Marked For Revenge. Emelie Schepp
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here anyway. I have nothing to say to him.”
“What? That really sexy guy is coming?”
She couldn’t help teasing him. There was something in his unnecessary worry, his jealousy, that she got a kick out of. But she regretted it immediately.
He glared at her.
“I’m only kidding,” she said.
“Do you really think so?”
“That he’s handsome? Yes, at one time I did.”
She tried to look nonchalant, amused.
“But not anymore?” he asked.
“Oh, stop it,” she said.
“Just so I know.”
“Stop! Drink your tea.”
“Are you sure?”
“Stop nagging!”
She heard the guitar solo. Then Adam’s voice singing the refrain.
Gunnar got up and poured the contents of his teacup into the sink.
“What are you doing?” Anneli asked.
“I don’t like green tea,” he said, heading for the bathroom.
She sighed, at Gunnar and at the music she could barely stand. But she didn’t want to end the evening with yet another argument. Not now, when they had just decided to try living together again.
She was already tired.
So tired.
* * *
“Hello? Are you okay?”
Robin Stenberg knelt down beside the woman who was lying on the ground in the fetal position. The chain from his ripped jeans clattered as it touched the hard concrete. He saw she was bleeding heavily from the back of her head and was just about to poke her when she opened her eyes.
“I saw everything,” he said. “I saw him. He went that way.”
He pointed toward the river, his hand trembling.
The woman tried to shake her head.
“Ffff...ffeh...ehlll,” she tried to say, her voice thick.
“No,” he said. “You didn’t fall. You were attacked. We have to call the police.”
He got up and dug around in his cargo pockets, looking for his cell phone.
“Nuuuh...” she said.
“Shit, you’re bleeding really bad,” he said. “You need an ambulance or something.”
He paced back and forth, unable to stand still.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he repeated.
The woman moved a little, coughing.
“Don’t...call,” she whispered.
He found his phone and typed in the passcode to unlock it.
The woman coughed again.
“Don’t call,” she said again, clearer this time.
He didn’t hear her as he typed in the emergency number. Just as he was about to hit the green call button, his phone disappeared from his hand.
“What the...”
It took a few seconds before he understood what had happened.
She had gotten up and now stood before him with his cell in her hand. Blood was dripping down from her head over her left ear.
“I said you shouldn’t call.”
For a moment, he thought it was a joke. But when he saw her threatening look, he understood that she was serious. He saw how she was examining him and despite being fully dressed, he felt almost naked.
Her eyes swept quickly over him, noting his black hat, heavily lined eyes, tattoo of eight small stars on his temple, pierced lower lip, lined denim jacket and worn-out military boots.
“What’s your name?” she asked, more a command than a question.
“R-Robin Stenberg,” he stammered.
“Okay, Robin,” she said. “Just so we understand each other, I fell and hit my head. Nothing more.”
In shock, he nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
“Good. Take this now and go.”
The woman tossed his cell to him. He caught it clumsily, stumbling backward a few steps and began to run.
It wasn’t until he was inside his apartment on Spelmansgatan and had locked the door behind him that the magnitude of what he had just witnessed sunk in.
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