“What’s the matter, Mom?”

“It’s your dad, again. This time it’s serious, Erik.”

Winter recalled the last time, last year. His father had been taken into the Marbella hospital with a suspected heart attack, but it was in fact myocarditis. Winter had considered flying down to Spain, but it turned out not to be necessary.

He hadn’t seen his father since his parents had more or less fled Sweden, taking their money with them. He hadn’t wanted to see him last year and he didn’t want to do so now either, if it could be avoided.

“Is it myocarditis again?”

“Oh, Erik. He’s had a heart attack. Just a couple of hours ago. I’m phoning from the hospital. He’s in intensive care, Erik. ERIK? Can you hear me?”

“I’m here, Mother.”

“He’s dying, Erik.”

Winter closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Keep calm. Calm.

“Is he conscious.”

“What… no, he’s unconscious. They’ve just operated on him.”

“They’ve operated on him?”

“That’s what I said. He’s undergone a long operation. Cleaned out his ducts, I think.”

Angela had pulled the sheet up to her chin and sat up in bed. She looked at him, a serious expression on her face. She gathered what had happened.

“Have you spoken to Lotta?” he asked. His sister was a doctor. Angela was also a doctor, but she couldn’t speak Spanish. His mother spoke a bit of Spanish, but he wasn’t sure whether she understood what people said to her. She was best at wines and spirits. Even if the doctor spoke in English to her, she would be too upset to listen properly. Even if the doctor spoke Swedish.

“I phoned you first, Erik.”

“Has the doctor said anything?”

“Only that he’s still under the anesthetic.” She was sobbing into his ear. “What if he doesn’t come round, Erik?”

Winter closed his eyes, saw himself in the car on the way to the airport, in an airplane seat. A blue sky over the clouds. He glanced at his hand. It was shaking. Perhaps these are his last hours, he thought.

“I’ll take the first flight.”

“Will there be… will there be any seats? Flights are nearly always full at… at this time of year.”

“I’ll fix that.”

Angela looked at him. She had heard it all. He would fix that. He would be aboard that aircraft at seven o‘clock, or whenever it left. Some other passenger would have to lean against his golf bag and wait for another flight before he could lower his handicap on the Costa del Sol.

He had locked the apartment door behind him when he came in. Or left the others in the room and did it later, before they’d started, he wasn’t sure. Anybody trying to get out would lose a few valuable seconds.

He had eaten, he couldn’t remember what. He hadn’t thought about what he was putting into his mouth. She had laughed, once or twice. He, the other one, hadn’t. As if he sensed it…

As if he knew who he was. Why he was there.

Here I am, he thought, sitting. Now I’m speaking. I’m saying words that don’t mean a thing. I don’t know if they’re listening either.

He could hear the music inside his head. It started soft, got louder, then faded away, got louder again, then softer. It was like being at home, listening, or in the car, but he rarely did it in the car. He didn’t want to drive into a tunnel wall.

He was listening, that was before it started. Or maybe it started with him listening. He had tried to avoid listening and that had worked for a while but now it was impossible. And it didn’t matter now, now that he was sitting here. He looked around the kitchen. They’d asked if he wanted to sit in the kitchen and he’d shrugged. Then we’ll move into the living room later, she’d said in a tone of voice that had made him feel cold inside his head as the music got first louder, then softer. He wondered if they saw that, if they’d eventually get around to hearing it, the very moment before it happened.

The guitars were screeching inside his head. The vocals screeched, rattled, hissed through the music that wouldn’t leave his head: lying in the black field, memories start to move into my mind, visions of the red room, my bloodied face, her bloodied head.

Visions of the red room. He closed his eyes. He grew more excited. She noticed that and smiled. She had no idea. The man seemed to be fidgeting but gradually started to fade away, to turn into a shadow. When he looked at her she too started turning into a shadow. It was time.

She spoke.

“What?”

“Hello! Anybody home?”

“What… yes…”

“You look miles away”

“No… I’m here.”

“You were moving your head as if you were listening to something. Inside your head.”

“Yes.”

“Can we listen too?” she said with a grin. The other man didn’t laugh. He looked straight at him, as if he could see them sitting there, playing inside his head. “What’s it sound like?” she asked, getting up and walking around to him and leaning against his ear. He could feel her weight and the strong smell of alcohol on her breath. They’d been drinking before he arrived. He hadn’t touched a drop. Not then and not now. “I can’t hear anything,” she said, leaning more heavily against him; then she kissed him. He could feel her inside his mouth. He didn’t move. “What’s the matter with you?” she said. “Aren’t you feeling excited?” She turned to the other man. “He doesn’t seem to be very excited. I thought he was a swinger.”

The other man said nothing. He was still scrutinizing him. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

She left the kitchen. When she returned there was music coming from another room. He didn’t want to look at her. He could see a bit of her exposed skin.

“What do you think of that?” she asked.

“Eh? What?”

“The music,” she said. “The music! I thought we could all listen to something!”

He tried to listen but no sound could penetrate the metal screeching inside his head.

She shouted something, started wiggling in a sort of dance.

She dragged the other man to his feet, kissed him. Glanced over toward him. She started unbuttoning the other man’s shirt and put his hand on her left breast. Moved in time with the music. Laughed again.

“Elton John!” she yelled. “It’s swinging!”

He suddenly felt sick and at the same time extremely aroused. They were both looking at him. The other man nodded, had his hand inside her blouse.

They took two or three dance steps in front of him.

He stood up.

Winter collected his case from the carousel, passed through customs and out to where his hired car was waiting. He took off his jacket and settled behind the wheel. The car had been parked in the shade behind the terminal building. As the plane approached, Málaga had announced itself as gray cliffs climbing skyward from burned earth fifty thousand feet below. A semicircle embracing a calm sea. It was ninety degrees in the shade. The heat was reluctant to release Andalusia from its grip. He’d never been here before.

He felt tired, and his head was pounding. He started the engine. He felt sad, and his emotion seemed to be exaggerated by the heat. As if the heat were an omen.

Winter unfolded the map of the Costa del Sol he’d been given by the car rental firm and checked his route to Marbella. It seemed straightforward. The E15 all the way. The motorway was reputed to be the most dangerous in the world, but he reflected that the media had suggested the same thing for other roads as well, as he reversed out of his parking space.

He drove westward and switched on the radio. A Spaniard was singing a version of “My Way” in lisping Castilian. That was followed by a flamenco set for orchestra: it sounded cheerful but out of tune to Winter’s ear. The flamenco gave way to a Mexican rhumba with ten thousand trumpets. Then the Spaniard came back with “The Green, Green Grass of Home.”