Dead of Winter

46

They hammer on the door until their hands are numb. The smoke makes their airways contract, tears pour down their cheeks, they can hardly see. They can feel the heat on their backs. And then there’s the noise, a deep bass tone reverberating against their eardrums, getting louder and louder.

They continue to hammer on the door. Peter tries to shout, but all that comes out of his mouth is a harsh, dry cough.

Laura knows what happens next. A flash of light, a blast wave that knocks her off her feet. The smell of burning clothes, skin, hair. The realisation that this is the end – that at any moment now she will be dead.

Far away she hears a crash as the door opens. Then screams, her own, another person’s. Someone picks her up, carries her over their shoulder with almost superhuman strength. Runs faster and faster, first across the snow and then across the ice, out towards the black eye while the skin on Laura’s back bubbles and boils like lava.

She sees the water coming closer. Manages to take a deep breath. The cold slices through her body, slowly extinguishes the lava on her back. She kicks out, trying to reach the surface but getting nowhere.

Something is grasping her foot. She opens her eyes, stares down into the darkness, kicks out again to free herself. Instead, the grip tightens and she is dragged down and down, away from the surface. Somehow, she is able to make out what is holding onto her: a pale female hand with nails like talons. She sees a face, beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

‘You are mine now, Laura,’ the nymph whispers through sharp, pointed fish-teeth. ‘Mine forever.’

She wakes up drenched in sweat with her heart racing. Sits up so abruptly that she frightens George, who jumps down off the bed.

‘It was only a nightmare,’ she murmurs, picking up the cat and cuddling her.

She hasn’t had that particular dream for twenty years, except for one occasion two years ago when she lost her daughter. She sees the little body in her mind’s eye, remembers the brief time she held her in her arms. So small, so beautiful. And yet all that remains of her is a tiny sleep suit, a piece of paper with hand- and footprints, and a flannel rabbit in a box hidden away in a storage unit in a cellar.

Andreas’s phone goes straight to voicemail, which is hardly surprising – it’s three o’clock in the morning. ‘Hi, it’s me,’ she says after the beep. Immediately regrets it and ends the call. Steph is right, she and Andreas are divorced. It’s high time she stopped leaning on him.

She puts George on the floor, slips on her shoes and goes into the kitchen. Then out through the front door and down to the shore.

Laura’s last memory of Gärdsnäset was being carried towards an ambulance on a stretcher. Even though it was only a fragment it felt incredibly detailed, seared onto her retina.

The blue lights, the people in uniform who seemed to be moving in slow motion. The glow from the burning dance hall that extended far into the trees, lengthening the shadows. The cold that had settled deep inside her, making her teeth chatter. And the all-pervasive stench of charred flesh.

Hedda was by her side, squeezing her hand. She was soaked to the skin, with ice crystals in her hair. One sleeve of her jacket was gone, the hand below it burned black. And yet she refused to leave Laura, repeating her name over and over again to keep her awake.

Laura, Laura. Please don’t go to sleep.

Two shadowy figures in the forest. A spotlight swept across, revealing them for an instant: Milla’s ripped jeans and hoodie, Jack’s ashen face. Their backs as they turned and ran.

‘That’s Ulf Jensen’s car,’ she heard someone say as the ambulance doors were slammed shut.

Her next memory was from the hospital. A mask over her mouth, hospital clothes, thin walls through which she could hear voices.

First, the lawyer who’d come down from Stockholm:

‘The body was found this morning. Such a tragedy. Apparently, the girl’s father has had a complete breakdown.’

Then her mother and father:

‘Have you seen the burns on her back? She’s going to be scarred for life! This is your fault, Hedda!’

‘Calm down, Madeleine. Flinging accusations around is no help at all. We need to concentrate on the practicalities. What happens next, Adolphson?’

The lawyer again:

‘I’ve spoken to Peter Larsson’s parents, and to Detective Inspector Sandberg. The Rask boy is currently the main suspect, both for this fire and the others. Sandberg and I have arranged to hold a joint interview here at the hospital. It’s important that we agree on a version of events.’

Hedda’s voice, angry and despairing:

‘What do you mean, a version? Iben was Laura’s best friend. They were all friends.’

The next memory was a day or so later. Her wheelchair was pushed into a room where Peter, Adolphson and the police officer with the boxer’s nose were sitting at a table – all in scrubs because of the risk of infection.

‘So who do you think did it?’ Sandberg asked with a smile.

‘Tomas,’ Peter replied, glancing at her with more than a hint of embarrassment.

After a second she nodded.

Next memory: she was back in her room. It was night-time, half the lights in the corridor were out. Jack was sitting by her bed, white-faced with fear in his eyes.

They’re after me. I have to get away from here!

He leaned forward, kissed her so tenderly that next morning she thought the whole thing had been no more than a dream. Then she saw the photograph on the bedside table – all the gang together in one last happy moment.

Don’t forget us, Princess!

And then it was all over. Dad flew her home to Hong Kong on a chartered medical transport plane. She wasn’t even allowed to say goodbye to Hedda. It was only later, when there were no letters from Hedda, that she understood why. Hedda was angry, not only with her parents but also with her. Maybe Milla had told her about the phone call as an act of revenge for being sent away, or maybe Hedda had worked it out for herself. Whatever the explanation, the fact remained: if Laura hadn’t called Källegården, if she hadn’t told on Jack and Iben, the fire would never have started. Iben would still be alive and Jack wouldn’t have had to run away.

In Hong Kong she was admitted to St Paul’s – the best care money could buy, as her father said. Her mother spent hours talking to the doctors about skin transplants and therapy, about how to erase all traces of Vintersjön as quickly as possible.

The scars, the memories, the people.

What none of them knew was that the nymph had sent something with her that night. A virus hidden among her nerve endings, a winter fire that burned both hot and cold at the same time, a fire that would never, ever let her forget what had happened.

Laura fills her lungs with the cold night air and exhales up towards the sky as she stands there on the shore.

Far out across the ice, the black eye stares back at her.