Marked For Revenge. Emelie Schepp

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       CHAPTER FOUR

      THE INTERNATIONAL TERMINAL at Suvarnabhumi Airport in Bangkok was swarming with people. Long lines wound around from every desk, and from time to time the clerks yelled out names of people who were requested to contact the information desk. The sound of suitcases arriving on the conveyor belt at baggage claim thundered through the hall.

      Large groups were chattering noisily, babies were crying and couples were arguing about their travel plans.

      “Passport, please.”

      The woman behind the check-in desk put her hand out.

      Pim held her passport with both hands to hide the fact that they were trembling. She had been told not to panic, to relax, to try to look happy. But as the line in front of her got shorter, her anxiety grew.

      She had fiddled so continuously with her ticket that it was now missing a bit of the paper in the corner.

      Her stomach hurt.

      The nausea came in waves, and she wished she could just stick her finger down her throat. She wanted to spit—the amount of saliva in her mouth increased with every wave of nausea—but she knew she couldn’t. So she swallowed, again and again.

      Two lines away, Noi stood obsessively flicking her backpack strap. They avoided looking at each other, pretended they were strangers.

      For now, it was as if they had never met.

      Those were the rules.

      The woman behind the counter tapped on her computer keyboard. Her hair was dark and pulled into a tight ponytail. The airline emblem was embroidered on the left pocket of her black jacket, underneath which she was wearing a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar.

      Pim stood with one arm on the counter. She leaned slightly forward in an attempt to reduce the pain in her swollen belly.

      “You can put your bag on the belt,” the woman said, examining Pim’s face. Taking a deep breath, Pim swung her suitcase onto the conveyor belt.

      Nausea ran through her like an electric shock.

      She grimaced.

      “Is it your first time?”

      The woman looked at her questioningly.

      “Going to Copenhagen, I mean?”

      Pim nodded.

      “You don’t need to worry. Flying isn’t dangerous.”

      Pim didn’t answer. She didn’t know what she was supposed to say. She kept her eyes on her shoes.

      “Here you go.”

      Pim took her boarding pass and immediately left the counter.

      She wanted to get out of there, away from the woman, away from her wondering gaze.

      She didn’t want to talk to anyone.

      No one.

      “Hey! Wait!” The woman behind the counter called to her.

      Pim turned around.

      “Your passport,” she said. “You forgot your passport.”

      Pim went back and mumbled thanks. Clutching her passport to her chest with both hands, she walked slowly toward security.

      * * *

      Alone again, Jana Berzelius sank slowly to her knees. The pain was excruciating.

      She just wanted to close her eyes. Carefully, she touched the back of her head, feeling the wound. Her fingers were immediately covered in blood. She wiped them on her jacket and looked around. Her maroon hat lay fifteen feet to her left, next to her briefcase. She carefully crawled to it, feeling the hard ice against her legs, knowing she couldn’t stay out here on the cold ground.

      Then she noticed the bitter taste of metal. She spit and saw that it was red.

      As red as the color of her hat.

      She counted to three and struggled to her feet again. It felt like someone was stabbing her in the head, and the world was СКАЧАТЬ