Medusa Read Online Free PDF

home they drank and drank, you couldn’t get them to stop. Per Olav the most, even though Dr Glenne had told him he should drink less milk. Per Olav listened to Dr Glenne. But he loved milk, got up in the middle of the night to drink it. She could see him in her mind’s eye, standing there swigging drinking yoghurt straight from the carton. His moustache afterwards, clogged with the stuff. It was better for him than sweet milk, Dr Glenne had said. And Per Olav listened to what Dr Glenne said. Solveig nevercalled him Dr Glenne. Axel when she thought of him, but she never said it so Per Olav could hear her. Glenne, she might say, but not Axel.
    The man in the grey anorak appeared by the cheese counter, approaching. He was going to speak to her. Say something that was supposed to be funny. She jerked her trolley the other way, set off full speed in the direction of the crates of mineral water. Wanted to get some Diet Coke but couldn’t stop now. Beer. Per Olav had asked her to buy some for dinner because they were having fish, and she grabbed a couple of bottles without noticing what they were. Per Olav wasn’t particular. Was it fish today? She was the one who had said so. We’ll be having fish for dinner today, she’d announced to Per Olav, standing in the doorway; the kids had already gone out. Fine by me, he’d answered. Fish was fine by Per Olav. She was the one who couldn’t stand it. The smell. Worst of all when preparing it. Cutting through the slimy skin and the greyish flesh with the thin streaks of blood, and the brown stuff that ran out of the backbone. Ask for it ready filleted. They didn’t have a fish counter at Rema. She’d passed the frozen fish counter. If she turned round, the old man in the grey jacket would be there waiting, stinking of roll-up cigarettes and wanting to chat.
    She hurried on towards the checkout. She must have bread. None left in the freezer. She’d written it at the top of the list, in capital letters, with an exclamation mark. Enough for supper and packed lunches. This morning she’d had to send them off with crispbread. It softened inside the wrapping and the kids wouldn’t eat it. Came home hungry. And the teachers would be whispering and gossiping about her, that she didn’t give them enough food. She grabbed a sack of cat food, two big sacks. They had no cat. The trolley was loaded to the brim. Four people queuing at the checkout. The other tills were closed. She swung into the next row, parked the loaded trolley in front of the sweet shelves. There was a smell of chocolate. Jelly babies and liquorice allsorts. She looked the other way as she slipped through the gated checkout, out into the light.
     
    The tunnel walls whizzed by. There were dark shadows around the reflections in the window. She couldn’t see the eyes, but knew the gaze was evil. She turned and looked quickly behind her. The carriage was nearly empty. Just two kids playing truant and a woman in a headscarf with a pram. Must be a Kurd; one of the mothers in the nursery school wore a headscarf just like that, she was a Kurd.
    Solveig Lundwall read the poem on the poster next to the door. If you turn round, you’re looking forward ,it said. She didn’t want to read any more. There was a little box of pastilles in her pocket. There was a note there too, the shopping list. Bread in capital letters with an exclamation mark. After she’d read it, she couldn’t sit still; she dropped it as though she’d burnt herself on it, stood up and hurried to the back of the carriage, sat with her back to the others. There was a newspaper there. Housing market explodes. She turned the pages. Shot down in broad daylight. Yes, because daylight is broad. He who has eyes to see, let him see. Killed in car crash. She stared at the girl’s picture. She had long blond hair and big eyes and a mouth with a pained smile. It was holy. – What is it, little angel? Solveig murmured. On the next page she read: Do you need help? She