Fire (10 page)

It was just a fantasy. A sick quirk of her mind. Or was it? So far, Ida has only seen into the past and never had any visions of the future. So far.

She lets the bike fall to the garage floor and runs straight upstairs to her room to unlock the old bridal chest at the foot of her bed. That’s where she keeps the
Book of Patterns
and the Pattern Finder.

Lying on her front on the carpet, she opens the book and focuses with her eye pressed close up to the gleaming silver loupe. Twists the segments.

Was that a real vision I just had? Showing the future? Will that thing with Dad and the mower come about?

The signs on the page tremble. Some become fluid and look like ink spreading in water. Others develop sharper outlines, form a pattern. Once Ida learned to interpret the book, she felt that she had access to an utterly new alphabet, forming new words with new meanings. She doesn’t receive messages as strings of words. They arrive directly into her brain. Sometimes they are completely incomprehensible.

This time, the book’s answer is perfectly clear.

No.

A huge wave of relief. Ida is just about to shut the book when the signs tremble again.

The future is uncertain.

Ida’s forehead wrinkles as she concentrates on the open page.

What does that mean?
she asks herself.
That nothing is certain? Isn’t it certain that the apocalypse will come?

The book takes its time to formulate the answer.

The final battle will take place.

After that, it becomes vague. Fragments of information materialise in Ida’s consciousness and she tries to fit them together. Something about possible choices of road. Greater or lesser probabilities.

She leafs onwards and twists the Pattern Finder. Concentrates on her next question.

So, there are several possible futures?

The book replies almost instantly.

Yes.

And then:

No
.

Hey, make up your mind
, Ida thinks before she can stop herself.

The signs dissolve, run into each other and turn into an unreadable mess. She worries that she has angered the book and focuses again, as hard as she can.

If there are different futures … will I be together with G in one of them?

The book is still. And then the signs move again.

You are special, Ida. Do not forget our agreement. You must collaborate with the Circle until the last battle has been fought. Then you will get your reward. Keep your promise to me, and I will keep mine to you.

Ida sighs.

She has told the others that she can no longer see anything in the
Book of Patterns
. And, strictly speaking, she hasn’t.
At least, nothing that the others need to know. Nothing that might help them.

Ever since she learned to read the book it has made her the same promise: she
will
be relieved of her powers and all that has to do with the Chosen Ones. She only has to put up with everything until they have stopped the apocalypse.

Darkness has fallen by the time Vanessa reaches the block of flats. She wonders if Linnéa is at home and looks up at the windows on the top floor.

She has been walking through Engelsfors, still in the grip of that unreal feeling. The town is like a large film set and the few people she encounters are extras.

A few hours to go and then they are to meet in the cemetery again. Vanessa has played another one of her alibi cards and told her mother that she is sleeping over at Michelle’s.

Suddenly, a red light comes on in a window on the seventh floor and Vanessa knows that Linnéa is there. She might have seen her from above. Listened in on her thoughts, perhaps? Sensed that it was Vanessa down there?

There is nothing Vanessa wants more than a chance to forgive Linnéa. She longs for this so much it hurts. Linnéa is the only one in the whole world to whom she doesn’t need to lie.

A wind rushes along the street. It stirs up dust that starts whirling around Vanessa. Small grains of gravel roll across the tarmac at her feet. She glances at the shrubs between the block of flats. They are quite still.

The wind blows only around Vanessa. She comes out in goose pimples when she feels it wafting across her skin, playing with her hair. It feels the way it does when she becomes invisible, but this sensation is stronger.

The wind blows only for a few more moments and then it dies down.

Vanessa walks away, after looking up at Linnéa’s window once more.

Minoo can’t figure out which is worse. Is it when her mum and dad are screaming at each other, or the moments just before they start? Suppressed irritation is simmering inside every sentence. One word, one look can be the spark that ignites the row.

There was a time when she looked forward to their meals together. These days, she is relieved every time Mum is on night shift at the hospital or Dad works overtime. Supper with the two of them is just about as nice and relaxing as a picnic in the trenches.

