When she doesn't get an answer, she explains:

I must ask you to try to understand that it isn't a reasonable choice to give a human being," says Britt-Marie.

She still doesn't get an answer, so she sucks in her cheeks and adjusts her skirt.

Sami doesn't answer, but she hopes he's listening when she says:

"It's just intractable, you have to understand. I want to ask you to try not to hold it against me."

"I want you to know, darling boy, I'll never regret coming to Borg."

It's Saturday afternoon. The day after the local council gave her an unreasonable choice and the very same day that Liverpool are playing Aston Villa six hundred miles from Borg. Early this morning Britt-Marie went to the recreation center.

"It's very neat and tidy here. Of course I don't know if this makes any difference to you now, but I hope it does. It's a very neat and tidy churchyard, this."

On Monday there'll be bulldozers on the gravel outside, the council has promised. Kent forced them to promise, because he said otherwise he would not let them go to have their lunch. And so they promised and crossed their hearts that turf would be laid down and there would be proper goals with nets. Proper chalked sidelines. It was not a reasonable choice to give a human being, but Britt-Marie remembered what it was like losing a sibling, she remembered just how much one could lose oneself. With this in mind, she felt this was the best possible thing she could give someone who was every bit as lost. A soccer pitch.

She could hear voices through the open door of the pizzeria, but she didn't go in. It was best that way, she felt. The recreation center was empty, but the door of the refrigerator was ajar. The rat teeth marks on the rubber seal of the door made it clear enough what had happened. The cellophane over the plate had been chewed away and every last crumb of peanut butter and Nutella on it had been licked clean. On its way out the rat had stumbled on Britt-Marie's tin of baking soda, overturning it on the dish rack. There were tracks in the white dust. Two pairs, in fact. The rat had been there on a date, or a meeting, or whatever they called it these days.

Britt-Marie sat on one of the stools for a long time, with a towel in her lap. Then she mopped her face and cleaned the kitchen. Washed up and disinfected and made sure everything was spotless. Patted the coffee machine, which had once been damaged by flying stones; ran her hand over a picture with a red dot hanging at precisely the right height on the wall, telling her exactly where she was.

"Certainly not. I only came to leave the keys," Britt-Marie informed her in a low voice, feeling like a guest in someone else's house.

"It's very nice here. I've understood that this place means so much to Vega and Omar, and I wanted to have a look at it so I could understand them better."

The knocking on the door didn't surprise her, oddly enough. The young woman from social services standing in the doorway gave her the impression of being exactly in the right place. As if she belonged here.

Britt-Marie fumbled with the keys. Stifled everything welling up inside her. Checked several times that she had put all of her things in her handbag, and that she had really turned off the lights in the bathroom and kitchen. Galvanized herself several times to say what she wanted to say, even though her common sense was fighting tooth and nail to stop her.

She held out the keys to the recreation center, but the girl did not take them. Just smiled warmly as she looked at the premises.

"Hello, Britt-Marie," said the girl, "I hope I'm not disturbing you. I saw that the lights were on."

"Would it make any difference if someone offered to take care of the children?" she wanted to ask. Obviously she knew it was preposterous. Obviously she did. Yet she had time to open her mouth, and then to say:

"Would it… I should just like your leave to ask whether… obviously it's quite preposterous, certainly it is, but I should like to inquire about the whither and whether of whether it might happen to make any difference if someone…"

"Are you the one who's picking up the children?" Karl demanded to know.

Before she got to the end of the sentence she noticed Toad's parents standing in the doorway. The mother had her hands on her pregnant stomach, and the father held his cap in his hands.

The mother elbowed him softly in his side, and then turned in a very forthright manner to the girl from the social services.

Of course it is quite possible that the girl from the social services was intending to answer, but Karl did not give her the chance:

"My name is Sonja. This is Karl. We're Patrik's parents; he plays in the same soccer team as Vega and Omar."

The rattling sounds from the doorway intensified and were complemented by a person demonstratively clearing her throat.

"Those kids! Can live with me, huh? They're like, what's-it-called? Children for me, huh?" Somebody looked ready to fight about it with everyone in the room. She waved at the soccer pitch; there were still white jerseys hanging along the fence and the candles had been thoughtfully lit again earlier that morning.

"The fact is I've had the same suggestion from both Ben's mother and the uncle of… Dino… is that his name?"

"We want to take care of the children. We want them to come and live with us. You can't take them away from Borg!"

Sonja looked at Britt-Marie. Saw her hands, perhaps, so she crossed the room and, without any sort of prior warning, gave her a hug. Britt-Marie mumbled something about having washing-up liquid on her fingers but despite that Sonja kept hugging her. Something was rattling in the doorway. The girl from the social services began to laugh a little, as if this was her natural impulse every time she opened her mouth.

Karl wrung his cap and pointed both exactingly and fearfully at the girl from the social services. "You can't take the children away from Borg, they could end up living with anyone! They could end up with a Chelsea supporter!"

"It takes, what's-it-called? Takes a village to bring up a child, huh? We have a village!"

