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Chapters (55)
  1. Cover
  2. Title
  3. A Walled-In Girl
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
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  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. The Five Lightning Strikes of Hamish Mackay
  31. The Five Lightning Strikes of Hamish Mackay
  32. A Mermaid Splashing
  33. 1
  34. 2
  35. 3
  36. 4
  37. 5
  38. 6
  39. 7
  40. 8
  41. 9
  42. And That was The End of That
  43. 1
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  48. 6
  49. 7
  50. 8
  51. 9
  52. 10
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  55. 13

The hall smelled of a summer cabin or an elderly person’s home. The house was older and more wooden than I had imagined, and though it was sunny outside, it was dark indoors. All the inside doors were closed. The varnished wood panelling of the walls reminded me of a ski lodge where we went when I was a child, to drink hot juice.

‘This is the kitchen and the living room,’ Pekka said, opening the door. He was as excited as a small boy and even his movements were quicker than usual.

I felt a pang, realizing how happy he was, being able to move back home.

It was a real rustic kitchen. It had an old wood stove, a rocking chair and a wall hanging. The floor was covered with long rag rugs. A few children’s books lay on the living-room floor, together with a Hungry Hippos game. There was a dirty coffee cup on the windowsill by the sofa. It was as if the room had fallen into an enchanted sleep four years ago. They hadn’t even tidied away the unfinished game.

The ceiling light in the kitchen flickered as Pekka con-nected the fridge-freezer to the wall. The freezer sighed and fizzed but it still started up. And with the sound of the freezer the kitchen came alive. Pekka peered into the fridge, sniffed and shut the door.

When I looked at the kitchen, it hit home for the first time that Pekka was older than me. It didn’t matter – it just crossed my mind. Perhaps it was the rag rugs. Or how big the house was. Or the hippo game. The manor house was big, too, but it wasn’t his. This was Pekka’s home: his hands and steps knew this place; his feet fitted into the boots by the door.

‘Well, then,’ Pekka said. ‘We’d better get started.’

Then he stood in the middle of the kitchen holding a bucket, but he didn’t start anything. I didn’t know what he wanted to start, exactly, nor if the thing had to do with the bucket, or with me. Maybe the enchanted sleep was still floating about in the room and freezing his brain.

‘Is there an upstairs?’ I asked.

Pekka swivelled round, came back to life, put the bucket away and rushed to the stairs.