Rites of Spring

by Anders de la Motte

  He gritted his teeth. In the summer a fresh batch of newly qualified officers would arrive at the station, and he would move up a notch. Get out on the streets like a real cop. Until then he just had to put up with Lennartson’s grimaces and his colleagues’ teasing. However, this guy and his two stooges were fucking civilians, and had no right to speak to a representative of the law like this.

  The foreman scrawled something down in his stained ledger.

  ‘Backe, you said.’ He was grinning now.

  ‘Mm . . .’ Arne knew what was coming.

  ‘Backe, that means hill. Uphill or downhill?’

  The mechanics guffawed, and Arne dug his front teeth into his lower lip. Arne Nedförsbacke – Downhill Arne – that had been his nickname at school. He’d been a figure of fun because of his grades, because he was useless at football, because his parents had had him when they were older. Sometimes there had been a suggestion that his sister was actually his mother, even though Ingrid was only twelve when he was born.

  Regardless of how many times he fought, how many times he got beaten up or went on the offensive himself, the laughter had continued. It hadn’t stopped when he’d grown up either. He was a target because he hadn’t been accepted for military service, because he couldn’t hold down a job, because he would never have got into the police if his brother-in-law Bertil hadn’t played bridge with Lennartson.

  Downhill Arne.

  ‘Sign here.’

  The foreman turned the ledger around and winked at him as if Arne were an errand boy rather than a policeman in full uniform.

  ‘It’s the Saab over there in the corner. And don’t go trying to plough any fields on your way back.’

  Arne scribbled his name and grabbed the keys.

  The mechanics were pouring fresh oil into the Volvo. The tray containing the old oil was still on a small trolley on the floor. One of the mechanics had blond streaks in his mullet, the other wore an earring. Arne had no doubt they were both closet gays. They weren’t much older than him, but they still thought they had the right to laugh at him.

  They straightened up and grinned at him as he passed by; no doubt they were trying to think of a suitable parting shot.

  ‘You need to clean the floor,’ Arne said before they had time to open their mouths. He kicked the trolley as hard as he could, sending a wave of black, sticky oil all over their feet. Then he walked over to the police car, jumped in and drove away.

  The radio car was a Saab 900 Turbo. The mileage was low, and it still smelled new. He could feel its power.

  On the E21 heading east, Arne switched on the sirens and blue lights and managed to push the speedometer over one hundred and eighty. He loved seeing the other drivers move aside to let him pass. He could still see the mechanics, slithering around with their shoes full of oil while the foreman roared like a constipated walrus.

  For the first time in ages, Arne was in a good mood. He felt as if something within him had eased. He could drive this car wherever and however he wanted. Lennartson moonlighted as a farmer, and had spent all week worrying about a sow that was due to farrow. He’d probably already left for the day, and wouldn’t have a clue where Arne was. As long as he stayed away from Ljungslöv, nobody would know what he was up to. He just had to make sure the car was at the station before eight o’clock tomorrow morning.

  He passed the sign for Tornaby, and slowed down. It was high time people saw the new Arne Backe.

  4

  ‘You’re wondering if I still have the same nightmare. I’d really like to say no, because I don’t want you to worry about me. I’m fine, Margaux. We won’t talk about it anymore, OK?’

  T

  he deafening noise reverberates inside Thea’s head. She throws herself out of bed, drops to the floor and covers her head with her arms.

  The field hospital in Idlib. The explosions from the barrel bombs that tear apart the buildings and the people inside them, burying everything and everyone beneath the rubble. The concrete dust is choking her. She has to get up, put on her helmet. She has to find Margaux, get out of here . . .

  David is standing in the doorway. His lips are moving, but she can’t hear what he’s saying. Her brain is still in the flattened hospital. She staggers through the devastation, tripping over the dead bodies . . .

  Then she feels his hands on her shoulders, shaking her gently. The nightmare recedes and she regains her hearing.

  ‘Thea,’ he says softly. ‘Are you awake?’

