to the quick. Her face was closed.
“You’ve got to tell me, for Christ’s sake,” said Rebecka threateningly. “What was going on with Viktor? Vesa said he couldn’t break his vow of silence to you.”
Sanna remained silent. She gnawed and gnawed at her thumbnail. Bit the skin at the side and pulled it off so that it started to bleed. Rebecka started to sweat. She had the urge to grab hold of Sanna by the hair and bang her head against the concrete wall. More or less like Ronny Björnström, Sara’s father, had done. Until in the end he got fed up of that as well, and cleared off.
The girls were waiting by the car. Rebecka thought of Lova, who didn’t have any gloves with her.
“Fuck you, then,” she said in the end, turned on her heel and left.
Sanna is no longer in her cell. She has disappeared through the concrete ceiling. Forced her way through atoms and molecules and floated out into the firmament above the snow clouds. She has already forgotten the visit. She has no children. She is just a little girl. And God is her Great Mother, who lifts her up under the arms, raising her up to the light so that she has butterflies in her tummy. But She doesn’t let go. God doesn’t let go of Her little girl. There is no need for Sanna to be afraid. She isn’t going to fall.
Curt Bäckström is standing in front of the long mirror on the living room wall, carefully examining his naked body. Light floods over him from a number of small lamps that he has covered with pieces of transparent red fabric, and from dozens of candles. He has pinned black sheets over the windows so that no one can see in.
The room is sparsely furnished. There is no television in the apartment, no radio, no microwave. The radiation and the signals they emitted used to make him ill. He used to be woken in the middle of the night by voices from the electrical equipment, although it was switched off. Nowadays nothing like that can harm him, and he has plugged in the refrigerator and the freezer again. But he has no need of television or radio. They only broadcast godless rubbish, in any case. Messages from Satan, day in and day out.
He can see that he has changed. In the last few days he has become a decimeter taller. And his hair has grown very quickly; soon he’ll be able to tie it back. He has parted it in the center, and leans toward the mirror. He looks frighteningly like Viktor Strandgård.
For a moment he tries to see if he can find himself in the mirror. His old self. Perhaps there is a glimpse of something in the eyes, but then it’s gone. The image in the mirror disperses and grows blurred. He is completely transformed.
He turns his hands and holds them up to the mirror. In the red glow he can see blood and oil seeping from the wounds on his palms.
Sanna Strandgård should be here. She should be kneeling naked before him, gathering the oil that runs from his palms in a small glass bottle.
He can see her in front of him. How she slowly screws the cork into the shimmering green bottle. Her eyes are fixed on his the whole time, and her lips form the word “rabbuni.”
True, he has sometimes doubted. Doubted that he is really chosen. Or his ability to contain all of God’s might. The last communion service was almost impossible to endure. People all around him, cackling and dancing like chickens. While he was becoming more and more a part of God. The words came thundering toward him: “This is my BODY; this is my BLOOD.” He had staggered back to his seat, hearing nothing. Didn’t hear the choir. His hands were filled with such strength that they grew thicker. The skin covering his fingers stretched like a balloon, became completely smooth and shiny. He was afraid his fingers would split, like sausages in a frying pan.
The next day he bought some gloves in the biggest size available. He will have to wear them indoors now and again. Until the time comes for people to see.
When he paid for the gloves he suddenly had a feeling of intense distaste. The woman behind the counter smiled at him. For a long time he had had the ability to distinguish between souls, and as he took his change