‘This damned heat,’ Dad says and wipes his forehead with the napkin. ‘Pass me the salt, Minoo, please.’

Mechanically, she hands him the salt mill. No need to look at Mum to realise that her face registers disapproval. And no need to look at Dad to know that he replies with a glance that says it’s his decision, no one else’s. He seems to twist the salt mill round a few extra turns to underline that he won’t be bossed about. The silence at the table is so total that the mill sounds like a stone crusher.

White flakes scatter over the fish and the potatoes. Her father will be fifty-four soon. Minoo’s paternal grandfather died from a heart attack at just that age.

Minoo prods the dry piece of salmon with her fork and hopes that Mum won’t say anything about the salt or the
fact that Dad has not put any of the vegetables on his plate.

‘How was your first day back at school?’ Mum asks.

‘Fine. We’ve got a new class teacher, Ylva, who seems pretty dull. We’ll have her in maths and physics.’

‘She can’t measure up to Max, can she? Teachers like him don’t come along often.’

Mum looks understanding, but understands nothing. Minoo drinks water, several mouthfuls to wash the salmon down.

‘Such a sad business,’ Mum continues. ‘He must have been lying there, what is it – half a year? Or even longer …’

‘Could we please talk about something else?’ Minoo says.

‘Yes, you leave her be. Minoo doesn’t want to think about all that,’ Dad says.

‘Of course I will,’ Mum replies softly, but her glance in Dad’s direction is razor-sharp. ‘All I meant was that I understand how hard it must be for Ylva to be compared with a teacher Minoo liked so much. And unlike you, Erik, I must say I think it’s important to speak about difficult subjects once in a while.’

‘And there’s a new guy in the class as well,’ Minoo says before Dad has time to respond. ‘Viktor Ehrenskiöld. He’s from Stockholm.’

‘Ehrenskiöld, now. That’s the name of the people who bought the manor house,’ Dad says.

As editor of the
Engelsfors Herald
, Minoo’s father finds out about everything that happens in the town, every row between neighbours and every item of expenditure, however small, in the local authority budget.

‘Do you know anything about them?’ Minoo asks.

‘Father and son. Ehrenskiöld senior is a day trader. Wired into the markets twenty-four hours at a time, buys and sells stocks and whatever else. And earns serious amounts
of money. I was talking to Bertil, who’s selling the manor, and he told me that both father and son are upper-class bullies.’

‘I didn’t know the world according to Bertil featured any other kind of Stockholmers,’ Mum sneers.

‘Actually, he does come across as a bit overbearing,’ Minoo says quickly. ‘I mean Viktor.’

‘He might simply feel insecure, Minoo.’

‘Or else he’s just some stuck-up bastard,’ Dad says. ‘Not everything can be psychoanalysed and explained away.’

‘Oh dear, no …
why
should one try to understand other human beings?’ Mum says. ‘And especially
Stockholm folk
. Honestly, Erik, you’re becoming more of an Engelsforser with every passing year.’

There it is. The spark. Their eyes lock. Dad’s face shifts from pink to traffic-light red in an instant.

‘And your point is, Farnaz?’

‘No need to shout,’ Mum says in that superior, frozen voice that they take turns to use when they fight. When one of them shouts, the other one is as cold as ice.

‘I’m not shouting!’ Dad bellows and throws his fork down.

It flies across the table and lands with a ringing noise on the floor near Minoo.

She’d like to throw it back at him. Instead she gets up and takes her plate to the worktop by the sink. Her mother and father don’t seem to notice when she leaves the kitchen.

Minoo runs upstairs to her room, closes the door and turns on some music. Ups the volume until she can no longer hear the voices that find their way up through the floorboards.

She sinks down on the bed, tries to calm her breathing and concentrate on the song.

Is there any love left between her mother and father?

Over the years, they have both hugged and kissed her but they don’t touch each other very often, or ever say: ‘I love you.’

Perhaps they hang on for my sake, Minoo thinks. Like Gustaf’s parents. What if they’re just waiting for me to move out so they can divorce at last?

