It was close to eleven at night…

It was close to eleven at night when Diana rolled into Kiruna. The festival was over and an unnatural stillness enveloped the city. It made her uneasy to think that people had been partying while she was gone. Partying wildly. Chugging beer out of plastic cups. Belting songs out at the bright night sky in a collective, pagan frenzy. Status Quo had played. Like some kind of subtle propaganda. Dear local residents! We’re going to tear down your houses and move the city but everything’s going to stay the same.

Her dad had always been peeved the carousel would keep turning after he got off, but she had never understood why. Wasn’t that just the way of things? Now, as she drove down Malmvägen and met a lorry that said LINDSTRÖM’S CARNIVAL, she felt she knew what he meant. The infuriating thing wasn’t that the carousel kept turning, the infuriating thing was that you fooled yourself into thinking you were an inseparable part of it. She thought to herself it must be the remnants of some grandiose developmental phase. A psychological foetal membrane protecting humanity from the awful truth: the world is just fine without you. While you’re trapped in the car boot of death, other people are clapping to the beat of Status Quo.

She parked in front of the garage and climbed out. She had driven without breaks; her back hurt and her neck. A mild evening. Almost summer. They’d had snow just a week before. The ground had been covered.

*

Håkan was lying on the bed with his tablet on his belly, its light falling across his face like a blue mask. He had earphones on and was breathing heavily like an old man. Kiruna could be seen as a small lump under the covers. One foot was sticking out.

She watched them without announcing her presence. Stood there in the door like a recently dead ghost watching her old family. What was left of it. Normality like a membrane. Which she didn’t want to rupture, so instead of announcing her presence, she went straight to the bathroom.

She inspected herself in the mirror while the tub was filling. Polychrome like a crime victim in a Polaroid picture. And the man who had caused her injuries, he was dead. Probably still out there like some kind of bizarre beach find. Maybe the gulls had found him. Though maybe they didn’t eat people. Then again, maybe they did. They were probably pragmatic creatures.