The Girl in the Woods. Camilla Lackberg

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      And now Marie Wall was back. The celebrated Hollywood actress was in Fjällbacka to star in a film about Ingrid Bergman. The whole town was buzzing with rumours.

      Everyone had known at least one of the girls or their families, and everyone had been equally upset on that July afternoon in 1985 when Stella’s body was found in the small lake.

      Erica turned on to her side and wondered if the sun had been as hot back then as it was today. She’d have to look that up when it was time for her to walk the few metres across the hall to her home office. But not quite yet. She closed her eyes and dozed off as she listened to Patrik and the kids talking in the kitchen downstairs.

      Helen leaned forward as she looked around. She propped her sweaty hands on her knees. A personal record today, even though she had gone out running later than usual.

      The sea shimmered clear and blue in front of her, but inside her a storm was raging. Helen straightened up and stretched, wrapping her arms around her torso. She couldn’t stop shaking. ‘Someone just walked across my grave.’ That’s what her mother always used to say. And maybe there was something to it. Not that anyone was walking across her grave. But maybe across somebody’s grave.

      Time had lowered a veil; the memories were now so hazy. What she did remember were the voices of all those people who wanted to know exactly what had happened. They’d said the same thing over and over until she no longer knew what was their truth and what was hers.

      Back then it had seemed impossible to come back and build a life here. But all the whispering and shouts had diminished over the years, transformed into low murmurs until at last they ceased altogether. She’d felt as if she was once again a natural part of life.

      And now the gossip was going to start again. Everything was going to be dredged up. As so often happens in life, several events had coincided. She’d been sleeping badly for weeks, ever since receiving the letter from Erica Falck, telling her she was writing a book and would like to meet with Helen. She’d been forced to renew the prescription for the pills she’d managed to do without for so many years. She needed the pills to deal with the next piece of news: Marie was back.

      Thirty years had passed. She and James had been living quietly, without drawing attention, and she knew that was what James preferred. Eventually all the talk will stop, he’d said. And he was right. Their dark moments didn’t last long, provided she made sure everything went as smoothly as possible. And she’d been able to ward off the memories. Until now. Images began flashing through her mind. She could see Marie’s face so clearly. And Stella’s happy smile.

      Helen turned her eyes towards the sea again, trying to focus on the waves slowly rolling in. But the images refused to loosen their grip. Marie was back, and with her came disaster.

      ‘Excuse me, where can I find the loo?’

      Sture offered a look of encouragement to Karim and the others who had gathered for Swedish lessons in the refugee centre in Tanumshede.

      Everyone repeated the phrase, doing the best they could. ‘Excuse me, where can I find the loo?’

      ‘How much does this cost?’ Sture went on.

      Again they repeated in unison. ‘How much does this cost?’

      Karim struggled to connect the sounds Sture was uttering as he stood at the blackboard with the text in his book. Everything was so different. The letters they were supposed to read, the sounds they were supposed to make.

      He glanced around the room at the valiant group of six students. Everyone else was either outside in the sun playing ball or inside lying in bed. Some people tried to sleep away the days and the memories, while others sent emails to friends and relatives who were still alive and possible to reach, or they surfed the Internet for news reports. Not that there was much information to be gleaned. The government broadcast nothing but propaganda, and the news organizations around the world had a hard time getting their correspondents into the country. Karim had been a journalist in his former life, and he understood the difficulties of reporting accurate and updated news from a country at war like Syria, which had been ravaged both from within and without.

      ‘Thank you for inviting us over.’

      Karim snorted. Now there was a phrase he’d never use. If there was one thing he’d quickly learned, it was that Swedes were a reserved people. They’d had no contact whatsoever with any Swedes, except for Sture and the others who worked for the refugee centre.

      It was as if they’d ended up in a separate little land inside the country, isolated from the rest of the world. Their only companions were each other, along with their memories of Syria. Some of the memories were good, but most of them were bad. Those were the ones many people relived over and over again. For his part, Karim tried to suppress all of it. The war that had become their daily existence. The long journey to the promised land in the north.

      He’d made it here, along with his beloved wife Amina and their two precious children Hassan and Samia. That was the only thing that mattered. He’d managed to bring them to safety and give them an opportunity for a future. The bodies floating in the water sometimes forced their way into his dreams, but when he opened his eyes they were gone. He and his family were here in Sweden. Nothing else was important.

      ‘How do you say when you have sex with someone?’

      Adnan laughed at his own words. He and Khalil were the youngest of the men here. They sat next to each other and egged each other on.

      ‘Show some respect,’ Karim said in Arabic, glaring at them.

      He shrugged an apology as he looked at Sture, who gave a slight nod.

      Khalil and Adnan had come here on their own, without family, without friends. They’d managed to escape Aleppo before it got too dangerous to flee. They’d had to decide between leaving and staying. Both could be deadly.

      Karim couldn’t muster any anger toward them, despite their blatant lack of respect. They were children, frightened and alone in a strange country. Their cockiness was all they had. Everything here was unfamiliar to them. Karim had spent some time talking to them after the lessons. Their families had collected all the money they could find to make it possible for the two young men to leave Syria. A lot was riding on the boys’ shoulders. Not only had they been thrown into a foreign world, they were also obligated to create a life for themselves here so they could rescue their families from the war. Karim understood them, but it still was not acceptable for them to show such lack of respect for their new homeland. No matter how scared the Swedes were of the refugees, they had welcomed them and provided them with shelter and food. Sture came here in his spare time, struggling to teach them how to ask for the price of things and how to find a loo. Karim might not understand the Swedes, but he was eternally grateful for what they’d done for his family. Not everyone shared his attitude, and those who displayed no respect for their new country ruined things for them all, making the Swedes regard them with suspicion.

      ‘How nice the weather is today,’ said Sture, carefully enunciating the words as he stood at the blackboard.

      ‘How nice the weather is today,’ Karim repeated, smiling to himself.

      After two months in Sweden, he understood why the Swedes were so grateful every time the sun came out. ‘What bloody awful weather,’ was one of the first phrases he’d learned to say in Swedish. Though he still hadn’t fully mastered the pronunciation.

      ‘How often do you СКАЧАТЬ