Forsfjäll moved away to sit with the other teachers, the ones who could relax and cross their legs and knew how to make conversation. Lelle saw Anette sitting on one of the wooden chairs, talking and waving her arms about like she always did when speaking to a group of listeners. She was wearing a tight dark jumper, which made it impossible to miss the hard little bump above her jeans. He put his hand on the windowsill as his legs turned to jelly, and he heard his coffee slop on the floor and then the rustle of their shirts and blouses as they turned to him with their sympathy. The floor rocked under his feet as he hurried away. He thought he could hear them shouting after him. Poor devil! How do you cope?

She had no warning when he came, only the squealing hinges and the door that clanged against the toilet bucket. If the light was off he pulled the cord and peered down at her, and his stare burned through her eyelids, even when she pretended to be asleep. After he had convinced himself she was alive, he reached for the buckets and left. She had time to see a staircase behind him, but no daylight. He always emptied the dark urine from one bucket and filled the other with fresh water before returning. It left dark pools on the cement.

The door locked automatically. She never heard any keys. Right at the beginning, when she was stronger, she would try to attack him as he came in with the buckets. She would stand by the door and hurl herself at him as he stepped over the threshold, and the water would splash everywhere. He had struck out and hit her on her back with the metal bucket with such force that she couldn’t stand up afterwards. She couldn’t even protest when he lifted her back on to the bunk and stroked her with his disgusting hands. He patted her as if she were an animal that had to be calmed down before the slaughter.

His face was covered by a balaclava and through the holes his eyes looked pale against the black cloth. She had never seen his hair and got the idea he didn’t have any, that his head was bare and misshapen underneath.

It was difficult to judge his age. She guessed he was younger than her father, but couldn’t be sure. He dominated the little room. His back and shoulders loomed over the raw concrete walls as he stood by the door. But she couldn’t be sure if he really was a big man in the outside world. His movements were light, despite his thick, workman’s boots, and he always smelled of sour new sweat, as if he had been running. His voice was like velvet when he spoke, and low, as if his vocal cords sat deep in his stomach.