He closed his eyes and let out a dark groan; in the next moment, he was overcome with a sense of acute revulsion. It happened every time. She tried to stop him when he wanted to pull out, but he tore free so violently he almost fell out of bed.

In his aroused state, his ears had caught a sound he’d been able to process. He snatched up a towel and wrapped it around his waist while he ran toward the front door.

William was crossing the yard at a brisk pace.

Anders called out after him and he turned around.

His backpack slung over one shoulder. An uncomprehending, grief-stricken face.

He knew he should go over to him and say something and hug him, but it was as though he couldn’t leave the house. Like the gravel was a sound. They just stood there staring at each other from opposite beaches and eventually, the boy left. Trudged off with his head bowed.

Anders sank down onto the front steps. He couldn’t go after him and he didn’t want to go back inside, into the twilight of the bedroom with its powerful sex smell.

After a while, she came outside. She sat down next to him, wrapped in a cotton shirt. He looked at her furtively.

‘Do you dislike me wearing her clothes?’

He made no reply. He sat watching the opening between the lilacs, where the spectre of William seemed to linger like the trembling remnants of a mirage.

‘Her H&M clothes. That reek of fabric softener. Smell it. Can you smell the shiny green apples?’

‘Stop.’

Her fingers were brown like an Indian’s and she pulled them into the sleeves of the shirt.

‘You’re wondering if he saw us. He didn’t.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I heard him coming. And he didn’t venture beyond the hallway. But  he did hear us.’

‘Why didn’t you say something?’

She giggled at him.

They sat in silence for a while.

‘We can bring him if you want.’

He looked at her.

‘We can bring him with us when we go.’

‘No, we can’t.’

She got to her feet.

‘Then stop sulking.’

Grete sat gazing out the window…

Grete sat gazing out the window, her scarf-covered little head propped against the wall. Filled with light, her eyes beamed like two yellow lamps. Her red lips had stiffened in a melancholic smile. Lennart took a seat and studied her, but she was in a world of her own.

‘How’s your hand?’

He looked at the bandage but said nothing.

‘When I was young, I chopped off my foot. I did it two or three times. Two times. Then I gave up.’

She pulled off her glove and held her hand up to her face, turning it this way and that. Her ring finger and pinkie were grey and woolly and bent like an old monkey’s.