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his sonshad just recently been selected for the junior national handball team.
    Mike didn’t understand his reasoning. With the best will in the world, he couldn’t see the point in playing handball for the national junior team.
    He and Sanna made towers from building blocks until it was time for bed.
    ‘When’s Mummy coming home?’ Sanna asked, as she settled down under the duvet.
    ‘She’ll be here soon,’ Mike said.
    ‘How soon?’
    ‘Very soon.’
    ‘I want to stay up until she comes.’
    ‘No go, I’m afraid.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Because I don’t know exactly when she’s going to come home. But by the time you wake up first thing tomorrow morning, she’ll be in her bed, I promise. And you’ll have to be a little bit quiet, won’t you, as Mummy will be tired.’
    Ylva was still lying on the bed. She couldn’t get up. Only a couple of hours ago she’d wished her colleagues a good weekend and walked down the hill to catch the bus home.The man and the woman had been waiting for her, offered her a lift. Ylva couldn’t say no. You couldn’t really, could you, when new neighbours who’ve just moved in offer you a lift.
    Everything had been planned, the rape as well. The cellar room she was in had been built especially for her.
    Ylva was only a hundred metres from her own house, where her husband and daughter were waiting for her to come home.
    Or maybe they weren’t. Ylva had mentioned that she might go out for a glass of wine with her colleagues after work. Would Mike dare to call? Probably not. He wouldn’t want to seem weak. When would he realise that something was wrong?
    Ylva rolled over on to her side, with some difficulty. Her body was sore and it hurt to move. It took all her energy just to try. She lay there, gasping for breath.
    The TV was on.
    It was dark outside, the streetlamps glowed in a kind of white halo that made the rest of the picture dark and grey. It was difficult to see the silhouette of their house. But Ylva saw that the light in Sanna’s room was still on.
    How long would it be before Mike called the police?
    Would they let her go before then? They couldn’t keep her here.
    Could they?
    The thought was too much to take in. Of course she would report him. Ylva would report both of them. What had happened twenty years ago didn’t really matter.
    Couldn’t they understand that what had happened had tormented her too? Not in the same way, obviously. But that didn’t make it any easier. In a way, it made it worse. They didn’t have the guilt, never needed to think about what they could’ve done.
    A day hadn’t passed when Ylva hadn’t blamed herself. She had gone through all the stages of denial and self-loathing, without finding peace. Ylva would just have to live with it.
    She manoeuvred herself off the bed, staggered over to the door on shaky legs, pushed down the door handle and pulled. It was locked. There was a peephole in the door. Ylva tried to look through it, but realised it was fitted the other way round. So that they could look in from outside.
    She kicked the door but just hurt her foot and so started to hit it with the flats of her hands in the hope that the sound might be audible on the other side. She stopped tolisten for footsteps, but only heard her own sobs. She ended up banging on the door hysterically and screaming as loud as she could.
    Ylva didn’t know how long she did this for, but when she finally turned her back to the door and sunk to the floor, she had no feeling left in her hands.
    She cried and cried, but eventually lifted her eyes and discovered that the cellar room she was in was done out like a studio apartment.
    She put her hands flat on the floor and got up with great difficulty. She went over to the kitchenette and opened the fridge. It was empty, except for a half-tube of Primula.
    There was a door in the wall opposite the kitchenette. Ylva opened it. A bathroom with a toilet, shower and sink. No window, just a fan, high up on the