The Fire Witness

17

The floorboard creaks under his weight as Joona steps into the cramped room. There are three girls there. The youngest is no more than twelve. She has pink skin and copper hair and sits on the floor, leaning against the wall, while she watches television. She is whispering to herself, then she suddenly bangs the back of her head against the wall. A second later, she’s watching the show again.

The other two girls pay no attention to her. They’re lounging together on a brown corduroy sofa and flipping through a fashion magazine.

A psychologist from the district hospital in Sundsvall enters the room behind Joona and sits down on the floor next to the little red-haired girl.

“My name is Lisa,” she says. “What’s your name?”

The girl does not take her eyes off the television. It’s showing a rerun of an episode from Blue Water High. The volume is loud and the cool glow from the screen washes over their faces.

“Have you heard the fairy tale of Thumbelina?” asks Lisa. “I sometimes feel the way she does, as small as a thumb. How do you feel?”

“Like Jack the Ripper,” the girl answers, her eyes on the show.

Joona sits down in an armchair in front of the television. One of the girls on the sofa looks at him with wide eyes, but returns to her magazine with a smile when he greets her. She’s a big girl. She’s bitten her nails to the quick. She wears jeans and a black sweater that has “Razors pain you less than life” written on it. She’s wearing blue eye shadow and there’s a glittering hair band around her neck. The other girl looks older and is wearing a cutoff T-shirt with a picture of a horse, a choker with white beads around her neck, and is using a rolled-up military jacket as a pillow. There are injection scars on the insides of her elbows.

The older one says, “Indie? Did you get a look before the cops got here?”

“I don’t want nightmares,” the hefty girl says lazily.

“Poor little Indie,” the older one teases.

“And?”

“Afraid of nightmares!”

“So what?”

“You’re such an egomaniac.”

“Shut up, Caroline!” yells the little red-haired girl.

“Miranda’s been murdered,” Caroline says, “and all you care about is your nightmares.”

“Oh, shit on Miranda. Thank God I don’t have to deal with her anymore,” Indie says.

“You’re sick.” Caroline smiles.

“She’s the one who was sick, always burning me with her cigarette butts-”

“Stop your bitching,” the red-haired girl says.

“-and hitting me with the jump rope,” Indie says.

“You’re the real bitch,” says Caroline with a sigh.

“Okay, I’m the bitch, if that makes you feel better,” Indie retorts. “Too bad the idiot is dead, but I for one-”

The little red-haired girl bangs her head against the wall again and then closes her eyes. The front door opens and Gunnarsson escorts the two runaways inside.