The men pass the junction where the commissary used to be before it was shut down. They wait for the doors to open, allowing them further along the tunnel.
The guys from Malm? run their fingertips superstitiously over the mural of Zlatan Ibrahimovic′ before heading to the powder-coating workshop.
The study group head for the library instead. Joona is halfway through a course in horticulture, and Marko has finally got his GCSEs. His chin trembled when he said he was thinking of studying science.
This could have been yet another identical day in prison. But it won’t be for Joona, because his life is about to take an unexpected turn.
Joona sets the table in the visitors’ room with coffee cups and saucers, smooths the tablecloth that he’s spread out, and switches on the coffee-maker in the little kitchen.
When he hears keys rattling outside the door he stands up and feels his heart beat faster.
Valeria is wearing a navy-blue blouse with white polka dots, and black jeans. Her dark-brown hair is tied back and hangs in soft coils.
She comes in, stops in front of him and looks up.
The door closes and the lock clicks.
They stand and look at each other for a long time before whispering hello.
‘It still feels so strange every time I see you,’ Valeria says shyly.
She looks at Joona with sparkling eyes, taking in the slippers with the prison service logo, the grey-blue T-shirt with sand-coloured sleeves, the worn knees of the baggy trousers.
‘I can’t offer much,’ he says. ‘Just sandwich biscuits and coffee.’
‘Sandwich biscuits,’ she nods, and pulls her trousers up slightly before sitting down on one of the chairs.
‘They’re not bad,’ he says, and smiles in a way that makes the dimples in his cheeks deepen.
‘How can anyone be so cute?’
‘It’s just these clothes,’ Joona jokes.
‘Of course,’ she laughs.
‘Thanks for your letter. I got it yesterday,’ he says, sitting down on the other side of the table.
‘Sorry if I was a bit forward,’ she mumbles, and blushes.
Joona smiles, and she does the same as she looks down, before raising her eyes again.
‘Speaking of which, it’s a shame they turned down your application for leave,’ Valeria says, suppressing another smile in a way that makes her chin wrinkle.
‘I’ll try again in three months … I can always apply for re-acclimatisation leave,’ Joona says.
‘It’ll be OK,’ she nods, feeling for his hand across the table.
‘I spoke to Lumi yesterday,’ he goes on. ‘She’d just finished reading Crime and Punishment in French … It was good, we just talked about books, and I forgot I was here … until the line went dead.’
‘I don’t remember you talking this much before.’
‘If you spread it out over two weeks, it’s only a couple of words an hour.’
A lock of hair falls across her cheek and she tosses her head to move it. Her skin is like brass, and she has deep laugh-lines at the corners of her eyes. The thin skin beneath her eyes is grey, and she has traces of dirt under her short nails.
‘You used to be able to order pastries from a bakery outside,’ Joona says, pouring coffee.
‘I need to start thinking about my figure for when you get out,’ she replies, with one hand on her stomach.
‘You’re more beautiful than ever,’ Joona says.
‘You should have seen me yesterday,’ she laughs, her long fingers touching an enamel daisy hanging from a chain around her neck. ‘I was out at the open-air pool in Saltsj?baden, crawling around in the rain preparing the beds.’
‘Yoshino cherry trees, right?’
‘I picked a variety with white flowers, thousands of them. They’re amazing … every year in May it looks like a snowstorm has hit just those little trees.’
Joona looks at the cups and the pale blue napkins. The light from outside is falling in broad stripes across the table.
‘How are your studies going?’ she asks.
‘It’s exciting.’
‘Does it feel weird to be training for something new?’ she asks, folding her napkin.
‘Yes, but in a good way.’
‘You’re still sure you don’t want to go back to police work?’
He nods and looks over towards the window. The dirty glass is visible between the horizontal bars. His chair creaks as he leans back, disappearing into the memory of his last night in Nattavaara.
‘What are you thinking?’ she asks in a serious voice.
‘Nothing,’ he replies quietly.
‘You’re thinking about Summa,’ she says simply.
‘No.’
‘Because of what I said about a snowstorm.’
He looks into her amber-coloured eyes and nods. She has the peculiar ability to almost read his mind.
‘There’s nothing as quiet as snow after the wind has dropped,’ he says. ‘You know … Lumi and I sat with her, holding her hands …’
Joona thinks back to the strange calmness that settled on his wife before she died, and the absolute silence that followed.
Valeria leans across the table and puts her hand to his cheek without saying anything. He can see the tattoo on her right shoulder through the thin fabric of her blouse.
‘We’re going to get through this – aren’t we?’ she asks quietly.
‘We’re going to get through this,’ he nods.
‘You’re not going to break my heart, are you, Joona?’
‘No.’
16
Joona feels a lingering joy after Valeria has left. It’s as if she brings him a small portion of life every time she visits.
He has almost no space in his cell, but if he stands between the desk and the sink he has just enough room to do some shadow-boxing and hone his military fighting techniques. He moves slowly and systematically, thinking of the endless flatlands in the Netherlands where he received his training.
Joona doesn’t know how long he’s been practising, but the sky is so dark that the yellow wall that encloses the prison is no longer visible through the barred window when the lock clicks and the cell door opens.
Two guards he hasn’t seen before are standing in the doorway, looking at him rather anxiously.
He thinks it must be a search. Something’s happened, maybe an attempted escape that they suspect he’s involved in.
‘You’re going to see a defence lawyer,’ one of the guards says.
‘What for?’
Without answering they cuff his hands and lead him out of the cell.
‘I haven’t requested a meeting,’ Joona says.
They walk down the stairs together and on down the long hallway. A prison guard passes them silently and disappears.
Joona wonders if they’ve realised that Valeria has been using her sister’s ID when she visits him. She has a criminal record of her own, and wouldn’t be allowed to see him if she used her own name.
The colour and style of the pictures along the walls change. The harsh lighting shows up the shabbiness of the concrete floor.
The guards lead Joona through security doors and airlocks. They have to show the warrant authorising the transfer several times. More locks whirr, and they head deeper into a section Joona isn’t familiar with. At the far end of the hallway two men are standing guard outside a door.
Joona immediately recognises that they’re Security Police officers. Without looking at him they open the door.
The dimly lit room is completely bare apart from two plastic chairs. Someone is sitting in one of them.
Joona stops in the middle of the floor.
The light from the low-hanging ceiling lamp doesn’t reach the man’s face. It stops at the pressed creases of his trousers and the black shoes, wet mud visible beneath their soles.
Something is glinting in his right hand.
When the door closes behind Joona the man stands up, takes a step forward into the light and tucks his reading glasses in his breast pocket.
Only then does Joona see his face.
It’s Sweden’s Prime Minister.
His eyes are cast in darkness, and the shadow of his sharp nose lies like a stroke of black ink across his mouth.
‘This meeting has never taken place,’ the Prime Minister says in his characteristic hoarse voice. ‘I haven’t met you, and you haven’t met me. No matter what happens you’ll tell people you had a meeting with your defence lawyer.’
‘Your driver doesn’t smoke,’ Joona says.