The Fire Witness. Ларс Кеплер

of Sundsvall. It’s a privately-run home, and takes girls aged between twelve and seventeen who have been placed in care.

      Many of the girls have problems with drugs when they arrive, almost all have a history of self-harm and eating disorders, and several of them are very violent.

      There aren’t really any alternatives to secure children’s homes with alarmed doors, barred windows, and airlocks. The next step is usually adult prison and compulsory psychiatric care, but the Birgitta Home is one of the few exceptions, offering girls a path back to open care homes.

      Elisabet likes to say that the Birgitta Home is where the good girls end up.

      She picks up the last piece of dark chocolate, puts it in her mouth and feels its blend of sweetness and bitterness tingle on her tongue.

      Slowly her shoulders start to relax. It’s been a difficult evening, even though the day started so well: lessons in the morning, and swimming in the lake after lunch.

      After supper the housekeeper went home, leaving her on her own at the home.

      The number of night staff was cut four months after the Blancheford holding company bought the care business of which the Birgitta Home forms a part.

      The residents were allowed to watch television until ten. She spent the evening in the nurses’ office, and was trying to catch up with her journal entries when she heard angry shouting. She hurried to the TV room where she found Miranda attacking little Tuula. She was yelling that Tuula was a cunt and a whore, and dragged her off the sofa to kick her in the back.

      Elisabet is starting to get used to Miranda’s violent outbursts. She rushed in and pulled her away from Tuula, earning herself a blow on the cheek, and she had to shout at Miranda about this being clearly unacceptable behaviour. Without any discussion she led Miranda away to the isolation room along the corridor.

      Elisabet said goodnight, but Miranda didn’t answer. She just sat on the bed staring at the floor, and smiled to herself when Elisabet closed and locked the door.

      The new girl, Vicky Bennet, was booked for an evening conversation, but there was no time because of the trouble with Miranda and Tuula. Vicky tentatively pointed out that it was her turn, and got upset when she was told it would have to be postponed, smashed a cup, then slashed her stomach and wrists with one of the fragments.

      When Elisabet came in, Vicky was sitting with her hands in front of her face and blood running down her arms.

      Elisabet bathed the cuts, which turned out to be superficial, put a plaster on her stomach, and bandaged her wrists, then sat and comforted her until she saw a little smile. For the third night in a row she gave the girl ten milligrams of Sonata so that she’d get some sleep.

       2

      All the residents are asleep now, and the Birgitta Home is quiet. There’s a light on in the office window, making the world outside seem impenetrable and black.

      With a deep frown on her face, Elisabet is sitting in front of the computer writing up the evening’s events in the journal.

      It’s almost midnight, and she realises that she hasn’t even found time to take her evening pill. Her little habit, she likes to joke. The combination of nights on call and exhausting day-shifts have ruined her sleep. She usually takes ten milligrams of Stilnoct at ten o’clock so that she can be asleep by eleven and get at least a few hours’ rest.

      The September darkness has settled on the forest, but the smooth surface of Himmelsjön is still visible, shining like mother-of-pearl.

      At last she can switch the computer off and take her pill. She pulls her cardigan tighter around her and thinks how nice a glass of red wine would be. She’s longing for a chance to sit in bed with a book and a glass of wine, reading and chatting with Daniel.

      But she’s on call tonight, and will be sleeping in the little overnight room.

      She jumps when Buster suddenly starts barking out in the yard. He sounds so agitated that she gets goosebumps on her arms.

      It’s late, she should be in bed.

      She’s usually asleep by now.

      The room turns darker when the computer shuts down. Suddenly everything seems incredibly quiet. Elisabet becomes aware of the sounds she herself is making. The sigh of the office chair when she stands up, the tiles creaking as she walks over to the window. She tries to see out, but the glass just reflects her own face, the office with its computer and phone, the yellow and green patterned walls.

      Suddenly she sees the door slip open behind her.

      Her heart starts to beat faster. The door was only just ajar, but now it’s half-open. There must be a draught, she tries to tell herself. The wood-burning stove in the dining room always seems to pull in a lot of air.

      Elisabet feels peculiarly anxious, and fear starts to creep through her veins. She daren’t turn around, just stares into the dark window at the reflection of the door behind her back.

      She listens to the silence, to the computer, which is still ticking.

      In an attempt to shake off her unease, she reaches out her hand and switches off the lamp in the window, then turns around.

      Now the door is wide open.

      A shiver runs down her spine.

      The lights are on in the corridor leading to the dining room and the girls’ rooms. She leaves the office, intending to check that the vents on the stove are closed, when she suddenly hears whispers from one of the bedrooms.

       3

      Elisabet stands still, listening as she looks out into the corridor. At first she can’t hear anything, then there it is again. A slight whisper, so faint that it’s barely audible. ‘It’s your turn to close your eyes,’ a voice whispers.

      Elisabet stands perfectly still, staring off into the darkness. She blinks several times, but can’t see anyone there.

      She has time to think that it must be one of the girls talking in her sleep when she hears a strange noise. Like someone dropping an overripe peach on the floor. And then another one. Heavy and wet. A table leg scrapes as it moves, then another two peaches fall to the floor.

      Elisabet catches a glimpse of movement from the corner of her eye. A shadow slipping past. She turns around, and sees that the door to the dining room is slowly swinging closed.

      ‘Wait,’ she says, even though she tells herself it was just the wind again.

      She hurries over and grabs the handle, but meets a peculiar resistance. There’s a brief tug-of-war before the door simply glides open.

      Elisabet walks into the dining room, very warily, trying to scan the room with her eyes. The scratched table stands out in the darkness. She moves slowly towards the stove, sees her own movement reflected in its closed brass doors.

      The flue is still radiating heat.

      Suddenly there’s a crackling, knocking sound behind the stove doors. She takes a step back and bumps into a chair.

      It’s only a piece of firewood falling against the inside of the doors. The room is completely empty.

      She takes a deep breath and walks out of the dining room, closing the door behind her. She starts to head back towards the corridor where her overnight room is, but stops again and listens.

      She can’t hear anything from the girls’ rooms. There’s an acrid smell in the air, metallic, almost. She looks for movement in the dark corridor, but everything is still. Even so, she is drawn in that direction, towards the row of unlocked doors. Some of them seem to be ajar, while others are closed.