The flats above the ground-level shops have started to display their Christmas lights. They normally come out in November or early December but when there’s been darkness, a local tragedy or an accident, they oftentimes get brought out weeks ahead of schedule. If the world outside is setting itself up to be black and cold, you have to do whatever you can to make life manageable. Some people light scented candles and bake cakes. They bring their SAD lamps out of storage and they buy themselves a challenging, new jigsaw puzzle. I game and I drink on weekends. Not weekdays, not anymore. I’m not sure if my drinking is a brain thing or a genes thing or what. But I had periods in London where I was taken advantage of. Weekends where I was left with an empty bank-account or purse. Mornings at the local clinic getting tested. Nights spent on friends’ sofas to get away from obsessive men. I battled to get back control and now I’ll fight to keep hold of it. Even if that means disappointing Noora. I’ll explain to her why I’m weird. That it’s me, not her.

I pick up a bunch of red roses in Konsum. They are blood-red, not bright red. These are dark, and every petal gives up its browns and its crimsons and its purples. A palette of mammalian blood that takes me back to that awful night in Visberg forest.

The town falls dark.

I cross over the street and almost get hit by a teenager on a high-pitch motorbike. He’s riding too fast along with his mate. Tweaked engines and sturdy helmets. Rebellious but not too rebellious. Easy rider but not too easy.

The bee on top of the Hive spins slowly.

I notice the pigeon spikes all around the Hive’s roofline. Thousands of upturned nails. A small songbird skewered on one, as if ready to roast over a naked flame; its feathers intact but its head reduced to a beautiful and delicate skull.

‘Come in out of that cold,’ says Margareta, opening the door, lit cigarette in hand. ‘We have so much to talk about.’

30

Margareta takes my coat and ushers me through a door marked ‘Private’.

She notices me sliding off my shoes and says, ‘Oh, no, keep them on if you like, dear. We always do. Germs are good for you, I say.’

All of a sudden I lose my appetite.

‘You eat meat, Tuva?’

‘I eat pretty much anything.’

‘Good for you,’ she says. ‘Pesky vegans get right on my tits. Emil, come in and say hello to Tuva.’

Emil approaches. He’s in over-washed jeans, so pale they’re almost white. Converse high-tops and a jock-style baseball jacket, the kind you see good-looking teenagers wear on American TV shows. His moustache has been oiled and the ends turn up slightly like a hairy smile.

‘Hi, Tuva.’

‘Hej, Emil.’