The Fire Witness. Ларс КеплерЧитать онлайн книгу.
is sitting asleep in his child’s car seat. His head is hanging heavily on his chest and his comfort blanket has fallen onto the floor.
Before he fell asleep he was so tired that he was crying at everything. He cried because the car smelled nasty from his mum’s perfume, and because Super Mario had been eaten.
There are over two hundred kilometres to go until Sundsvall, and another four hundred and sixty before Stockholm.
Pia Abrahamsson needs to go to the toilet – she drank far too much coffee at the meeting.
There must an open petrol station soon.
She tells herself that she shouldn’t stop in the middle of the forest.
She shouldn’t, but she’s going to anyway.
Pia Abrahamsson, who every Sunday preaches that everything that happens, happens for a deeper purpose, is about to become the victim of blind, indifferent fate.
She pulls gently over to the side of the road by a logging track and stops by the locked barrier blocking the animal fence. Behind the barrier the stony track leads into the forest.
She thinks that she shouldn’t go out of sight of the road, and leaves the car door open so she can hear if Dante wakes up.
‘Mummy?’
‘Try to go back to sleep.’
‘Mummy, don’t go.’
‘Sweetheart,’ Pia says. ‘I just need to pee. I’ll leave the door open, so I’ll be able to see you the whole time.’
He looks at her sleepily.
‘I don’t want to be alone,’ he whispers.
She smiles at him and pats his sweaty little cheek. She knows she’s over-protective, that she’s turning him into a mummy’s boy, but she can’t help it.
‘It’s only for a really short time,’ she says cheerfully.
Dante clings onto her hand and tries to stop her going, but she pulls free and takes a wet-wipe from the packet.
Pia gets out of the car, ducks under the barrier, and walks up the track, then turns and waves to Dante.
Imagine if someone pulled in and filmed her on her their mobile phone while she was squatting with her backside exposed.
The images of the peeing priest would be all over YouTube, Facebook, forums, blogs and chat-rooms.
She shivers, steps off the track, and goes further into the trees. Heavy forestry machinery has churned up the ground.
When she’s sure she can’t be seen from the road, she pulls down her pants, steps out of them, then hoists up her skirt and squats down.
She can feel how tired she is, her thighs start to shake and she rests one hand on the moss that’s growing on the tree trunks.
Relief courses through her and she closes her eyes.
When she looks up again she sees something incomprehensible. An animal has got up onto two legs and is walking along the logging track, staggering and hunched over.
A thick figure covered in dirt, blood, and mud.
Pia holds her breath.
It isn’t an animal, it’s as if part of the forest has broken free and come to life.
Like a small girl made of twigs.
The apparition stumbles, but keeps walking towards the barrier.
Pia gets up and follows it.
She tries to speak, but her voice has vanished.
A branch snaps beneath her foot.
Gentle rain has started to fall on the forest.
She moves slowly, as if in a nightmare: she doesn’t seem to be able to run.
Between the trees she sees that the being has already reached the car. Dirty scraps of cloth are wrapped around the wrists of the bizarre girl.
Pia stumbles out onto the logging track and sees the creature sweep her handbag from the seat, get in, and close the door.
‘Dante,’ she gasps.
The car roars into life, drives over her mobile phone and keyring, pulls out into the road, hits the railing between the carriageways, straightens up, and vanishes into the distance.
Whimpering to herself, Pia runs to the barrier, feeling how her whole body is shaking.
It’s incomprehensible. The mud creature came out of nowhere, suddenly it was just there, and now the car and her son are gone.
She ducks under the barrier and walks out into the big, empty road. She doesn’t scream, she doesn’t seem to be able to. The only sound is her ragged breathing.
The forest flickers past, and raindrops patter against the large windscreen. Danish lorry driver Mads Jensen can see a woman standing in the middle of the road two hundred metres away. He swears to himself and blows the horn. He sees her flinch at the noise, but she makes no attempt to get off the road. The driver sounds the horn again, and the woman takes a slow step forward, raises her chin, and looks up at the approaching lorry.
Mads Jensen brakes, and feels the heavy articulated trailer pushing against the old Fliegel cab. He presses the brake pedal harder, the drive-shaft creaks, and the whole vehicle shudders before finally coming to a stop.
The engine winds down, and the rumble from the pistons becomes more audible.
The woman just stands there, three metres from the front of the lorry. Only now does the driver see that she is dressed as a priest under her denim jacket. A small rectangle of her white collar stands out against her black shirt.
The woman’s face is open and remarkably pale. When their eyes meet through the windscreen, tears start to run down her cheeks.
Mads Jensen puts the hazard lights on and gets out of the cab. The engine is radiating heat and a strong smell of diesel. When he walks around to the front of the vehicle the woman is leaning against one of the headlamps, gasping for breath.
‘What’s happened?’ Mads asks.
She looks up at him, wide-eyed. The amber glare of the hazard lights pulses over her.
‘Do you need help?’ he asks.
She nods, and he tries to lead her around the cab. The rain is getting harder, and it’s quickly getting dark.
‘Has someone hurt you?’
She resists, then goes with him and climbs into the passenger seat. He closes the door behind her and hurries around to get in the driver’s seat.
‘I can’t stay here, I’m blocking the whole road,’ he explains. ‘I have to move, is that OK?’
She doesn’t answer, but he sets the truck moving and switches on the windscreen wipers.
‘Are you hurt?’ he asks.
She shakes her head and claps one hand over her mouth.
‘My son,’ she whispers. ‘My …’
‘What are you saying?’ he asks. ‘What’s happened?’
‘She took my son …’
‘I’ll call the police. Is it OK if I call the police?’
‘Oh, God,’ she moans.
The