105

Ingimar coughed and blinked hard, but could see nothing through the smoke except the pattern on the Spanish rug right in front of his eyes. He could feel the handcuffs behind his back, then one of the police officers crouched behind him, hauling his hands high so that he was completely helpless and pain shot through his shoulders.

He had no notion of how all this had happened. He had dozed off on the sofa with Anton, and a moment later he found himself here on the floor in handcuffs. He had the impression that all of the police officers were in black, wore helmets and were armed; this had to be the Special Unit.

‘Anton,’ he tried to call, but his voice was drowned out by the shouts and noise of the police team. Somewhere in the din and the smoke he was sure he could hear Anton’s voice calling, ‘Dad!’

‘Anton! Anton!’ he shouted, before it dawned on him that he might have more success calling to the policemen so that they might treat the boy more gently than they had him. ‘The boy’s only fifteen,’ he yelled. ‘He’s fifteen!’

The police officer behind him shoved his knee harder into his lower back until his vision began to darken. When he was again able to concentrate, the smoke had mostly dissipated from the living room and the noise level had dropped enough for him to make out words.

‘Ingimar Magnússon you are hereby under arrest for terrorism. You are not obliged to answer questions about the matter on which you are charged. You have the right to a lawyer, and the police are obliged to respect your wishes in appointing legal representation. On arrival at a police station you will be given a sheet of information establishing these points, which you are obliged to sign.’

Ingimar stared at the feet of the police officer giving this speech, and then craned his neck to see Anton. As soon as he saw him, he felt the fear overwhelm him. Anton sat in a chair in front of him, a burly police officer training a weapon on him. Anton stared back at his father and as their eyes met, the tears began to roll down the boy’s cheeks. The look on his face was the one he’d had as a little boy when he had done something seriously naughty.

Terrorism meant the explosion yesterday. There was no other explanation. Anton nodded, as if he was reading his father’s thoughts.

‘Dad…’ he gasped as two police officers hauled Ingimar to his feet. But Ingimar managed to hush the boy, frowning so that Anton understood that he was telling him to keep quiet. He was silent.