Then Death leaned down and picked up the pillow from Herman’s side of the bed. Terrified, Britta saw the white shape getting closer. The final fog.

Her body protested for a moment. Panicked from the lack of air. Tried to take a breath, bring oxygen into her lungs. Her hands let go of the sheet, clutched wildly at the air. Struck resistance, struck skin. Tore and scratched, fighting to live another second.

Then everything went black.

‘Time to get up!’ The guard’s voice echoed through the barracks. ‘Five minutes, fall in for inspection.’

Axel opened his eyes with an effort. For a second he was totally disoriented. It was dark in the barracks; at this early hour almost no light came in from outside. But it was still an improvement over the cell where he’d sat in isolation for the first few months. He preferred the cramped quarters and stench of the barracks to the long days of solitude. He’d heard that there were 3,500 prisoners at Grini. That didn’t surprise him. No matter where he turned, he saw men, all with the same resigned expression that he assumed matched his own.

He sat up on his bunk and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Orders to stand in formation were issued several times a day, whenever the guards felt like it, and pity the man who didn’t move fast enough. But today he was having a hard time getting out of bed. He’d been dreaming of Fjällbacka. Dreaming about sitting up on Veddeberget, looking at the water and watching the seagulls shrieking as they circled above the masts of the boats. It was actually quite an ugly sound, but it had somehow become part of the town’s soul. He’d been dreaming of the way the wind felt as it enveloped him, warm and mild in the summertime. And of the smell of seaweed carried on the wind, even all the way up to the top of the hill, where he greedily breathed it in.

But reality was far too raw and cold for him to be able to cling to his dream. Instead, he felt the rough fabric of the blanket against his skin as he threw it off and swung his legs over the side of the rickety bunk. Hunger was tearing at him. Of course they were given food, but not enough and not very often.

‘Time to get yourselves out there,’ said the younger guard, who was now walking among the prisoners. He stopped in front of Axel.

‘It’s cold today,’ he said in a friendly tone.

Axel avoided looking at him. It was the same boy who’d been on duty when he first arrived, the one he’d regarded as friendlier than the others. And that had turned out to be true. He’d never seen the young man abuse or denigrate anyone in the same way that most of the other guards did. But the months that Axel had spent in prison had drawn a clear boundary between the two of them. Prisoner and guard. They were two very distinct entities. They lived such different lives that he could hardly bear to look at the guards when they came within sight. The Norwegian Guard uniform Axel wore marked him out as belonging to a lower class of humanity. From the other prisoners he’d learned that the uniform had been instituted after a prisoner had escaped in 1941. He wondered how the man had found the strength to flee. He himself felt listless, emptied of all energy from the combination of hard labour, too little food, too little sleep, and too much anxiety for those back at home. And too much misery in general.

‘You’d better get moving,’ said the young guard, giving him a shove.

Axel did as he said and hurried out of the barracks. The consequences were harsh for anyone who showed up late for the morning inspection.

As he went down the stairs to the yard, he suddenly stumbled. He felt his foot lose its hold on the step, and he pitched forward, falling against the guard who was right in front of him. He flailed his arms to regain his balance, but instead of air, he felt his hands touching the guard’s uniform and body. With a dull thud he landed on the man’s back, and the impact knocked the air out of Axel’s lungs. At first there was only silence. Then he felt hands hauling him to his feet.

‘He attacked you,’ said the guard who had a firm grip on him. His name was Jensen, and he was one of the most ruthless of the guards.

‘I don’t think -’ said the young guard hesitantly as he got up, brushing dirt off his uniform.

‘I said he attacked you!’ Jensen’s face was bright red. He took every opportunity to abuse the men who were in his power. Whenever he walked through the camp, the crowds would part like the Red Sea had parted for Moses.

‘No, he -’

‘I saw him do it!’ shouted the older guard, taking a step forward. ‘Are you going to teach him a lesson, or should I?’

‘But, he…’ The guard, who was no more than a boy, gave Axel a desperate look before turning back to his colleague.

Axel watched the scene with indifference. He had long ago stopped reacting, stopped feeling. Whatever happened would happen. Those who struggled against their fate were doomed to perish.

‘All right then, I’ll -’ The older guard moved towards Axel, raising his rifle.

‘No! I’ll do it! That’s my job,’ said the boy, his face pale as he stepped between them. He looked Axel in the eyes, and it almost looked as if he were pleading for forgiveness. Then he raised his hand and slapped Axel.

‘Is that supposed to be his punishment?’ Jensen bellowed hoarsely. A group of onlookers had now gathered, and a bunch of guards were laughing as they waited expectantly. Anything that broke the monotony of the prison’s daily routines was welcome.

‘Hit him harder!’ yelled Jensen, his face even redder than before.

The young guard looked again at Axel, who still refused to meet his eyes. Then the guard drew back his fist and punched Axel in the jaw. His head flew back, but he remained on his feet.

‘Harder!’ Now more of the guards had joined in, and sweat was gleaming on the boy’s forehead. He no longer tried to look at Axel. His eyes had a glazed look to them as he bent down and picked up his rifle from the ground, raising it high to strike.

Axel turned away, out of pure reflex, so the blow struck his left ear. It felt as if something broke inside him, and the pain was indescribable. When the next blow fell, he took it in the face. After that he remembered very little. All he felt was pain.

There was no sign on the door to indicate that these premises were occupied by Sweden’s Friends. Just a piece of paper over the letter box stating ‘No soliciting’ and the name ‘Svensson’. Martin and Paula had been given the address by their colleagues in Uddevalla, who kept a close eye on the organization’s activities.

They hadn’t phoned ahead. Instead, they’d taken a chance that someone would be there during office hours. Martin pressed the doorbell. A shrill tone was heard inside, but at first nothing happened. He was just about to press the bell again when the door opened.

‘Yes?’ A man in his thirties gave them an enquiring look and then frowned when he saw their uniforms. The furrow on his face deepened when he saw Paula. For several seconds he looked her up and down in a way that made her want to knee him hard in the groin.

‘So. What can I do to help the government today?’ he asked snidely.

‘We’d like to have a few words with someone from Sweden’s Friends. Have we come to the right place?’

‘Sure. Come in.’ The man, who was blond, tall, and big in that slightly muscle-bound way, backed away to let them in.

‘Martin Molin. And this is Paula Morales. We’re from the Tanumshede police.’

‘Is that right? A long way to come,’ said the man, leading the way to a small office. ‘My name is Peter Lindgren.’ He sat down behind the desk and pointed to two visitor’s chairs.