home to

Daddy,” the boy said again.

“It’s not good, being at home with your daddy,” he said now. He wondered if the boy understood. “It’s not good at all.”

“Where’s Mommy?” asked Micke.

“Not good.”

“Mommy and Daddy,” said Micke.