Stockholm, December 2006

Once again Thomas was sitting at his kitchen table, and once again he was looking dreamily out of the window. But nothing was the same any more. Something terrible had happened – four people he once knew had been murdered. Four people who had lived different kinds of lives, some happy and some, perhaps, unhappy. It was hard to say.

But he was sure of one thing: none of them wanted to die, and none of them deserved to either, at such a young age and so inconceivably brutally. They had done terrible things, but they had only been children, very small children. They probably had no idea what damage they were doing. They were children who, without adult supervision, had been free to do what they needed to secure their own little territory and social position.

And Katarina had struck back. She had done it for her own sake, but Thomas felt that somehow it was for his sake too. For that reason, he received the news of the resolution of the whole tragic story with mixed emotions. Katarina had no doubt been a very sick person, but she had been a person. Their lives had run in parallel, without either of them knowing it. If only they had met! If they could have sat together and talked about childhood and life, been company for each other for a while. Perhaps they could have become friends, united by a broken childhood and a life of solitude. Maybe everything would have been different then, for both of them.

Nevertheless, Thomas felt that Katarina had given him redress. Her outrageous, unforgivable actions had freed something inside him. He despised what she had done, but he could not despise her. He understood her, but not completely. She was the stronger of the two, the one who came straight-backed out of a humiliating situation. She had always looked happy and proud, apparently easily able to put up with the harassment, while he sank deeper and deeper into depression. But somewhere along the way she had taken a step in the wrong direction, and her choice had been devastating for everyone involved.

He himself was not guiltless. His testimony in connection with the first two murders would have been of great value to the police. By telling what he knew he could have prevented further bloodshed, but it had not occurred to him until he read about the murder of Lise-Lott Nilsson, and then he had been paralysed by his own marginal involvement in the whole thing.

Yet it was as if a stone had been lifted from his shoulders. Katarina had liberated him from his burden, though she perished herself. Now it was time to start over, to try again. Take responsibility for his own life. For Katarina’s sake.

He felt a sudden longing to go out. It was a quarter past five and the streets were filled with people, people on their way home from work and people getting a head start on Christmas shopping. Sunday was the beginning of Advent and it was snowing again. Snow was falling in large flakes, whirling beautifully in the light under the streetlamps. He wanted to be out there, he wanted to be part of the throng of people down there on the street, and he didn’t intend to be scared of them any longer.

He put on his shoes and jacket and jogged down the steps, out on to the pavement and across the street. Then he turned and looked up at the façade of his own building. His eyes wandered from window to window and stopped at last on his own. A warm, welcoming light radiated from inside the kitchen, softened by the lined curtains – blue checks against a warm yellow background, just right for a kitchen. And, in the middle of the window, between two thriving poinsettias, an Advent candle spread its friendly rays. He turned his face up towards the sky, closed his eyes and let the snowflakes melt against his warm skin.