Part 32 (1/2)

She knew he would seek her out. He wanted something more than just a group meeting like they used to have. The yellow dragon was simply a reminder, a way of bringing the Beasts back to life. He had already contacted the Black Panther she knew that because the Panther had called her for the first time in thirty years to tell her, asking what she thought about the Dragon coming home.

She had merely hung up. Hadn't said a word, just hung up and pulled the lead out of the socket.

But you never escape, she thought, looking at the sculpture that she never managed to finish, the child and the goat and the profound communication between them, beyond words and visions, based on understanding and intuitive sensitivity. She could never quite manage to express that, and she wasn't going to get any further tonight.

Her back ached, she moved heavily over to the damp blanket that stopped the piece from drying out and cracking. She wrapped it up the usual way, and tied it in place. She took off her ap.r.o.n, hanging it up with the others and going off to check the kiln and wash her hands. Then she went round and looked at her students' creations, making sure they had covered their work correctly, that the finished pieces weren't drying too quickly, gathering up some stray tools. She filled the kiln ready for firing the following day, leaving some s.p.a.ce for the Friday group at the top.

She stopped in the door, listening to the silence. As usual on Thursdays, she was the last one out. She changed her shoes, pulled on her outdoor clothes, shut the door behind her and locked it with a jangling key-ring.

The corridor ahead of her was weakly lit and full of dark shadows.

She didn't like the dark. Before the events at the airbase it had never bothered her, but since then the screams and flames pursued her in a way that made night p.r.i.c.kly and threatening.

She started walking, past the pottery room, the woodwork shop and the model railway. She reached the end of the corridor and carefully went down the creaking stairs, past the cafeteria and library. She checked the doors, shutting and locking them.

The front door stuck in the cold, it always did. She managed to force it shut with a groan, and locked it with a tangible feeling of relief. She took several deep breaths before embarking on the slippery journey down to the street.

Snow was falling, thin and sharp, falling silently and gently in the still air. It had got considerably colder during the evening, the temperature continuing to plummet as the snowflakes stopped.

The new snow crunched under the rubber soles of her boots. She took her kick-sledge and pushed it ahead of her on squeaking runners down towards the main road.

I ought to walk more, she thought.

Snow had settled on the porch, but her legs were frozen and she decided to leave it for Thord. She sc.r.a.ped her boots on the coir brush, unlocked the door and stepped into the hall.

She was so hungry she felt faint.

She pulled off her boots, hung up her coat, went into the kitchen without turning on the light, and opened the fridge door.

She had prepared a starter of prawns and eggs before she left, and took it over to the table, wolfing it down so fast that she got mayonnaise on her nose. Afterwards she sat there panting, feeling empty inside, and stared at the sink, realizing how tired she was.

She had to open the nursery early next morning; she would have to be up at half past five to get there in time.

I should go to bed, she thought, without moving.

She sat there in the dark kitchen until the phone rang.

'Are you still up? You know you should be in bed.'

She smiled at her husband's voice.

'I was just going,' she lied.

'Did you have a good evening?'

She sighed gently. 'That youngster can never get enough attention, she needs constant rea.s.surance.'

'And the sculpture?'

'Nothing.'

A short silence. 'You haven't heard anything?' Thord asked.

'Heard anything?'

'From them?'

She shook her head. 'No.'

'I'll be home at two. Don't you lie there waiting, though.'

She smiled again. 'I was just . . .'

They hung up and she climbed slowly up the stairs. The twiggy shadow of a snow-covered birch swept across the walls as a car drove past, headlights on full.

In spite of everything, she was lucky. The girls had grown into healthy, motivated individuals, good people with the right basic values that society needed. And Thord her jackpot in life.

She ran a finger over the wedding photo that took pride of place on the landing.

She washed her face and brushed her teeth, undressed and went onto the landing again. She folded her clothes and put them on a chair next to the linen cupboard.

She had just pulled on her nightgown when the man stepped out of the closet. He looked just as she remembered him, except a little heavier and greyer.

'You!' she said in surprise. 'What are you doing here?'

She wasn't frightened. Not even when he raised his gloved hands and put them round her neck.

Panic only hit when her airway was blocked and the adrenalin shock reached her brain. The room tilted, she saw the ceiling arching over her and his face coming closer, his hands rigid as steel round her neck.

No thoughts, no feelings.

Only the muscles of her bowels relaxing and the unexpected warmth in her underwear.

Friday 20 November

36.

Thomas walked into the apartment like a stranger, feeling like he'd been away for a long time. The attic flat on Grev Turegatan in ostermalm was light-years away, but now he was home, he felt it in his whole body. It was a huge relief to him.

Home, where he lived.

The apartment sounded like it usually did, with the gentle murmur of people sleeping and poor ventilation. The air was cool from the badly fitted windows and smelled of cooking, as usual. He hung up his coat, put his tennis racket and sports bag down on the hall floor, pulled off his shoes. He saw the reality of his deception in front of him, the unused sports kit, the dry towel.

He gulped and shrugged off the guilt. He padded in to the children in his socks, leaned over them, their wide-open mouths and pyjamas and stuffed toys.

This was reality. The attic flat in ostermalm was cold and calculated, the furniture studied and ingratiating. Sophia Grenborg's flat was blue and stripped back; his home was warm and yellow with sleeping children and swinging streetlamps.