“Now or at breakfast?”
Benjamin shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”
Erik quickly swabs his son’s skinny arm, turns it towards the light coming through the window, feels the softness of the muscle, taps the syringe, and carefully pushes the cannula beneath the skin. As the syringe slowly empties, Benjamin taps away at his cell phone with his free hand.
“Shit, my battery’s almost gone,” he says, then lies back as his father holds a compress to his arm to stop any bleeding.
Gently Erik bends his son’s legs backwards and forwards; then he exercises the slender knee joints and massages the feet and toes. “How does it feel?” he asks, keeping his eyes fixed on his son’s face.
Benjamin grimaces. “Same as usual.”
“Do you want a painkiller?”
Benjamin shakes his head, and Erik suddenly remembers the unconscious witness, the boy with all those knife wounds. Perhaps the murderer is looking for the older daughter right now.
“Dad? What is it?”
Erik meets Benjamin’s gaze. “I’ll drive you to school if you like,” he says.
“What for?”
13
tuesday, december 8: morning
The rush-hour traffic rumbles slowly along. Benjamin is sitting next to his father, the stop-and-go progress of the car making him feel drowsy. He gives a big yawn and feels a soft warmth still lingering in his body after the night’s sleep. He thinks about the fact that his father is in a hurry but that he still takes the time to drive him to school. Benjamin smiles to himself. It’s always been this way, he thinks: when Dad’s involved in something awful at the hospital, he gets worried that something’s going to happen to me.
“Oh, no!” Erik says suddenly. “We forgot the ice skates.”
“Right.”
“We’ll go back.”
“Doesn’t matter,” says Benjamin.
Erik tries switching lanes, but another car stops him from cutting in. Forced back, he almost collides with a dustbin lorry.
“We’ve got time to turn around and—”
“Just, like, forget the skates. I couldn’t care less,” says Benjamin, his voice rising.
Erik glances at him in surprise. “I thought you liked skating.”
Benjamin doesn’t know what to say. He can’t stand being interrogated, doesn’t want to lie. He turns away to look out of the window.
“Don’t you?” asks Erik.
“What?”
“Like skating?”
“Why would I?” Benjamin mutters. “It’s boring.”
“We bought you brand new—”
Benjamin’s only reply is a sigh.
“Fine,” says Erik. “Forget the skates.” He concentrates on the traffic for a moment. “So skating is boring. Playing chess is boring. Watching TV is boring. What do you actually enjoy?”
“Don’t know,” Benjamin says.
“Nothing?”
“No.”
“Movies?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” Erik smiles.
“Yes,” replies Benjamin.
“I’ve seen you watch three or four movies in a night,” says Erik cheerily.
“So what?”
Erik goes on, still smiling. “I wonder how many movies you could get through if you really liked watching them. If you loved movies.”
“Give me a break.” Despite himself, Benjamin smiles.
“Maybe you’d need two TVs, zipping through them all on fast forward.” Erik laughs and places his hand on his son’s knee. Benjamin allows it to remain there.
Suddenly they hear a muffled bang, and in the sky a pale blue star appears, with descending smoke-coloured points.
“Funny time for fireworks,” says Benjamin.
“What?” asks his father.
“Look,” says Benjamin, pointing.
A star of smoke hangs in the sky. For some reason, Benjamin can see Aida in front of him, and his stomach contracts at once; he feels warm inside. Last Friday they sat close together in silence on the sofa in her narrow living room out in Sundbyberg, watching the movie Elephant while her younger brother played with Pokémon cards on the floor, talking to himself.
As Erik is parking outside the school, Benjamin suddenly spots Aida. She’s standing on the other side of the fence waiting for him. When she catches sight of him she waves. Benjamin grabs his bag and, sliding out the car door, says, “’Bye, Dad. Thanks for the lift.”
“Love you,” says Erik quietly.
Benjamin nods.
“Want to watch a movie tonight?” asks Erik.
“Whatever.”
“Is that Aida?” asks Erik.
“Yes,” says Benjamin, almost without making a sound.
“I’d like to say hello to her,” says Erik, climbing out of the car.
“What for?”
They walk across to Aida. Benjamin hardly dares to look at her; he feels like a kid. He doesn’t want her to think he needs his father to approve of her or anything. He doesn’t care what his father thinks. Aida looks nervous; her eyes dart from son to father. Before Benjamin has time to say anything by way of explanation, Erik sticks out his hand.
“Hi, there.”
Aida shakes his hand warily. Benjamin sees his father take in her tattoos: there’s a swastika on her throat, with a little Star of David next to it. She’s painted her eyes black, her hair is done up in two childish braids, and she wears a black leather jacket and a wide black net skirt.
“I’m Erik, Benjamin’s dad.”
“Aida.”
Her voice is high and weak. Benjamin blushes and looks nervously at Aida, then down at the ground.
“Are you a Nazi?” asks Erik.
“Are you?” she retorts.
“No.”
“Me neither,” she says, briefly meeting his eyes.
“Why have you got a—”
“No reason. I’m nothing. I’m just—”
Benjamin breaks in, his heart pounding with embarrassment over his father. “She was hanging out with these people a few years ago,” he says loudly. “But she thought they were idiots, and—”
“You don’t need to explain,” Aida interrupts, annoyed.
He doesn’t speak for a moment.
“I … I just think it’s brave to admit when you’ve made a mistake,” he says eventually.