“He sounds as if he’s in pain,” Patrik said.

“It’s meant to sound like that,” Maria said. “It’s something from Spain. Flamingo, they call it.”

“Flamenco. It’s called Flamenco.”

“I didn’t think you knew about stuff like that.”

“But it sounds as if he’s hurt himself.”

“Just imagine being able to fly off there.”

“A last-minute package to the Canary Islands.”

“Have you been there?”

“We were all there, the whole family… before Mom moved out.”

“What was it like?”

“When Mom moved out? Just let it drop.”

“I meant the Canary Islands.”

Patrik paused, listening to the musician, who had launched into a new tune that sounded identical to the previous one.

He could tell her about a swimming pool and how he’d dived from a little stone ledge where there was a palm tree and the pool was just one story below the balcony of the apartment they’d stayed in. His little sister had had water wings and his mom had walked beside her in the blue water, laughing. He’d been diving and swimming all day long and in the afternoons they’d played bingo. He’d been swimming after dark as well, and demonstrated a new dive to his parents as they’d sat at a poolside table with his sister. Watch this, he’d shouted, and they’d clapped. It was nearly as hot in the evenings as during the day, but back home in Sweden there was snow everywhere. He’d held his father’s hand.

But there was no little sister, no mom, no trip to the Canary Islands, no swimming pool, no palm tree, no bingo. Had never been. He used to dream, sometimes, dream aloud. Maria knew nothing about that. She could visit whatever islands she wanted.

“There was nothing special about the Canary Islands,” he said.

Morelius was standing outside Harley‘s, waiting for Bartram, who’d gone inside to chat with the owner. Morelius stamped his feet. It had turned colder, and felt much chillier and drier after only a couple of hours.

“It’ll take place tomorrow,” said Bartram as he came out. “They’re not thinking of changing it.”

“Okay.”

“Maybe that’s just as well.”

“Does it matter when the Harley-Davidson club have their party?”

“I suppose not.”

“Same high jinks no matter when.”

“Pretty girls, though,” Bartram said. “They always have some top-class babe with ‘em.”

“Don’t you include them among the members?”

“They’re hangers-on,” said Bartram. “Attractive hangers-on.” He stamped his feet. “I wouldn’t mind an HD chick to warm me up right now.”

“You don’t say.”

“Get her inside all this leather.” He stroked his leather jacket. “Get down to the basics. Get what I mean, Simon? The basics.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Now what’s the matter?”

“I’m fed up with your chatter.”

“Relax a bit, for God’s sake! It’s a…” But Bartram shut up as he saw two young people approaching along the Avenue. They were only six feet away now. “Ah, some old friends! Good evening.”

“Good evening,” Patrik said.

“So you’re out walking again,” Morelius said.

“It’s a free country,” said Maria.

“Of course it is,” said Bartram. ‘Aren’t you cold?“

“No,” said Maria, but Morelius could see her red nose and earlobes and her bare hands stuck into her pockets.

‘Are you on your way home?“

“Whose home?”

“Suit yourselves,” Morelius said. “We’re just about to pick up a car and could give you a lift.”

“The night is yet young,” Patrik said. He’d heard that somewhere and thought it sucked so much, he just wanted to say it. Morelius looked at Bartram but made no comment.

“It is indeed,” said Bartram. “Have you something special in mind?”

“We’d thought of going to a pub,” said Maria.

“You’re too young for that.”

“Exactly. That’s just it.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s nowhere we can get into.”

“You don’t want to be sitting around in pubs.”

“I’m not just talking about pubs. I’m talking about places. Anywhere. Any place where young people can get in and hang out.”

“Hang out?”

“Hang out. With other people.”

“Okay,” Morelius said.

“But it’s no good,” Patrik said. “There isn’t anywhere.”

“I’m with you on that,” Morelius said.

“What are you going to do on New Year’s Eve?” asked Bartram.

“What?”

“The night of the century. Of the millennium. Will we be seeing you up at Skansen?”

“Eh?”

“Won’t you be there? We’ll be there.”

“You mean you’ll be working on New Year’s Eve?”

“Of course. Both Morelius and I are on duty then, and we’ll be up at Skansen when the big moment comes.”

“Jesus Christ! Working on New Year’s Eve!”

“Why not? Half of Gothenburg will be up on that hillside, in any case. The younger half, at least. And we’ll be getting paid for being there.” He turned to Morelius. “We’re in luck, aren’t we, Simon?”

“We certainly are.”

Patrik looked at Maria and shook his head.

“We’d better get going,” he said.

“Go home and get warm,” Morelius said.

“It’s a free country,” Patrik said. He enjoyed saying that, because it sucked.

Bergenhem had finished his late shift but hadn’t gone straight home. Instead he’d driven southward and played the fourth CD from Springsteen’s Tracks, happy with you in my arms, happy with you in my heart. Last night Martina had whispered something and stroked his arm, but he’d pretended to be asleep. She’d turned away, and he really did fall asleep in the end. He’d tried not to think.

The bay glimmered over to the right as he drove through Askim. He kept on straight ahead. Traffic was lighter as the city started to peter out. Lower, richer. The detached houses twinkled like oases as he drove past, tires singing. The last of the buses pulled up at stops that seemed deserted in the darkness, happy, darling, come the dark, happy when I taste your kiss, I’m happy in a love like this, and Bergenhem listened as he drove. It was like listening to a language he didn’t understand but nevertheless could follow every word.

He thought about his child. He thought about his wife. He took the Billdal slip road and followed the minor roads as far as the sea, parked, and got out of the car. The lights from a fishing boat bobbed up and down around the islands in the southern archipelago. All around him were the outlines of beached sailing boats. More lights twinkled out to sea, and in the distance was a broader light that could well have been the midnight ferry to Fredrikshavn.

Before long its crossing would be labeled a New Year’s cruise. A new millennium greeted in international waters, Bergenhem thought. Water. He squatted down and dipped his hand into the water: it felt like a glove of ice. I’m in deep water, he thought. I really must sort this out.

Back on the main road he noticed a patrol car parked at a bus stop. The driver was standing beside his car. Bergenhem couldn’t see anybody else in the car as he drove past. In his rearview mirror he could see the officer gazing out over the houses and treetops. Maybe he had a cigarette in his hand. We all need a break now and then, Bergenhem thought. He had the impression at first that he recognized his colleague, but he wasn’t sure now. One thing was clear: it wasn’t somebody from the Frölunda station.

There was a sudden hard pattering on his windshield: hail, which soon turned into snow, the first of the winter. Almost November. Springsteen was still singing: and honey I just wanna be back in your arms, back in your arms again. Bergenhem drove home and crept down between the cold sheets. Martina was asleep and he pretended to be as well.

Winter’s head lolled onto his shoulder and he woke from his doze with a start.

“Go and lie down on the guest bed,” his mother said.

“I’m all right.”

“He’s resting now.”

Winter looked at his father’s face, which had lost what had remained of the color it had possessed when he first saw him in the hospital. That was three days ago, or was it four?