Then there it was; her smile returned. She ran her hand down my thigh. “Also,” she said, “how can you possibly be so hard?” And when we kissed it felt as if she meant it, for the first time in months. She held me close, pushed her tongue deep into my mouth. I ran my hand down her back, let it rest, flat, at the base of her spine. She bit my lip and I pushed her forward and onto me.

The doorbell. A two-tone chime.

I pulled away. “Fuck,” I said.

“Fuck,” said Elsa.

The doorbell rang a second time.

Two

“You’re going to have to answer,” I said. “I am going to have to shower.”

“Okay,” she said, getting up. She turned. “Although, actually, why?”

I got off the bed, threw on my dressing gown, began to walk toward the bathroom. “Because I am not answering the door to your father in this state.”

“Okay, that is not an image that I want in my mind.”

“Or your father’s.”

“You made your point.” She bent down, picked up her dress, pulled it easily over her head and down, smoothed it around her thighs. “Go take your shower, Cal.”

I showered my erection away, braced, swearing as icy needles of water bombarded my shoulders, cascaded down my chest, and on to my groin. I took shampoo from the bottle, lathered it into my hair, then stepped forward so that my head was fully under. I counted to thirty through gritted teeth, then reached out and turned off the tap.

In the bedroom I pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. Elsa and her father were next door in the living room, their voices hushed. Odd. You could barely hear them, but it was enough to put me on edge. Elsa’s pitch was wrong, as if her voice had slipped out of tune.

My phone chimed. A text message on the lock screen, from a number unknown.

CELEBRATE

Cheers, I thought. Whoever you are. There was an attachment. A video. I turned the phone on the side so it filled the screen, pressed play. A screenful of black.

I deleted it.

I found a pair of black trousers in the drawer of the wardrobe and pulled them on, then went to join my wife in the living room.

“Hey, Cal,” said Henrik.

“Henrik, hey.”

The television was on, though neither of them was looking at it. On the screen a building, indistinct in the smoke.

Henrik watched me as I crossed the floor to greet him. A strong jaw; his daughter’s eyes, like a waiting animal, patient and appraising, all senses firing. He drew me toward him, hugged me solemnly, then looked questioningly at Elsa.

“What is it?” I said.

“There’s been an explosion in town,” said Elsa.

“A big one,” said Henrik.

I looked at Elsa. Elsa nodded.