Simon moved to the edge and looked down. Joe held the torch steady, illuminating his slim, pale body high above the water.

Alex licked his lips. He ought to say something. Simon had never jumped from that height before, and doing it in the dark when he was drunk could be lethal. He glanced over at Tanya. Her eyes were fixed on Simon, and Alex felt a pang deep inside, an unpleasant iciness that was completely new. It felt a bit like fear, but it was something else. Simon looked hesitant now. He looked around, as if he’d sobered up, grasped where he was, and realised this wasn’t a good idea.

Alex knew exactly how that felt, how alone you were up there. Simon was bound to bottle it. The sickness passed and he was overcome by a wave of relief.

‘No way he’s got the nerve!’ he yelled, loud enough for Tanya to hear.

Simon was still hesitating. The chant lost its impetus, but Joe joined in again and got everyone clapping along.

‘Simon, Simon, Simon . . .’

Simon took a deep breath, looked at Tanya, then closed his eyes.

Took two rapid steps, leaped straight out into the darkness.

Shit, Alex thought.

Shit shit shit!

Chapter 17

17

Autumn 2017

The dream is back again. The claustrophobic hospital room, the smell of the yellow blanket, medication, death. The hum of the infusion pump that delivers relief through Håkan’s blood, making the unbearable fractionally less unbearable. A grey box with smooth rubber buttons that only need to be pressed in a certain order for the morphine to flow freely, without any restrictions, lulling him into the final sleep. She can see the sequence in her mind.

Three, three, seven, five, nine, two. Select.

That’s all it would take.

‘Help me, Anna!’

She suddenly realises that something in the dream has changed. The voice from the bed is not Håkan’s. It is not his sunken face on the pillow, but someone else’s. A young man with blond hair, surrounding his head like a halo. His eyes are staring up at the ceiling, which is now a lead-grey morning sky. Black water is seeping from beneath the covers, a trickle at first, then gathering force until the floor turns into a dark pool that swallows up the bed. The walls disappear and are replaced by rocks and trees in autumn colours.

‘Help me!’

She is standing in the water, close to the edge. It reaches her knees. A couple more steps and she will have to start swimming. Simon Vidje’s body is floating out there just beneath the surface, exactly as in the mural, but the water is moving, its shifting nuances making the face change constantly – from a pale young boy to an emaciated man, clinging on to life with the last of his strength.

‘Help me, Anna!’