train is already in the middle of the bridge, high above the ice of Hallsfjärden, when Erik Johnsson sees a flickering shadow through the haze. There’s someone on the track. Erik sounds the horn and sees the figure take a long step to the right, onto the other track.
The train is approaching very fast. For half a second the man is caught in the light of the headlamps. He blinks. A young man with a dead face. His clothes are trembling on his skinny frame, and then he’s gone.
Erik isn’t conscious of the fact that he’s applied the brakes and that the whole train is slowing down. There’s a rumbling sound and the screech of metal, and he isn’t sure if he ran over the young man.
He’s shaking, and can feel adrenalin coursing through his body as he calls SOS Alarm.
‘I’m a train driver, I’ve just passed someone on the Igelsta Bridge … he was in the middle of the tracks, but I don’t think I hit him …’
‘Is anyone injured?’ the operator asks.
‘I don’t think I hit him, I only saw him for a few seconds.’
‘Where exactly did you see him?’
‘In the middle of the Igelsta Bridge.’
‘On the tracks?’
‘There’s nothing but tracks up here, it’s a fucking railway bridge …’
‘Was he standing still, or was he walking in a particular direction?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘My colleague is just alerting the police and ambulance in Södertälje. We’ll have to stop all rail traffic over the bridge.’
The emergency control room immediately dispatches police cars to both ends of the long bridge. Just nine minutes later the first car pulls off the Nyköping road with its lights flashing and makes its way up the narrow gravel track alongside Sydgatan. The road leads steeply upwards, and hasn’t been ploughed, and loose snow swirls up over the bonnet and windscreen.
The policemen leave the car at the end of the bridge and set out along the tracks with their torches on. It isn’t easy walking along the railway line. Cars are passing far below them on the motorway. The four railway tracks narrow to two, and stretch out across the industrial estates of Björkudden and the frozen inlet.
The first officer stops and points. Someone has clearly walked along the right-hand track ahead of them. The shaky beams of their torches illuminate some almost eradicated footprints and a few traces of blood.
They shine their torches into the distance, but there’s no one on the bridge as far as they can see. The lights of the harbour below make the snow between the tracks look like smoke from a fire.
Now the second police car reaches the other end of the deep ravine, more than two kilometres away.
The tyres thunder as Police Constable Jasim Muhammed pulls up alongside the railway line. His partner, Fredrik Mosskin, has just contacted their colleagues on the bridge over the radio.
The wind is making so much noise in the microphone that it’s almost impossible to hear the voice, but it’s clear that someone was walking across the railway bridge very recently.
The car stops and the headlights illuminate a steep rock face. Fredrik ends the call and stares blankly ahead of him.
‘What’s happening?’ Jasim asks.
‘Looks like he’s heading this way.’
‘What did they say about blood? Was there much blood?’
‘I didn’t hear.’
‘Let’s go and look,’ Jasim says, opening his door.
The blue lights play upon the snow-covered branches of the pine trees.
‘The ambulance is on its way,’ Fredrik says.
There’s no crust on the snow and Jasim sinks in up to his knees. He pulls out his torch and shines it towards the tracks. Fredrik is slipping on the verge, but keeps climbing.
‘What sort of animal has an extra arsehole in the middle of its back?’ Jasim asks.
‘I don’t know,’ Fredrik mutters.
There’s so much snow in the air that they can’t see the glow of their colleagues’ torches on the other side of the bridge.
‘A police horse,’ Jasim says.
‘What the …?’
‘That’s what my mother-in-law told the kids.’ Jasim grins, and heads up onto the bridge.
There are no footprints in the snow. Either the man is still on the bridge, or he’s jumped. The cables above them are whistling eerily. The ground beneath them falls away steeply.
The lights of Hall Prison are glowing through the haze, lit up like an underwater city.
Fredrik tries to contact their colleagues, but the radio just crackles.
They head slowly further out across the bridge. Fredrik is walking behind Jasim, a torch in his hand. Jasim can see his own shadow moving across the ground, swaying oddly from side to side.
It’s strange that their colleagues from the other side of the bridge aren’t visible.
When they are out above the frozen inlet the wind from the sea is bitter. Snow is blowing into their eyes. Their cheeks feel numb with cold.
Jasim screws up his eyes to look across the bridge. It disappears into swirling darkness. Suddenly he sees something at the edge of the light from the torch. A tall stick-figure with no head.
Jasim stumbles and reaches his hand out towards the low railing, and sees the snow fall fifty metres onto the ice.
His torch hits something and goes out.
His heart is beating hard and Jasim peers forward again, but can no longer see the figure.
Fredrik calls him back and he turns round. His partner is pointing at him, but it’s impossible to hear what he’s saying. He looks scared, and starts to fumble with the holster of his pistol, and Jasim realises that he’s trying to warn him, that he was pointing at someone behind his back.
He turns round and gasps for breath.
Someone is crawling along the track straight towards him. Jasim backs away and tries to draw his pistol. The figure gets to its feet and sways. It’s a young man. He’s staring at the policemen with empty eyes. His bearded face is thin, his cheekbones sharp. He’s swaying and seems to be having trouble breathing.
‘Half of me is still underground,’ he pants.
‘Are
