Page 3 of The Sleepwalker
In her mind’s eye, she sees a lost boy walking through a forest with a bell around his neck.
She turns to the monitor, trying to push back those thoughts, and closes her eyes in an attempt to focus on the moment, the pleasure. Her breasts sway with each thrust, and she tenses her thighs and pelvic floor, clutching his arched back. She is getting close, and she relaxes for a few seconds, panting, before tensing her muscles again in a powerful orgasm.
She tries to keep quiet as her toes curl and sweat prickles on her scalp. On the street outside, she hears a car pull up.
Robert is still going, pumping harder and harder. He climaxes with a low sigh and then slumps on top of her, breathing heavily. His semen spills out of her, coating her thighs.
She can feel his heart pounding against her chest, against her own heart.
One beat after another, she thinks. A countdown.
For a while, they lie quietly, limbs still entwined. They should finish their wine, she thinks. Talk about their future together.
A heavy thud causes her to wake with a start in the darkness. The bedroom window is wide open.
There is a crash as one of the roof tiles breaks on the lawn, and then she hears a terrible scream.
1
The November sky above Vårberg centrum is the colour of cast iron. It is almost three in the morning, and the streets are deserted.
A police car cruises slowly past a shuttered beauty salon.
John Jakobsson and Einar Bofors sit in silence as they drive. The two officers stopped speaking almost a year ago, and neither says a word unless they absolutely have to.
The bag of leftovers from the fast food kiosk is on the floor by Einar’s feet, and the smell of grease fills the car.
John drums the wheel, thinking – as he so often does – about his older brother’s lifeless face as he stares out through the windscreen.
The lights from the entrance to the metro station are reflected in dusty window displays, and the ground between the pillars in the arcade is littered with rubbish, leaves and broken glass. Outside the charity shop, there are a couple of discarded spray cans, plastic bags and flattened cardboard boxes.
The two police officers are both lost in thought as they pass the parking area and turn right at the Ethiopian church.
Heavy snowflakes have begun to dance through the air in the light from the streetlamps, making the area look like something out of a fairytale.
To John, it feels like an unwelcome reminder of hischildhood.
The milky glow from the touchscreen of the mobile data terminal illuminates his tight grip on the wheel.
Einar has just taken out a pot of snus when a call comes in from regional command.
A break-in has been reported at the campsite in Bredäng.
Einar responds to the call as John turns off behind the supermarket, drives around the green recycling bins and pulls back out onto the road.
‘The campsite’s closed for the season, and the owner’s in Florida,’ the dispatcher explains. ‘But the security cameras are linked to his phone, and he can see a light in one of the caravans.’
Without turning on the siren or blue lights, John accelerates along the empty road, passing apartment blocks and the old power station.
The wipers sweep the snowflakes from the windscreen.
Neither officer says anything, but they both know that the break-in is probably just someone trying to avoid freezing to death. Someone without a home or papers, an addict or someone with mental health issues.
The usual.
They pass the Scandic hotel and turn off onto Skärholmsvägen.
Almost five years ago, John picked the lock on his older brother’s room and found Luke slumped on the floor beside his bed, his lips blue. The yellowed rubber tie was slack around his arm, and the blood-stained cotton ball had stuck to his Nirvana T-shirt.