  She manages a nod, and suddenly notices how dark it is. The nightlight by the door has gone out, and the external lights are not on. Only a faint glow of moonlight spills into the room, making David’s face appear chalk-white.

  He pulls her close. Only then does she realise her body has started shaking. Just a little at first, then more violently until her teeth are chattering and she can barely stay upright. Her chest contracts, her breathing becomes shallow.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he murmurs in her ear. ‘It was just the thunderstorm. You’re safe here. Deep breaths now.’

  She tries to follow his advice, takes deep breaths and presses herself as close to him as she can. The pressure in her lungs eases, the shaking stops as the nightmare gradually goes away.

  ‘OK?’

  She nods, pulls back and wipes away the last of the tears with her wrist.

  ‘I have to go up to the castle – the lightning has knocked out the electricity. Do you want to come with me?’

  Thea nods again. She definitely doesn’t want to stay here alone in the dark.

  ‘Do you know where our raincoats are? It’s pouring down.’

  She follows him into the kitchen, drinks a glass of water. Something is missing.

  ‘Have you seen Emee?’

  ‘She slipped past me when I opened the front door.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Just after the clap of thunder. I stuck my head out to check on the lights up at the castle, and she ran out. It’s pitch black everywhere.’

  David sounds considerably more worried about the castle than the dog. His phone starts ringing.

  ‘Securitas,’ he says, turning away to take the call.

  Thea opens the front door. The rain is hammering on the gravel and the decking outside.

  ‘Emee!’ she shouts, but her voice doesn’t even carry across the courtyard.

  ‘Both the fire alarm and the intruder alarm have gone off,’ David informs her. ‘Probably a short circuit. We need to get up there right away.’ He rummages in a drawer, digs out a torch.

  ‘But what about Emee?’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find her on the way. Let’s go!’

  He runs across to the car, shoulders hunched against the storm. After a few seconds’ hesitation, Thea pulls on her shoes and jacket and follows him.

  It’s only two hundred metres from the coach house to the castle. David puts his foot down, steering with one hand and chewing at the thumbnail on the other. Thea keeps a lookout for Emee, afraid that David will run over her. But Emee is a street dog, she reminds herself. She knows all about the dangers of cars.

  Somehow the castle looks even blacker than their little house, as if the high walls, turrets and steeply sloping roof make the darkness even deeper.

  David slams the brakes on by the kitchen door in the east wing. Holds the torch in his mouth as he struggles with the key. The sound of the alarms bounces off the stone walls inside.

  ‘There’s a portable emergency light in the kitchen – just follow the glow,’ he calls over his shoulder as he hurries down the cellar steps.

  Thea does as she’s told. She finds the light, switches it on and runs with it through the service corridor leading to the main dining room. Could Emee have crossed the bridge and run off into the forest? If so, Thea ought to be able to spot her from the terrace at the back.

  The alarm stops abruptly. The dining room is deserted, of course. The new tables and chairs are still stacked in a corner. The walls are cove
red with gilded panels which have recently been cleaned. She directs the beam of the powerful light up towards the ceiling. Greek motifs, young women in long robes in a forest, surrounded by creatures such as satyrs, centaurs, and others she can’t name. Some of the trees look like living beings. She remembers the face on the Gallows Oak, the Green Man to whom she made her offering of wood anemones. A ridiculous idea, with hindsight.

  She opens the glass doors. The cloudburst has abated slightly, and is now an ordinary spring downpour. She pulls up her hood and goes out onto the terrace. Sweeps the beam across the low hedges in the box garden, across the grass.

  ‘Emee! Emee!’

  A flash of lightning illuminates the whole garden, a blue-white core with red edges that slices through the night and comes down in the forest on the far side of the moat. The thunderclap is almost simultaneous, and so loud that it takes her breath away.

  The nightmare returns. The blast wave, the panic, the feeling of not being able to get up, of suffocating. Her body begins to shake again. She crouches down, lowers her head, tries to slow her breathing.

