same fireman as before, the one who usually came.
———
He sat on the right at the front of the fire engine. Officer in Charge Front Passenger Seat . He checked the outside rearview mirror, glanced over at the driver, turned around and looked at the lead firefighter, then at Number One, Number Two, they were all ready. They had responded to the call-out within eighty-two seconds, never more than ninety and they were proud of it—that they could call themselves the ninety-second crew every day, every time. And the journey hadn’t even taken a minute, fifteen hundred meters from Eriksberg station to Råby Allé, one of four addresses that required police contact or an escort on any call-out. And today they’d been to all four—Råbygången, Råby Backe, Albyvägen, Råby Allé.
Thom sighed.
For every real alarm, he figured on sixteen like this. Cars, bikes, mopeds, rubbish bins, fences, waste-paper baskets. Sixteen. And then one serious call-out.
He had just gone for a nap, it had been a long morning, he had put on his equipment and helmet five times and the smoke and strange feeling that you’re chasing shadows made his legs weak these days. He’d lain down but not been able to sleep in the fire station that he’d walked into twenty-two years earlier and was his security; eight weeks’ training as a firefighter had led to seven weeks’ training as an EMT, a few years working three days with the ambulance service and two days with the fire brigade, then an offer from the fire service college and a permanent position and the bed he’d just left and the corridor he’d just run down and the locker from where he’d just grabbed his helmet, uniform, and bulletproof vest.
Black smoke.
He wound down the side window.
It smelled of metal, oil, gas.
The first call-out, early that morning, Råby Allé 17—a moped. The second, a few hours later, Råby Allé 128—a container and two piles of tires. Now Råby Allé 46—it smelled and looked like a car.
He opened the door and the flames seemed to grow, the smoke get blacker. He could see faces, hear voices.
He couldn’t understand it.
They were burning their own environment.
He checked the straps of the bulletproof vest that he’d refused to wear for so long, and was about to climb down from the cab when a dull thud shuddered by his cheek, forehead, temple. The heavy, square paving stone had hit the reinforced side window with force; the thick glass, covered with some kind of protective plastic, had been installed when the hate had tipped over into violence a few years back.
He looked at the window that was still intact, leaned forward—the paving stone, the one that had been intended for his head, was lying down by the front tire.
“Abort.”
The driver, a young, shy man who had driven backwards and forward between the fire station in the Eriksberg industrial park and the Stockholm suburb of Råby five times since dawn, looked as if he hadn’t heard or understood the officer in charge’s order.
Thom raised his voice.
“Abort. Now .”
The large vehicle had just started to reverse when it suddenly stopped.
Thom saw the young face, red, flushed.
Then one behind, in front.
The fire engine was surrounded. He guessed around thirty, maybe even forty, young bodies in track pants and hoodies and faces that were hard to distinguish as they were blotted out by the smoke and burning gas.
They stood completely still and watched the car change color as it turned into a metal corpse.
When something hit the front screen they didn’t have time to react; the hard and sharp edges shattered the unprotected glass into snowflakes on the floor, the seat, the dashboard, drifts on his knees. The axe looked new and was quite short, maybe thirty centimeters, it had impacted in the metal frame, just above the driver’s head, a big gash in all the red.
“Drive.”
The threats. The hate.
But not this.
He had never been aggressive back, not once in all these years
———
He sat on the right at the front of the fire engine. Officer in Charge Front Passenger Seat . He checked the outside rearview mirror, glanced over at the driver, turned around and looked at the lead firefighter, then at Number One, Number Two, they were all ready. They had responded to the call-out within eighty-two seconds, never more than ninety and they were proud of it—that they could call themselves the ninety-second crew every day, every time. And the journey hadn’t even taken a minute, fifteen hundred meters from Eriksberg station to Råby Allé, one of four addresses that required police contact or an escort on any call-out. And today they’d been to all four—Råbygången, Råby Backe, Albyvägen, Råby Allé.
Thom sighed.
For every real alarm, he figured on sixteen like this. Cars, bikes, mopeds, rubbish bins, fences, waste-paper baskets. Sixteen. And then one serious call-out.
He had just gone for a nap, it had been a long morning, he had put on his equipment and helmet five times and the smoke and strange feeling that you’re chasing shadows made his legs weak these days. He’d lain down but not been able to sleep in the fire station that he’d walked into twenty-two years earlier and was his security; eight weeks’ training as a firefighter had led to seven weeks’ training as an EMT, a few years working three days with the ambulance service and two days with the fire brigade, then an offer from the fire service college and a permanent position and the bed he’d just left and the corridor he’d just run down and the locker from where he’d just grabbed his helmet, uniform, and bulletproof vest.
Black smoke.
He wound down the side window.
It smelled of metal, oil, gas.
The first call-out, early that morning, Råby Allé 17—a moped. The second, a few hours later, Råby Allé 128—a container and two piles of tires. Now Råby Allé 46—it smelled and looked like a car.
He opened the door and the flames seemed to grow, the smoke get blacker. He could see faces, hear voices.
He couldn’t understand it.
They were burning their own environment.
He checked the straps of the bulletproof vest that he’d refused to wear for so long, and was about to climb down from the cab when a dull thud shuddered by his cheek, forehead, temple. The heavy, square paving stone had hit the reinforced side window with force; the thick glass, covered with some kind of protective plastic, had been installed when the hate had tipped over into violence a few years back.
He looked at the window that was still intact, leaned forward—the paving stone, the one that had been intended for his head, was lying down by the front tire.
“Abort.”
The driver, a young, shy man who had driven backwards and forward between the fire station in the Eriksberg industrial park and the Stockholm suburb of Råby five times since dawn, looked as if he hadn’t heard or understood the officer in charge’s order.
Thom raised his voice.
“Abort. Now .”
The large vehicle had just started to reverse when it suddenly stopped.
Thom saw the young face, red, flushed.
Then one behind, in front.
The fire engine was surrounded. He guessed around thirty, maybe even forty, young bodies in track pants and hoodies and faces that were hard to distinguish as they were blotted out by the smoke and burning gas.
They stood completely still and watched the car change color as it turned into a metal corpse.
When something hit the front screen they didn’t have time to react; the hard and sharp edges shattered the unprotected glass into snowflakes on the floor, the seat, the dashboard, drifts on his knees. The axe looked new and was quite short, maybe thirty centimeters, it had impacted in the metal frame, just above the driver’s head, a big gash in all the red.
“Drive.”
The threats. The hate.
But not this.
He had never been aggressive back, not once in all these years
Similar Books