Sonja reluctantly let go of Britt-Marie, like you do with a balloon that you know will fly off as soon as you loosen your grip.

Afternoon turns to evening in Borg, quick and merciless, as if dusk is pulling a Band-Aid off the daylight. Britt-Marie kneels with her forehead against Sami's headstone.

By that stage, Britt-Marie had already put the keys to the recreation center on the dish rack and sneaked out behind them. If they did notice, and maybe they did, they let her go without a word, because they liked her enough to do that.

On Monday the bulldozers are coming to Borg. Britt-Marie doesn't know if she is religious, but she imagines that it's good enough, the knowledge that God has plans for Borg.

"My darling boy, I'll never regret that I was here."

In the graveled parking area between the recreation center and the pizzeria are two quite gigantic old trucks with their headlights turned on. A group of grown men with beards and caps are moving about in the beams of light, huffing and puffing, groaning and shoving each other. It takes a good while before Britt-Marie understands they are playing soccer.

She continues down the road. Stands for a few heartbeats outside a modest little house with a modest little garden. If you didn't know it was there you could easily walk past without paying any attention to it and, in this sense, the house has a great deal in common with its owner. The police car is not parked outside, the windows are not lit up. Once she's absolutely certain that Sven is not at home, Britt-Marie sneaks up to the door and knocks on it. Because she wanted to do that once in her life.

She has grass stains on her tights when she walks on her own down the road through the village. The white jerseys are still there on the fence. New candles have been lit underneath. The recreation center is lit up by the glow of a television and she can see the shadows of the children's heads inside. More children now than ever. A club more than a team. She wants to go in, but she understands this would not be appropriate. Understands that it's best this way.

They are playing.

"Aston Villa and Liverpool! Aston Villa are leading two to none!" says Bank, very agitated.

"Might one ask who's playing?" she says instead.

Then she quickly moves off, keeping herself to the shadows, and walks the remaining distance to Bank's house. The flower bed outside no longer stinks. The "For Sale" sign on the lawn has been removed. There's a smell of fried eggs when Britt-Marie steps into the hall; the dog is sleeping on the floor, Bank is sitting in her armchair in the living room with her face pressed up so close to the TV that Britt-Marie actually wants to warn her that it might be harmful to her eyes, but on second thought realizes it would be better not to.

"Ha. So should I presume, then, that you also support Liverpool, like all the children seem to?"

"Are you mad? I support Aston Villa!" hisses Bank.

"Might I ask why?" asks Britt-Marie, because when she thinks about it more closely, it occurs to her that this is the first time she has ever seen Bank pay any attention to a televised soccer match.

"Because no one else supports Aston Villa… and because they have nice jerseys."

"There's food in the kitchen. If you're hungry."

Britt-Marie shakes her head, clutches her handbag hard.

"Kent is coming soon. We're going home. He's driving his car, and I am driving mine, but he'll drive in front of me of course. I don't like driving in the dark. It's best if he's at the front."

"Not that I want to get involved, but I think you should learn to drive in the dark."

Bank looks as if this is a preposterous question. Thinks for a moment. Then answers, grumpily:

"That's very sweet of you," answers Britt-Marie into her handbag.

Britt-Marie finds the second argument a touch more rational than the first. Bank lifts her head, turns down the volume on the TV. Takes a pull at her beer and clears her throat.

Bank gets to her feet with a lot of laborious cursing at the armchair, as if it's the chair's fault that people get older.

Bank and the dog give her a hand with the bags and the balcony box from upstairs. Britt-Marie washes up and cleans the kitchen. Sorts cutlery. Pats the dog behind its ears. A person on the TV starts yelling loudly. Bank disappears into the living room and comes back looking irascible.

There's a knock. Bank goes into the hall but then continues on into the living room without opening the door, because she knows who it is.

"It wasn't an unreasonable assumption to make given that you'd just removed the sign…"

Bank laughs bitterly.

Britt-Marie walks around the house one last time. Straightens rugs and curtains.

"Ah, I thought I'd stay on in Borg for a while, that's all. I was thinking I'd go and have a word with my old man. I thought it might be easier now he's dead, because he can't interrupt me all the time."

"Liverpool just scored. Now it's two to one," she mutters.

Britt-Marie adjusts her skirt.

Britt-Marie wants to pat her on the shoulder, but she realizes it's best to leave it. Not least because Bank has her stick within reach.

When she comes down into the kitchen she says:

"I'm not the kind to stick my nose in, but I could hardly avoid noticing that the 'For Sale' sign on the lawn has been taken down. I'd just like to congratulate you on getting your house sold."

"Are you joking? Who would buy a house in Borg?"

Britt-Marie looks around the kitchen one last time. Runs her fingers close enough to the walls to feel them, but not close enough to touch them. They are very dirty, after all. She hasn't had time to sort them out. She would have needed more time in Borg for that.

Kent smiles with relief when she opens the door.

She nods and grasps her bag. Then the commentator on the TV suddenly starts roaring like mad. It sounds as if someone has walloped him.

"Two to two, Liverpool has tied, it's two to two," she mutters, kicking the armchair as if it's responsible for the situation.

