The Swedish Girl Read Free Page A

noticed that there was some sort of a yard between the tenement buildings and the railway. Several vans were parked side by side and she could see a heap of used tyres piled untidily into one corner. As she watched, a man in dark blue overalls crossed the yard and opened the door of the van at the end of the row. He was quite unaware of being observed by the girl from the top flat above him, Eva realised. He was simply going about his business. She took a deep breath, savouring the moment. Life was all around her, real life, from the work going on in the yard to the day-to-day business of people on every floor of the building. And now she, Eva Magnusson, was a part of that life.
    She wandered back into the hall and immediately entered the main reception room, recognising the bay windows she had admired earlier from the street below. Sunlight poured into this room as the windows were almost ceiling height. Eva’s eyes followed the line of coving: the egg and dart plaster mould was perfectly intact, as was the ornate rose in the centre of the ceiling with its grey coil of electric flex ready and waiting for whatever her father might choose in the way of a light fitting. Before she knew it, her feet had taken her right up to the windows where three tired-looking boxes on the sill outside held a few hopeful pansies. She would plant them up as soon as she could, put in scarlet geraniums instead. Eva looked across the street at the houses opposite and blinked, a sudden memory surfacing. It was a painting she had seen in a gallery. What was it called?
Windows on the West
, that was it, where the artist had captured moments in the lives of folk in a tenement flat, just like this. And for a moment she frowned at the idea of someone staring across at her, seeing into her own life.
    ‘It’s darker on the other side of the house,’ she remarked, hearing her father’s footsteps come into the room. ‘I think I would like a bedroom with less light. You know I can never sleep when the sun streams in my window.’
    The girl kept staring out of the window even when she felt the pressure of Henrik’s fingers close upon her shoulder. She smiled, seeing the reflection of her face in the glass, as she calculated how many weeks it would be before she would be here as a student, free from the constraints that had held her for the past nineteen years of her life.

CHAPTER 3
    C olin Young picked up the dishcloth and wiped around the edges of the industrial-sized sinks. God knows how many times he had cleaned up after the chefs since the start of his shift, but he supposed that was what his job was, kitchen hand. It had been all that Colin could find as far as a summer job was concerned and he needed the money if he was going to get anywhere decent to stay next session. His face brightened suddenly as he remembered the appointment with the Swedish man, Larsson, or something. No, he was confusing him with one of his childhood football heroes, Henrik Larsson.
Magnusson
, that was his name, Henrik Magnusson. It was the Henrik bit that had muddled him up. Colin’s smile broadened as he cast his thoughts back to when he had been a wee lad eagerly following his dad and big brother, Thomas, up the slope to Parkhead football stadium. The boys’ Celtic strips had been worn with the kind of pride that was hard for those outside the game to comprehend. Then there was the singing; thousands of voices raised along with the green, gold and white scarves, a sound to make the hairs on his neck stand on edge even thinking about it so many years later.
    Well, perhaps this other Henrik would come up trumps for him. The monthly rental was okay, so the flat was bound to be fairly basic, plus it was out at Anniesland, not exactly on the doorstep of the university and he’d have to factor in the cost of a bus or train on top of everything else. Colin gave the stainless steel sink one final rub then put the used cloth into a plastic tub full of bleach before