own children who were now playing relatively peacefully in the sand. The mere thought of one of them going missing made him break out in a sweat. It didn’t take him long to make up his mind. Even though Gösta hadn’t specifically asked for his help, Patrik knew he would like someone to assist him other than Mellberg.
‘I’ll come,’ he said. ‘Erica should be here in fifteen minutes or so, and then I can leave.’
‘Do you know where the farm is?’
‘I do,’ replied Patrik.
He knew all right. Lately, at home, he’d been hearing a lot about that particular farm.
Patrik pressed the red button to end the call and leaned forward to pull all three children close. They protested, and he got completely covered with sand. But he didn’t care.
‘You look a little funny,’ said Jessie.
The wind kept blowing her hair into her face, and she reached up to brush it back.
‘What do you mean by “funny”?’ said Sam, squinting up at the sun.
‘Well, you’re not exactly a … boating type.’
‘So what does a boating type look like?’
Sam turned the wheel to avoid another sailboat.
‘Oh, you know what I mean. They wear deck shoes with tassels, navy-blue shorts, a polo shirt, and a crew-neck sweater draped over their shoulders.’
‘And a captain’s hat, right?’ Sam added with a little smile. ‘How do you happen to know what a boating type looks like, anyway? You’ve hardly ever been out on a boat.’
‘Sure, but I’ve seen films. And pictures in magazines.’
Sam pretended not to know what she was talking about.
Of course he didn’t look like a typical boating type. With his ragged clothes, his raven-black hair, and kohl-rimmed eyes. With dirt under his fingernails that were bitten to the quick. But she hadn’t meant it as a criticism. Sam was the cutest guy she’d ever seen.
Jessie shouldn’t have said that stuff about boating types. Every time she opened her mouth she said something stupid. That’s what everyone had told her at the series of boarding schools she’d attended. They all said she was stupid. And ugly.
And they were right. She knew that.
She was fat and clumsy. Her face was spotty, and her hair always looked greasy, no matter how often she washed it. Jessie felt tears well up in her eyes, but she quickly blinked them away so Sam wouldn’t notice. She didn’t want to disgrace herself in front of him. He was the first friend she’d ever had. And the only one, ever since the day when he’d come over to her as she stood in a queue outside the Central Kiosk in town. He’d told her he knew who she was, and then she’d realized who he was.
And who his mother was.
‘Shit, how come there are so many people out here,’ said Sam, looking for an inlet that didn’t have two or three boats moored or anchored off shore.
Most of the best places were already taken by morning.
‘Fucking swimmers,’ he mumbled.
He managed to find a sheltered cleft on the back side of Långskär Island.
‘Okay, we’re going to pull in here. Could you jump ashore with the mooring line?’
Sam pointed to the rope lying on the deck in the bow of the boat.
‘Jump?’ said Jessie.
Jumping was not something she ever did. And definitely not from a boat on to slippery rocks.
‘It’s not hard,’ said Sam calmly. ‘I’ll stop the boat right before we get there. Crouch down in the bow so you can jump ashore. It’ll be fine. Trust me.’
Trust me. Was she even capable of such a thing? Trust someone? Trust Sam?
Jessie took a deep breath, crawled forward to the bow, took a tight grip on the rope, and crouched down. As the island got closer, Sam slowed their approach, and they slid gently and quietly towards the rocks where they would moor. Much to her own surprise, Jessie leapt from the boat on to the rocks, landing lightly, and still holding the rope in her hand.
She’d done it.
It was their fourth trip to the Hedemyr department store in two days, but there wasn’t much else to do in Tanumshede. Khalil and Adnan sauntered around the top floor among all the clothing and accessories on display. In the beginning Adnan had a hard time dealing with all the looks levelled at them, and the suspicion. By now he’d accepted that they attracted attention. They didn’t look like Swedes or talk like Swedes or move like Swedes. He probably would have stared too if he’d seen a Swede in Syria.
‘What the hell are you looking at?’ snapped Adnan in Arabic, turning towards a woman in her seventies who was staring at them.
No doubt she was keeping an eye on them to make sure they didn’t shoplift. Khalil could have told her that they would never take anything that didn’t belong to them. They wouldn’t dream of it. They weren’t brought up like that. But when she snorted and headed for the stairs to the ground floor, he realized it would be pointless.
‘What kind of people do they think we are? It’s always the same thing.’
Adnan continued cursing in Arabic and waving his arms around so he almost knocked over a lamp on a nearby shelf.
‘Let them think whatever they like. They’ve probably never seen an Arab before,’ said Khalil.
Finally he got Adnan to smile. Adnan was two years younger, only sixteen, and sometimes he still seemed like a boy. He couldn’t control his emotions; they controlled him.
Khalil hadn’t felt like a boy for a long time now. Not since the day when the bomb killed his mother and little brothers. The mere thought of Bilal and Tariq brought tears to his eyes, and Khalil quickly blinked them away so Adnan wouldn’t notice. Bilal was always getting into mischief, but he was such a happy kid, it was hard to be mad at him. Tariq was always reading and filled with curiosity; he was the boy everyone said would be something great one day. In a split second they were gone. Their bodies were found in the kitchen, with their mother lying on top of the boys. She hadn’t been able to protect them.
Clenching his fists, Khalil looked around, thinking about how his life was now. He spent his days in a small room in the refugee centre, or he roamed through the streets in this strange little town where they’d landed. Such a quiet and desolate place, lacking all smells and sounds and colours.
The Swedes went about in their own world, barely even greeting one another, and they seemed almost frightened if anyone addressed them directly. They all spoke so quietly, without gesturing.
Adnan and Khalil went downstairs and out into the summer heat. They paused on the pavement outside the department store. It was the same thing every day. So difficult to find anything to occupy their time. The walls of the refugee centre seemed to close in, as if trying to suffocate them. Khalil didn’t want to seem ungrateful. Here in Sweden he had a roof over his head and food in his belly. And he was safe. There were no bombs falling here. People lived without the threat of either soldiers or terrorists. Yet even in safety it was hard to live a life in limbo. Without a home, without anything to do, without purpose.
This was not living. It was merely existing.
Adnan sighed as he stood next to Khalil. In silence they headed back to the refugee centre.
Eva stood as if frozen to the spot, hugging her arms around her torso. Peter kept rushing around. He’d searched everywhere at least four or five times, lifting up bedclothes, moving the same boxes, calling Nea’s name over and over. But Eva knew it was pointless. Nea wasn’t here. She could feel her absence in her body.
She squinted her eyes, noticing a dot way off in the distance. A dot that got