  In, out. In . . . out.

  Something nudges Thea’s back. It’s Emee. The dog pushes her nose into Thea’s hand and whimpers. Thea pulls her close, and to her surprise Emee doesn’t object, but simply allows herself to be embraced.

  The rain seeps inside Thea’s jacket. She continues to take deep, slow breaths, and after a couple of minutes the panic attack is over. She wipes away the tears and the raindrops with her sleeve.

  ‘Good girl,’ she murmurs in the dog’s ear. ‘It’ll be all right in a little while. Nothing to worry about.’

  A light flickers in her peripheral vision. It’s coming from the west wing, and for a moment she assumes it’s David. But he doesn’t have access to the west wing, and even if he did, he couldn’t have got there in such a short time. Plus the glow is too faint and unstable to come from a torch.

  Someone is standing at one of the windows up there – a little man holding a candle. He is half-hidden behind a curtain. Their eyes meet through the rain.

  Thea recognises the look in those eyes – she sees it in the bathroom mirror every morning and night.

  Sorrow.

  The man nods to her, then blows out the candle and is swallowed up by the darkness.

  5

  Walpurgis Night 1986

  In Tornaby no one can escape the past. Everything repeats itself, over and over again, but with different faces. Like one long ritual.

  But tonight that will all change. Things have been set in motion, and the Green Man is riding through the forests.

  Can you hear him coming? Can you hear him whispering my name?

  Elita Svart, Elita Svart . . .

  A

  rne turned off for Tornaby, wound down the side window and rested his arm on the sill. He deliberately drove slowly, nodding casually to everyone he met and receiving surprised nods in return. The ironmonger, the painter, the bad-tempered woman from the post office. People who would never usually dream of acknowledging him. He turned the car around and drove up and down the street a couple more times, then parked outside the bank and got out.

  Two other cars were already there: the count’s green Land Rover, and the white pick-up belonging to Erik Nyberg, the castle administrator. Under normal circumstances, Arne wouldn’t have gone in. He’d been afraid of Rudolf Gordon ever since he was little. The older kids had scared one another with stories of how the count had chased them when they were playing in the forest near the castle, how he’d set the dogs on them and come after them on horseback. Some even claimed they’d seen him riding through the trees dressed as the Green Man on Walpurgis Night.

  However, neither ghost stories nor dried-up old men frightened the new Arne Backe. He put on his peaked cap, adjusted his white belt and shoulder strap and entered the bank.

  The three tellers who worked for Bertil looked up from behind the glassed-in counter. Gave a start that improved Arne’s already excellent mood.

  ‘So how are things today?’ he said in his most authoritative voice. He tucked his thumbs in his belt and bounced on his heels, as he’d seen older colleagues do.

  ‘Fine,’ the drones chorused.

  ‘Excellent. Is the manager in?’

  ‘He’s in a meeting,’ the nearest drone informed Arne, who gave him the stern officer-of-the-law expression he’d practised in front of the mirror.

  ‘But I think they’ve just finished,’ the drone added hastily, pressing a button to unlock the door and let Arne through.

  He knew exactly where he was going; he’d visited his brother-in-law many times. Bertil’s office was on the first floor, with three large windows overlooking the main street. Should he sprint up the stairs, showing off his lithe agility, or should he plod up with a heavy, important tread? He opted for the latter; he could feel the drones’ eyes on him all the way to the top.

  The office door was open. Bertil, the count and Erik Nyberg were in the corridor, clearly in the process of finishing off. Arne slowed down even more.

  ‘That’s all agreed then,’ he heard Bertil say. ‘It’s 30 April, so you’ll have to give notice today if you don’t want to wait another month.’

  ‘Erik, can you sort that out?’ The count’s voice was a nasal drawl, typical upper-class Skåne.

  ‘I’ll go over there this afternoon.’

  ‘It might be best if you take someone with you,’ Bertil suggested. ‘I don’t think Lasse Svart is going to react very well.’

  The name made Arne prick up his ears.

