had he hated back. He had chosen not to see them—the few hundred who disrupted the lives of twelve thousand.
A gob of spit.
“Drive.”
He had leaned forward through the window that was no longer there and the gob landed on his neck, one of them standing nearby, the spit now running down his chest.
The next one landed on the face, dribbled down his nose, cheek, chin.
A boy.
He was just . . . a boy.
Twelve, maybe thirteen years old, the slicked-back hair, the heavy gold chain, a child dressed up like the adult he wasn’t and would never live long enough to be, and his boy’s mouth grinned as he pointed to the axe and then turned to the thirty or forty others who were guarding the fire engine, then spat again. Thom wasn’t sure what, but something burst deep, deep inside and he didn’t look at the driver with the tense, youthful face, but heard his own voice, loud and clear.
“ Drive .”
“Drive?”
“They’ll move on. Let it burn.”
———
Cheek and forehead against the windowpane.
Was she imagining it? Though the flames were long gone, it felt warmer now, as if the heat from a burning car had risen on the black smoke and was now washing over the building and the people who lived there.
Ana recognized him.
She had seen him many times before. He never shouted. Not like the others. He looked straight through them, just carried on with his work, putting out the fire, not a word, never.
This time, he’d been scared.
His abrupt, agitated movements, his eyes, he had looked at them, studied them.
First the stone. Then the axe.
But probably most of all the gob of spit, saliva hit harder, cut deeper than metal.
The car was still burning when the large, red vehicle reversed out of the parking lot and the ring of track pants and hoodies dispersed. She recognized the sudden, loud bang of a gas tank exploding, a sound as shattering as the recent sirens.
She sat down on the narrow wooden windowsill and looked out at the metal that was turning black and the flames that had been given new life, rubbed her forehead and cheek against the windowpane, and felt sure that it was getting hotter.
A world within the world.
Identical concrete buildings that faced the E4 like a wall and everyone driving past at a hundred and ten kilometers an hour.
They had nowhere to go because there was nothing to leave.
They had nowhere to go because there was nothing to leave.
Identical concrete buildings inside a wall that kept the rest out.
A world within the world.
Lennart Oscarsson stood at his window, stretched. Aspsås over there with identical roofs and deserted playgrounds in a tiny town, Aspsås in here with gravel yards and rectangular soccer fields in an even smaller space. He wanted security, he spent his nights in an idyll but would never understand why he had chosen to spend his days in a high security prison, one of three Swedish maximum security prisons for only the most dangerous criminals with long prison sentences.
He stretched again, swallowed a persistent yawn, and walked over to the door as someone had knocked, a timid hand on the boss’s closed door. Martin Jacobson. And a very young woman whom Oscarsson had only met briefly at an interview and vaguely recognized, but had never really spoken to.
“Julia. Julia Bozsik. I work in Block D. D1 Left.”
With a friendly gesture, he showed her over to the new sofa and they sat down with their arms first on, and then around, a square cushion each. Lennart Oscarsson had consciously worked to recruit more women into what was a traditional and sometimes stale male domain and he was glad, almost proud, to see the young person in front of him, who wasn’t much older than the youngest inmates in some of the units.
“Now, how can I help you?”
Julia turned toward the prison governor, whom she’d barely met, let alone spoken to. He seemed friendlier than his office, which was far too big and far too formal, and she could look at him without feeling she
A gob of spit.
“Drive.”
He had leaned forward through the window that was no longer there and the gob landed on his neck, one of them standing nearby, the spit now running down his chest.
The next one landed on the face, dribbled down his nose, cheek, chin.
A boy.
He was just . . . a boy.
Twelve, maybe thirteen years old, the slicked-back hair, the heavy gold chain, a child dressed up like the adult he wasn’t and would never live long enough to be, and his boy’s mouth grinned as he pointed to the axe and then turned to the thirty or forty others who were guarding the fire engine, then spat again. Thom wasn’t sure what, but something burst deep, deep inside and he didn’t look at the driver with the tense, youthful face, but heard his own voice, loud and clear.
“ Drive .”
“Drive?”
“They’ll move on. Let it burn.”
———
Cheek and forehead against the windowpane.
Was she imagining it? Though the flames were long gone, it felt warmer now, as if the heat from a burning car had risen on the black smoke and was now washing over the building and the people who lived there.
Ana recognized him.
She had seen him many times before. He never shouted. Not like the others. He looked straight through them, just carried on with his work, putting out the fire, not a word, never.
This time, he’d been scared.
His abrupt, agitated movements, his eyes, he had looked at them, studied them.
First the stone. Then the axe.
But probably most of all the gob of spit, saliva hit harder, cut deeper than metal.
The car was still burning when the large, red vehicle reversed out of the parking lot and the ring of track pants and hoodies dispersed. She recognized the sudden, loud bang of a gas tank exploding, a sound as shattering as the recent sirens.
She sat down on the narrow wooden windowsill and looked out at the metal that was turning black and the flames that had been given new life, rubbed her forehead and cheek against the windowpane, and felt sure that it was getting hotter.
A world within the world.
Identical concrete buildings that faced the E4 like a wall and everyone driving past at a hundred and ten kilometers an hour.
They had nowhere to go because there was nothing to leave.
They had nowhere to go because there was nothing to leave.
Identical concrete buildings inside a wall that kept the rest out.
A world within the world.
Lennart Oscarsson stood at his window, stretched. Aspsås over there with identical roofs and deserted playgrounds in a tiny town, Aspsås in here with gravel yards and rectangular soccer fields in an even smaller space. He wanted security, he spent his nights in an idyll but would never understand why he had chosen to spend his days in a high security prison, one of three Swedish maximum security prisons for only the most dangerous criminals with long prison sentences.
He stretched again, swallowed a persistent yawn, and walked over to the door as someone had knocked, a timid hand on the boss’s closed door. Martin Jacobson. And a very young woman whom Oscarsson had only met briefly at an interview and vaguely recognized, but had never really spoken to.
“Julia. Julia Bozsik. I work in Block D. D1 Left.”
With a friendly gesture, he showed her over to the new sofa and they sat down with their arms first on, and then around, a square cushion each. Lennart Oscarsson had consciously worked to recruit more women into what was a traditional and sometimes stale male domain and he was glad, almost proud, to see the young person in front of him, who wasn’t much older than the youngest inmates in some of the units.
“Now, how can I help you?”
Julia turned toward the prison governor, whom she’d barely met, let alone spoken to. He seemed friendlier than his office, which was far too big and far too formal, and she could look at him without feeling she
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