The Defenceless by Kati Hiekkapelto

too.’
    ‘Who?’
    Anna felt embarrassed, sensed a rush of blood to her cheeks.
    ‘Farkas Gabriella, the girl driving the car.’
    ‘Do you know her?’
    ‘No. It turns out she’s Hungarian.’
    ‘My sister’s got a Hungarian piano teacher. Great guy and really good. I could give you his…’
    ‘Maybe the old man had fallen over just before the accident; he could have been concussed and wandering around the woods, hit his head against something,’ Anna interrupted her.
    ‘Maybe.’
    ‘Except that there were no footprints fitting the man anywhere near the scene; nothing in the woods or on the road, though the road was iced over.’
    ‘He was wearing a pair of slippers. It should be easy to isolate any footprints.’
    ‘But there weren’t any prints. Not even along the edge of the road, where there’s normally more loose snow than on the road.’
    ‘Maybe he was walking down the middle of the road.’
    ‘Maybe.’
     
    Sammy heard music somewhere in the distance. It was getting closer, louder. He opened his eyes. It took a moment to work out where he was. He was sitting in an armchair in a dimmed living room. A mobile phone was ringing on the table in front of him. The word Mum flashed on the screen. He recognised that word, but not the melody. It sounded like all the music in this country: boring and American. Macke didn’t answer the call. He was slouched on the sofa. Sammy tried to focus on Macke. The edges of his field of vision shimmered, and the living room, darkened with thick curtains, seemed to whirr in time with the music. Sammy untied the strip of tubing around his arm. He felt amazing, better than he had in a long time. He didn’t care what the time was, what day it was, whether Maalik and Farzad were waiting for him, worried, what kind of appeal they lodged, whether it was successful, whether he was eventually bundled on to a plane for Karachi, whether he was killed straight away or slightly later. He didn’t think of anything, he wasn’t cold, wasn’t hungry.
    The armchair felt soft. He felt united with its spars, its threadbare velvet coverings. He was the armchair and it felt good, safe. Again his eyes pressed shut; he didn’t try to fight it. He didn’t fall asleep, but sank into a pleasant, relaxing state of oblivion so powerful nothing could make its way through into his consciousness.
    Nothing except one sound. There it was again. A banging, rattling. Sammy tried to ignore it, he didn’t want to open his eyes, but when a man’s voice bellowed right into his ear, he had to. The room was full of people in blue uniforms. Sammy jumped to his feet. The room was swaying violently, he gripped the armchair for support, but only for a hundredth of a second, then he tensed every muscle in his body and dashed towards the hallway screaming like an animal, his arms thrashing wildly, but in vain. He had moved not even a metre before being caught in the iron grip of an enormouspolice officer. The powerful arms wrapped around him like pliers. He tried to wrestle himself free but didn’t have the energy, couldn’t match the officer’s superior strength. Sammy slumped, limp, and started weeping against the blue overalls. The prey had finally been trapped; the hare had run for the last time. And as he stood there sobbing, there in the unflinching grip of the policeman’s arms, for a fleeting moment Sammy felt a great sense of relief, of returning to his mother’s embrace.
    ‘Call an ambulance,’ someone cried out. ‘This one’s not breathing.’
    Sammy understood the word ambulance . He turned to look at Macke, now receiving CPR on the floor, there amongst the rubbish. Macke’s face, his skin stained with blood, was white as a sheet. What have I done to deserve a life like this, thought Sammy. I should have stayed and defended my mother, not run away like a cowardly sewer rat. Sammy pressed himself tight against the officer’s broad, safe chest. Tears and mucus stained the blue