  ‘I know how to deal with Lasse,’ Erik said tersely, ‘but I’ll take Per. The boy needs to learn how to handle things.’

  ‘I hear he’s not going to the school of music,’ Bertil said.

  ‘No.’ Erik exchanged a glance with the count. ‘We didn’t think it was a good idea. It’s best if he stays at home and learns a proper trade.’

  ‘Time we made a move,’ the count said. ‘Thank you for your help, Bertil.’

  The three men shook hands and turned towards the staircase; only now did they become aware of Arne’s presence. The count looked at him. Rudolf Gordon was almost seventy, tall and thin with sharp features and sunken eyes. Erik Nyberg was a head shorter and Arne envied him his hard, weather-beaten appearance, which was somehow emphasised by the fact that Erik always wore a scruffy moleskin jacket.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said as they passed by, doing his best to maintain his stern expression. Much to his satisfaction, he got a couple of nods in response.

  ‘Arne.’ Bertil sounded surprised rather than concerned. Arne straightened his shoulders, bounced on his heels again. Bertil was fifteen years older, and had been like a big brother ever since Arne turned ten. They were actually the same height, but for the first time in his life Arne didn’t feel as if he had to look up to meet Bertil’s gaze.

  ‘How nice to get a visit from the police. Come on in.’ Bertil stepped aside, making a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘Take a seat.’

  Arne sank down in one of the leather armchairs in the corner. His gun holster caught on his hip, and he adjusted it. There was a large cigar box in the middle of the table, and three stubs in the ashtray. Bertil opened a cupboard and took out a crystal decanter and two brandy balloon glasses.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve got time for a little drink and a smoke? Not a word to Ingrid!’

  Arne opened his mouth to reply, but the words stuck in his throat and he had to make do with a brief nod.

  ‘What was all that about?’ he asked when his cigar was lit and he’d taken a sip of Cognac. ‘The count and Erik Nyberg. Did I hear Lasse Svart’s name?’

  Bertil blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling as he considered his reply.

  ‘To be honest, it’s confidential . . .’ He broke off, removed a flake of tobacco from his tongue, then leaned forward. ‘The count’s had an offer for the land around Svartgården. The army want to extend their firing range. They’re prepared to pay
a tidy sum for a run-down farm and several acres of waterlogged marshland.’

  Arne felt his chest expand. He and Bertil were equals now, confidants in a way they’d never been before.

  ‘Bloody hell! Lasse Svart, out on his arse!’ Arne grinned, then immediately realised what the long-term implications were. ‘But where will the family go?’ he added so quickly that the cigar smoke went down the wrong way, resulting in a coughing fit.

  Bertil shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. That’s Lasse’s problem, but I’d be surprised if anyone around here was prepared to take him on as a tenant, given his reputation. It would be best for everyone if Lasse took his women and all the rest of his crap and disappeared.’

  Arne tried to look unconcerned. The role of confidant was no longer quite so appealing.

  He knew why. Who was responsible.

  Elita Svart.

  6

  ‘I’ve found something in the forest, Margaux. A piece of a puzzle from a different story. Someone’s else’s story.’

  T

  hea takes Emee down into the staff dining room in the castle. Lights some candles, then dries herself and the dog with an old blanket. It’s just after five. The residue of the panic attacks still lingers in her body, making its presence felt from time to time like tiny, almost imperceptible vibrations in her hands.

  David is wandering back and forth between the rooms. She can hear him on the phone, but he ends the call as he walks in.

  ‘Oh, you found the dog – good! I’m sorry I didn’t help you look – it’s chaos here. The freezers and fridges are off; I must try and get hold of a generator later today if the power’s going to be out for a while.’

  He pulls out a chair and sits down opposite her. His expression changes. He looks concerned.

  ‘Are you OK? Have you recovered?’

  Thea nods.

  ‘Can I do anything for you?’

  ‘I’m fine, David. I’m more worried about you. We haven’t discussed the interview. What the hell happened?’