It is a terrible, shaming thought. As if she was a shackle that chained them together

On the ground floor, the door of her father’s study slams and the bang echoes right through Minoo. Her mother shrieks something after him. They behave more like teenagers than Minoo ever has.

She looks at the large sports bag on the floor. In it, she has packed three spades, a couple of torches, a crowbar and a large bottle of water. She had never imagined that, just to get away from home, she would happily run off to dig up a grave in the middle of the night.

But she must wait until they have gone to sleep.

She opens the drawer in the bedside table and takes out the
Book of Patterns
and the Pattern Finder. Maybe something has gone wrong with the book, but she won’t give up.

She slides her fingers over the worn, black cover. Two circles, a smaller one inside a larger, have been embossed into the leather. She opens the book and lets her fingers leaf through it while she concentrates on her question.

What is my power?

She puts the Pattern Finder to her eye and starts twisting the different segments.

What is my power?

Something flits through her consciousness. She fixes her eyes on the page again. Waits. But nothing happens.

Linnéa walks along the lit street leading to the cemetery, taking in the sounds of the night. The crickets playing in the dry grass. The distant rumble of a train on its way southwards.

Then, behind her, a sudden something. A shuffling sound on the tarmac.

Linnéa turns around.

Nobody there.

But she was so convinced that she had heard something.

Linnéa focuses her magic. When she knows whose mind she is reading it is easier to catch hold of thoughts but, even so, she projects a few probes into the shadows.

Nothing there.

Linnéa starts walking again, in a hurry now.

No one else has arrived at the cemetery yet. She settles down to wait by the wall, looking up at the starry sky.

She is thinking of all the nights she spent with Elias, nights when they wandered together through the most abandoned quarters of Engelsfors. They could keep talking for hours on end. Elias never tried to give upbeat advice, but he made things seem easier. He was the only one she allowed to see her cry. The only one she allowed to comfort her. But he needed her, too. She wants to feel needed again.

If only he was here now. If only she could tell him …

Linnéa goes rigid when she senses Vanessa’s energy coming closer. Soon afterwards, a pale figure materialises on the road.

Linnéa stands up. Thoughts flow quickly through her head. She has been hoping all summer for a chance to have a moment alone with Vanessa. But now, when the opportunity is at hand, she doesn’t know how to deal with it.

She goes to meet her.

‘Hi, Vanessa.’

Vanessa slows down, then stops. Her eyes are shiny. The mascara has run a bit.

‘Hi,’ she mumbles.

Linnéa wants nothing except to touch Vanessa, hold her close and comfort her.

‘What’s happened?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

But Linnéa has noticed already. The thin engagement ring is gone.

‘Have you broken up with Wille?’ she asks.

And regrets it instantly. But it is too late. Vanessa’s eyes become hard.

‘Stop poking about in my mind, would you?’

Linnéa could explain about the ring, that she has no need to read Vanessa’s mind, but she is suddenly far too angry. Vanessa has judged her in advance.

If only Vanessa knew what an effort it takes not to pick up her thoughts. How hard it is to resist the temptation, even though she could find out what Vanessa truly feels about her, if there was any hope at all …

‘It’s hardly necessary to read your mind to work out that it’s over between you,’ Linnéa hears herself say.

Vanessa stares at her. And abruptly turns around. Not quickly enough, though. Linnéa has time to see that Vanessa has started crying again.

Fuck, fuck, fuck … why did it end up like this?

Linnéa clenches her hand so hard that the nails cut into her palm. This was her chance to talk with Vanessa, reach out to her and apologise, and instead she has ruined the moment. Typical, she ruins everything – whatever she touches seems to break.

Vanessa’s shoulders are heaving. Every sob cuts into Linnéa. She usually hates asking to be forgiven, but now she
wants to say sorry until there are no more sorries left in the universe.

Suddenly, Vanessa falls silent. Minoo and Anna-Karin are coming along the road, still at a distance. They are carrying a large sports bag between them. Ida, with a spade in her hand, is following a little way behind them.