Siren Song: A Different Scandinavian Crime Novel by Erik Boman

a hard surface. When nothing jumps out to attack him, he reaches out gingerly and prods the surface. Perfectly smooth, like glass or ice .
    He keeps on brushing and sees movements in the surface, faint shadows stirring within the material, shifting and blending. The voices become more distinct, but they are too hushed for him to make out any words. Soon the shadows grow sharper and more substantial. Colours emerge, first blurred, then separating and crystallising into shapes. A ceiling and a floor. Walls and objects.
    And people.
    Weak with confusion, he stares at the square as the image solidifies. A large room with green and beige walls, lit by bright strip lights in the ceiling. On the floor are wide drawers and white shelves lined with folders. In one end of the room is a rectangular desk, in the other a large circle of easels with huge canvases.
    Standing by the easels are children in their early teens, perhaps even younger. They work on their paintings while they whisper, moan and sigh.
    John recognizes them. He could tick off every person before him: The chatting beauty. The quiet one. The alpha male. The fidgeting, brainy girl. The nervous prankster boy. The freckled athlete. A dozen more, all of them wearing faces two decades old. He knows them all. And they would know him. The room had been in his old school, and he had been inside it many times.
    “It can’t be,” he breathes. The hairs on his arms stand upright.
    In a moment of overwhelming vertigo, he presses his face to the surface and scans the room for his own face, but he is not there. Shuddering, he breathes out, then shouts in surprise when a boy’s face appears on the other side.
    The boy stares at John. Twelve or thirteen years old, narrow chin, blond curls. A kind, soft face. A name floats around the boy’s features. Fred? Close, but not right. Fredrik.
    Frowning, the boy motions for John to come closer, looks over his shoulder, and moves his hands down, out of John’s sight.
    John takes a cautious step forward, then leaps back again when the surface slides upwards and vanishes. In its place is a wooden window frame.
    “Are you crazy?” the boy wheezes. He keeps his hands in the air, as if holding up a window that could come crashing down. “Get back in before Lennart sees you. He’ll be at your easel soon.”
    John’s tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. He catches a glimpse of an adult teacher at the far end of the classroom. The sight brushes against more memories, but this time the sensation is that of stirring a nest of snakes. These recollections are faint and unwilling to become clearer, and he is happy to leave them alone.
    Fredrik looks at John and grimaces. “Stop being weird,” he urges. “Come on, hop in.”
    “ I’m weird?” John asks, unable to think of anything else to say.
    The boy pulls a face. “You’re the one out in the cold. We’re in here. What do you think?”
    “I think I’m losing my mind.”
    “Better hurry up in here and catch it, then. The window’s heavy. You can’t hold it much longer.”
    John looks up at the boy’s hands. “But you’re the one holding it up.”
    “You nutter.” Fredrik laughs. “In or out. What’s it going to be?”
    John clenches and unclenches his fists. There are no other passages from the cave. He has to go on, through whatever door he can. Reaching out, he waves his hand in the space beyond the window, inside the room. The air is almost as cold as outside where he stands.
    John puts one foot on the ledge, heaves himself up, and stumbles into the classroom.
    *

John
    The steam of John’s breaths trail behind him as he runs over the bridge.
    The strait below, frozen solid for weeks, is a wrinkled field covered by wisps of snow sailing over the dunes like clouds. Two trains pass him, but no passengers look at him except a boy who presses his face against the window. A police car heading in the other direction swishes past, sirens baying. In front of him is Stockholm