"Are you ready to go?" he says anxiously, as if he still fears she may change her mind.

"What on earth is going on?" Britt-Marie exclaims.

"Let's go now! Or we could get stuck in the traffic!" Kent tries, but it's too late. Britt-Marie goes into the living room. Bank is swearing and hissing at a young man in a red shirt who's charging about yelling until his face turns purple.

Kent's BMW is parked in the street. He comes running and reaches out to her, but she pulls away. Of course, it's not appropriate at all, a grown woman running as if she were a criminal fleeing justice. She stops herself by the edge of the pavement, her breath hot in her throat, and she turns around and looks at Kent with tears streaming down her face.

Britt-Marie is already halfway out the door.

"What are you doing, darling? We have to go now," he says, but his voice breaks because he can probably recognize very clearly what she's doing.

Her skirt is creased, but she doesn't adjust it. Her hair is almost untidy, as untidy as it is possible for Britt-Marie's hair to be. Her common sense throws in the towel in the end, and allows her to raise her voice:

"You can't be their mother, darling. And even if you can, what'll happen after that? When they don't need you anymore? What happens then?"

"Liverpool have tied! I think they're going to win!"

She shakes her head. But defiantly, rebelliously, not with sadness and dejection. As if she's fully intending to jump off an edge, even if only the edge of the pavement.

Kent allows his chin to sink towards his chest. He shrinks.

"I don't know, Kent. I don't know what happens after that."

"I can only wait till tomorrow morning, Britt-Marie. I'll stay with Toad's parents. If you don't come knocking on the door in the morning I'm going home on my own."

He closes his eyes, looking once again like a young boy on a landing, and then says in a quiet voice:

"Goodness grac… Liverpool have… well I certainly don't know exactly what they've done, but I am under the impression that they're going to win against these… whatever their name was. Villa something!" pants Britt-Marie, so out of breath that she sees stars and has to steady herself, in the middle of the road, by resting her hands on her knees. The neighbors must surely be wondering whether she's started using narcotics.

She is already halfway to the recreation center.

Omar and Vega see her before she sees them. She has already run past them when she hears them calling out irritably to her.

He tries to say it in a confident way, even though he knows he has already lost her.

Britt-Marie looks up, breathing so heavily that she feels a migraine coming on.

"May I ask what on earth you are doing here in the middle of the road, then?"

Vega faces her with her hands in her pockets, shaking her head as if she has come to the conclusion that Britt-Marie is even slower than she'd thought.

"We know!" Omar joins in eagerly. "We're going to win! You could see it in Gerrard's eyes when he scored that we're going to win!"

"We know," mumbles Vega deep into the fabric of Britt-Marie's jacket.

Their eyes meet for a moment, and then he does as she says without protest.

The young woman from the social services is standing on the lawn, waiting for them.

"We'll teach her," Omar assures her.

Britt-Marie stands in the hall as they put on their jackets. She curls up her toes in her shoes and brushes their arms until they have to hold her hands to make her stop.

Liverpool never turn that match around. The final score is 2-2. It makes no difference and it makes all the difference in the world.

"When we turn it around we want to see it with you."

"She's okay, she doesn't like soccer but she's okay," says Vega to Britt-Marie.

Britt-Marie sucks in her cheeks and nods.

They have eggs and bacon in Bank's kitchen that night. Vega and Omar and Britt-Marie and Bank and the dog. When Omar puts his elbows on the table, it's Vega who tells him to take them off.

"I… the thing is that I… I just want to say that I… that you… that I never," she begins.

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Don't knock on any door tomorrow. Just get in the car and drive!"

"It's cool," Omar promises.

The children look so small, illuminated by the streetlights. But Vega stretches, straightens her back, and says:

"And Sven?"

Britt-Marie stands on her own in the dark long after they have gone. She never said anything, has not promised anything. She knows it would have been a promise she could not keep.

Vega shoves her hands in her pockets. Raises her eyebrows.

"He told me he hopes it's me every time there's a knock on his door."

"Kent will be waiting for me to knock on his door."

The children have reached the road when the boy turns around. Britt-Marie hasn't moved at all, as if she wants to preserve the image of them on her retinas until the very last. So he asks:

"Do me a favor, Britt-Marie."

Britt-Marie clasps her hands together on her stomach. Inhales for as long as she can.

Britt-Marie inhales. Exhales. Lets Borg bounce around inside her lungs.

"Anything," she whispers.

Before dawn she's standing outside a door, and knocking.

She stands on the balcony of Bank's house, feeling Borg blowing tenderly through her hair. Not so hard that it ruins her hairstyle, just enough to feel the breeze. The newspaper delivery drives past while it's still dark. The women with the walkers slowly make their way out of the house opposite, towards their postbox. One of them waves at Britt-Marie and she waves back. Not with her whole arm, obviously, but with a controlled movement, a discreet movement of one hand at the level of her hips. The way a person with common sense waves. She waits until the women have gone back into the house. Then she sneaks down the stairs and carries her bags out to the white car with the blue door.