The Fire Witness. Ларс Кеплер

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       22

      Pia Abrahamsson realises that she’s driving a bit too fast.

      She’d counted on getting away earlier, but the diocesan meeting in Östersund dragged on longer than expected.

      Pia looks at her son in the mirror. His head is lolling against the edge of his child’s seat. His eyes are closed behind his glasses. The morning sunlight flashes between the trees and across his calm little face.

      She slows down to eighty kilometres an hour even though the road stretches out perfectly straight ahead of her through the forest.

      The roads are eerily empty.

      Twenty minutes ago she passed a truck loaded with logs, but since then she hasn’t seen another vehicle.

      She screws up her eyes to see better.

      The animal-proof fencing on either side of the road flickers past monotonously.

      Human beings must be the most frightened creatures on the planet, she thinks.

      This country has eight thousand kilometres of animal-proof fencing. Not to protect the animals, but to protect human beings. Narrow roads run through these oceans of forest surrounded on both sides by high fences.

      Pia Abrahamsson glances quickly at Dante in the back seat.

      She got pregnant when she was working as a priest in Hässelby parish. The father was the editor of the Church Times. She stood there with the pregnancy test in her hand, thinking about the fact that she was thirty-six years old.

      She kept the child, but not the father of the child. Her son is the best thing that’s ever happened to her.

      Dante 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.