city, a glittering mound behind the curtain of snow.
He passes the crest of the bridge and continues down. Far ahead at the next station are the tail lights of a train. Just before the station, the bridge touches land, and the railing is flanked by fences and barbed wire. Near the station is a door in the fence that leads out to a street.
He slows down and walks up to the door. It is locked with a large padlock, shielded from rain by a cover of brushed steel. John lowers his bag to the ground, takes out his keys, selects one and opens the lock. Once outside, he shuts the door and looks around.
Kristineberg, a suburb-cum-part-of-the-city, is a cluster of tall blocks of flats divided by a long park and the underground rail. Most buildings are huddled close together, their forties-era fronts overlooking the strait below. Wedged in between the blocks are rows of streets that run towards a high-rise.
Normally a busy area, tonight there a few in sight. A man pulling a reluctant dog. Farther away, a group of people carrying plastic bags full of clinking bottles. On his left, a couple marching hand in hand towards the station, their heads bent against the wind.
John chooses one of the streets and runs up the incline. In the distance are sirens calling from the depth of the storm. He runs faster, past parties, closed shops, and snowed-in cars, past music, laughter, coughs and cries. He crosses a street, turns a corner and stops, resting with his hands on his knees.
The sirens are coming closer. Around another corner are a few concrete steps that lead down to a brown metal door leading to a windowless basement. A sign on the door reads Argenti Advertising .
John unlocks the door with his keys, shuts it behind him, and locks it again. Strip lights splutter in the ceiling and light up the room.
The basement holds racks with leftover posters, shelves stacked with cans of glue, boxes full of solvents, rollers, sticky tape, cutters, and a pair of large halogen torches. On his left is the door to a small bathroom. In a corner stand three aluminium ladders.
Along a wall, jackets and caps are draped over a row of hooks. Facing him is a large cracked mirror. In another corner are piles of blue overalls. Green plastic bins brim with cigarette packets and polystyrene cups. Unwashed coffee cups line a metal sink, next to a bench with an old filter coffee brewer. A rusted bicycle leans against one wall.
In a corner is a desk teeming with Post-it notes, cheap pens, worn folders and phone books. Next to the desk are a grey office chair and a double-door metal cabinet locked by a small padlock. John chooses a key from his key ring and opens the lock.
The cabinet is packed with equipment. On the lower shelves, toolboxes and batteries stand side by side between rows of headlights for helmets and walkie-talkies. On the top shelf, next to a tangle of computer cables, is an inkjet printer.
John puts the printer on the desk, sweeps away a layer of dust, and plugs in the power cord. He turns the printer on and places a stack of schedules upside down in the paper tray. The printer hums and whirrs, and stops. A red light blinks on its front.
John rummages among the cables, selects one and connects it to the printer. He takes out the laptop and, after a few tries, connects the other end of the cable to the computer, and switches it on. When the computer has booted up, he sits down on the chair and browses the files on its hard drive.
After nearly twenty minutes, he pauses at an image of a running man who is facing the camera. The image is small, but the quality is good. A lean, pale man, perhaps thirty years old. His face is a mask of stress. Thick stubble, dark hair, blue eyes. In his right ear is a small ring. John prints the image and puts it on the desk.
There is a knock on the door.
John slips one of the image into a plastic folder and puts the folder in his bag.
Another knock, this time long and insistent.
He rises from the chair, takes
He passes the crest of the bridge and continues down. Far ahead at the next station are the tail lights of a train. Just before the station, the bridge touches land, and the railing is flanked by fences and barbed wire. Near the station is a door in the fence that leads out to a street.
He slows down and walks up to the door. It is locked with a large padlock, shielded from rain by a cover of brushed steel. John lowers his bag to the ground, takes out his keys, selects one and opens the lock. Once outside, he shuts the door and looks around.
Kristineberg, a suburb-cum-part-of-the-city, is a cluster of tall blocks of flats divided by a long park and the underground rail. Most buildings are huddled close together, their forties-era fronts overlooking the strait below. Wedged in between the blocks are rows of streets that run towards a high-rise.
Normally a busy area, tonight there a few in sight. A man pulling a reluctant dog. Farther away, a group of people carrying plastic bags full of clinking bottles. On his left, a couple marching hand in hand towards the station, their heads bent against the wind.
John chooses one of the streets and runs up the incline. In the distance are sirens calling from the depth of the storm. He runs faster, past parties, closed shops, and snowed-in cars, past music, laughter, coughs and cries. He crosses a street, turns a corner and stops, resting with his hands on his knees.
The sirens are coming closer. Around another corner are a few concrete steps that lead down to a brown metal door leading to a windowless basement. A sign on the door reads Argenti Advertising .
John unlocks the door with his keys, shuts it behind him, and locks it again. Strip lights splutter in the ceiling and light up the room.
The basement holds racks with leftover posters, shelves stacked with cans of glue, boxes full of solvents, rollers, sticky tape, cutters, and a pair of large halogen torches. On his left is the door to a small bathroom. In a corner stand three aluminium ladders.
Along a wall, jackets and caps are draped over a row of hooks. Facing him is a large cracked mirror. In another corner are piles of blue overalls. Green plastic bins brim with cigarette packets and polystyrene cups. Unwashed coffee cups line a metal sink, next to a bench with an old filter coffee brewer. A rusted bicycle leans against one wall.
In a corner is a desk teeming with Post-it notes, cheap pens, worn folders and phone books. Next to the desk are a grey office chair and a double-door metal cabinet locked by a small padlock. John chooses a key from his key ring and opens the lock.
The cabinet is packed with equipment. On the lower shelves, toolboxes and batteries stand side by side between rows of headlights for helmets and walkie-talkies. On the top shelf, next to a tangle of computer cables, is an inkjet printer.
John puts the printer on the desk, sweeps away a layer of dust, and plugs in the power cord. He turns the printer on and places a stack of schedules upside down in the paper tray. The printer hums and whirrs, and stops. A red light blinks on its front.
John rummages among the cables, selects one and connects it to the printer. He takes out the laptop and, after a few tries, connects the other end of the cable to the computer, and switches it on. When the computer has booted up, he sits down on the chair and browses the files on its hard drive.
After nearly twenty minutes, he pauses at an image of a running man who is facing the camera. The image is small, but the quality is good. A lean, pale man, perhaps thirty years old. His face is a mask of stress. Thick stubble, dark hair, blue eyes. In his right ear is a small ring. John prints the image and puts it on the desk.
There is a knock on the door.
John slips one of the image into a plastic folder and puts the folder in his bag.
Another knock, this time long and insistent.
He rises from the chair, takes
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