Page 118 of The Living and the Dead

“Yes, near Fegen. When we arrived, I saw someone lurking around the edges of the encampment, and he seemed out of place somehow. Or maybe he was just a newcomer. But he seemed familiar, and I wondered if he could be Hampus Olsson, who ran away from home at Christmas in 1999. I started looking for him, and eventually, mostly thanks to sheer luck, I ended up in possession of the cap he must have been wearing. After that, we started to search the area, with human chains.” Her voice was restrained, as though each word was full of pain. “Eventually I ended up talking to a farmer out in Mjäla.”

“I saw that. But what happened next? There’s no follow-up in the material.”

“Nothing,” Siri said curtly. “Nothing happened after that.”

Which was perfectly true, but it wasn’t the whole story.

88

As they drove through Halmstad, everything seemed distorted. Killian was in the passenger seat with a can of beer in his hand, watching the edge of the road. He leaned against the headrest and said, more to himself than to Sander:

“Oh, so this is how it looks now. It’s all so different.” He frowned as if this were an important realization. “At least, I think it is. I don’t actually remember what it used to look like. It feels weird to come home.”

He turned away again, as though the sight made him feel dejected. They sailed across Wrangelsleden and onto Highway 26 toward Oskarström.

“Quite a bit has changed,” Sander confirmed, mostly just for something to say.

“Home,” Killian went on, as if pondering the word itself. “When we were eighteen, it was such a simple word. Wasn’t it? Not for you, maybe, since all you wanted was to leave.”

He said it without accusation, just a statement of fact.

“But I stayed,” Sander said softly.

“You did.” Killian took a sip of beer. “It’s nice, though. Seeing you, I mean.”

“Same to you.”

Sander didn’t know if he meantit.

“Do you have kids?”

“The jackets you saw in the hall are a little too small for me,” Sander said, but when Killian didn’t seem to catch on, he clarified: “I’ve got two.”

“Wow.”

“Are you surprised?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t picture you with kids.”

“Me neither, but then I grew up.”

They were approaching Oskarström. The sun was slowly sinking, but dusk was still hours away. The drive leading to the cemetery parking lot was narrow, and Sander slowed down. No cars here now. Killian straightened up in his seat, preparing himself.

“Have you seen it?” Killian asked as they climbed out of the car. “The headstone.”

“Many times.”

“So you know the way?”

Sander hesitated. “I mean, I haven’t been here in real life.”

“So you haven’t seen the stone?”

“Not for real, no.”

Sander squinted at the sun and drank his beer. It was lukewarm by this point. He’d drunk alcohol and driven his car, and now he was drinking again. He would never drink and drive otherwise, but it was like he was underwater, or in a fog, and everything was dreamy and slightly distorted by waves and white veils. Maybe that was why he wasn’t afraid of being caught, wasn’t scanning for police cars or other people who might spot them, recognize them, break the two of them apart again.

They stepped down into the cemetery and began to walk among the gravestones. Sander read:Rest in peace. We miss you. Beloved grandmother, mother, sister. Beloved son, father, grandfather. Beloved grandma and mom. Beloved wife. Beloved husband and father. Beloved son. Beloved papa and brother. Beloved father and grandfather. Beloved mother and friend.No beloved soul got out of this place alive.