Page 170 of These Tears

‘Smile and nod. Lie. Scheme. It’s clearly what you’re good at,’ he growls, feeding the panic already climbing through me. ‘Start moving.’

My legs hesitate. But I look at the open doorway and gather what’s left of my sense, then start walking.

And the devil follows.

29

A dozen people linger around the cleared patch behind the Nielsens’ house, where a modest bonfire crackles in a shallow ring of blackened stones. It’s nothing grand or staged, just split birch stacked low, flames dancing through the cold afternoon to soothe the soul. Smoke drifts sideways whenever the wind changes, carrying the smell of wood and a rich aroma wafting from the large pot Anders is happily stirring.

The baby is mostly inside with her mother. Every now and then, someone slips through the back door with a bowl or a question, then returns to the fire with a soft look people get after seeing something small and delicate.

I stand beside Sunna near a rough wooden table set under the overhang of a shed, helping her pour drinks into mismatched enamel mugs. A bottle of something clear and sharp-smelling sits near her elbow, but most people seem to be nursing coffee and sweet cordial.

A clear glass sits in the corner with the rest, inviting me to help myself to the unforgiving spirits on the table. But explaining why Elias drinks from my glass might raise a few awkward questions.

I leave it right where it is.

Sunna moves like someone who has fed half the country through winters, births, funerals and whatever other disasters or blessings call for warmth from the inside out.

She smiles at me now and then. I smile back despite myself.

She’d closed up the petrol station as soon as we emerged from the back rooms, leaving me no chance to confront Elias about what the bloody hell had happened in that corridor – or during that call.

It was clear Anna knew Elias had been with me. The only person who might have told her something was Conall.

I freeze, staring into the pale bottom of the empty mug as his face surfaces in my mind.

The Irishman had seemed anxious at the airport. As though he had already known how my flight was going to end.

My mind breaks loose and starts pulling other thoughts into the mess: Elias, newly released, with no phone, no proper way to book flights or move money or vanish across borders without help.

Skeever, the computer-savvy man. That call in the corridor.

No…

The denial comes late. The pieces have already begun fitting themselves together in the ugliest possible shape.

What if my kidnapping had not been what I thought it was?

What if Conall had helped him?

Had Elias swindled him, too?

Laughter erupts, wrenching me out of my spiral.

I glance towards the bonfire where the conversation rises in a mixture of Norwegian, English and words I can’t place. The English is for me, and it comes slowly from some, each sentence carrying the mould of another language beneath it.

Coffee passes from hand to hand. Someone laughs with their mouth full. Someone teases Anders about the stew. He fires something back without even looking up, sending another ripple of amusement through the group.

And through it all, Elias is not Elias.

The name they know him under passes from mouth to mouth as if it actually belongs to the man. Jakob, more wood. Jakob, move the bench. Jakob, taste this. Jakob, why do you look like a ghost?

And he does – look like one. His face turns paler with each person who crosses his path or calls his name.

He carries logs to the fire that doesn’t need them. Crouches to shift pieces of birch that don’t need shifting. Finds one useless task after another whenever someone comes too close.

Then his eyes cut through the yard, searching.