Before she can finish the sentence, the door of the house opens and Kerstin Miller emerges. She’s the same height as Thea, and her grey hair is cut in a neat bob. Her nose is red, she is wearing a bobbly old cardigan and a scarf carelessly knotted around her neck, but somehow she manages to look elegant.
‘Thea! Welcome – lovely to meet you at last,’ she says. ‘Come on in, I’ve made the tea.’
‘Thank you.’
Thea steps forward and sees that there is something hanging on the wall to the right of the door: a figure about half a metre long, made of interwoven twigs. It looks familiar.
‘Is that a Green Man?’
The question is directed at the doctor, but it is Kerstin who answers.
‘Yes – you know the legend, then. Exciting, isn’t it? I live all by myself out here in the forest, so of course I have to keep in with the Green Man. You can never be too careful,’ she says with a laugh.
Kerstin and the doctor go inside, but Thea remains on the top step. She reaches out and touches the Green Man. It’s bigger and the twigs are still green, but there is no doubt that it’s made in exactly the same way as the figure she found in the tin.
Come to the stone circle at midnight. The spring sacrifice.
She gives a start. A thorn that was hidden under the leaves has pierced her index finger so deeply that she is bleeding. She licks the little wound, then follows Kerstin and the doctor indoors.
11
Walpurgis Night 1986
Father is lethal, everyone knows that. Especially when he’s been drinking. I’ve seen him hit both Eva-Britt and Lola. Leo too. Poor Leo . . .
Once Father knocked down a horse dealer who was trying to cheat him. He kicked him until he was barely moving. Eva-Britt managed to distract Father so that Leo and I could get the poor man into his car. Father chased after him and threw a rock straight through the rear windscreen.
One day Lasse is going to kill someone, Eva-Britt whispered to me. Maybe she’s right.
A
rne followed the muddy little track from the house down to the paddock and parked the police car as close to the fence as possible.
Lasse was standing in the middle of the paddock with a long whip in one hand, while Elita was riding bareback. The horse was called Bill, a muscular stallion that belonged to some rich guy in Kristianstad. He was as black as coal, apart from a white sock on one hind leg, and he was almost broken in.
Arne placed his foot on the lowest bar and leaned nonchalantly on the fence. Elita had inherited her mother’s eyes, but instead of Lola’s fragility there was a feistiness about her. There wasn’t a man around who didn’t know who Elita Svart was, who didn’t drool over her. Anyone who thought differently had to be gay, a eunuch, or a fucking liar.
Lasse cracked the whip and Elita urged the horse on, digging the heels of her boots into his sides. Her long dark hair streamed out behind her, and her breasts bounced gently beneath the tight sweater.
‘Well done, Elita! Now gallop!’
Elita continued to drive the stallion. His hooves thundered on the ground, echoing Arne’s heartbeat. Bill snorted, foaming at the mouth.
Just as horse and rider passed by, Elita turned her head and winked at Arne, who almost forgot to breathe.
*
When they’d finished, Lasse sent Elita back to the stable with Bill, then came over to the car.
‘Well, if it isn’t Constable Arne Backe. Nice car – is it yours?’
‘Yes!’ Arne didn’t know why he’d lied. His self-confidence suddenly dissipated.
He always used to admire Lasse Svart. Lasse did exactly what he wanted; he never let anyone mess him around. Plus he had the kind of good looks that women like – dark hair, brown eyes, and a white scar running down his cheek.
‘You’ve managed to grow a moustache as well,’ Lasse went on. ‘And you’ve got yourself a gun. Just like Magnum PI. Things seem to be going well for my old sidekick.’
Arne nodded in a way that he hoped was cool. Lasse took out a tin of tobacco, tucked a substantial plug beneath his top lip, then wiped his hand on his trousers.
‘You’ve come at a really good time,’ he went on. ‘My usual driver was arrested for drink driving last week. I’ve got a new moonshine distiller and thirsty customers all the way up to Nedanås. No one will suspect a police car. You’ll be well paid, of course – much better than when you used to drive for me in the past.’
He patted Arne on the shoulder. Arne made an effort not to flinch; Lasse had big, powerful hands that bore the marks of many years working with a hammer and tongs.
‘I need to send several containers to Ljungslöv today. I was going to take them myself, but a farmer in Reftinge called a while ago. He wants to sink a new well, and he’s offering double pay.’ Lasse leaned closer, lowered his voice and gripped the shoulder he’d just patted. ‘Walpurgis Night is a perfect opportunity to go water divining. There are many forces on the move tonight, let me tell you. Nature is hungry and the Green Man will ride through the forests, so you be careful, little Arne.’
As usual Arne couldn’t tell whether Lasse was teasing him. All that nature hocus-pocus sounded like a joke, as if Lasse were trying to scare him, just like he’d done with those kids earlier on. At the same time, Lasse’s expression was deadly serious. He kept his hand on Arne’s shoulder, eyes boring into his.
A screech from the marsh made Arne jump – presumably some kind of bird. What else would it have been? He managed to stop himself from shuddering.
‘Anyway. The containers are in there. You can take them right away.’ Lasse released his grip on Arne’s shoulder and pointed to a small shed, half-hidden among the undergrowth beyond the paddock.
Arne took a deep breath, tucked his thumbs in his belt and rocked on his heels.
‘I don’t do that kind of thing anymore, Lasse.’
Lasse drew back. Frowned and looked Arne up and down.
‘No? So you’ve turned over a new leaf?’
Arne shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m a police officer now, I have to consider my actions.’
‘I see . . .’
Lasse was still staring at him. There was something hypnotic about his gaze, something that threatened to melt the last remnants of Arne’s self-confidence. Arne cleared his throat, tried not to look away.
‘The thing is, Lasse, I really can’t . . .’ His voice wobbled. Shit! He cleared his throat again. He was Arne Backe, Officer Arne Backe.
‘I can’t,’ he said, his voice steadier now. He pushed his hips forward, tucked his thumbs further under his belt.
‘I understand,’ Lasse said, spreading his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘You’ve got a new job now. You don’t have time to help your old friends.’
Arne nodded, hugely relieved.
‘Not even old friends who were there for you in the past.’
The relief was replaced by a lump of ice in Arne’s belly.
‘Old friends who actually helped you to get this fancy job, with a car and a uniform. Who swore to the police that there was no way Arne Backe had been looking through little girls’ windows, because he’d been helping out here when that perverted little Peeping Tom was creeping around Tornaby. It would be a shame if the truth came out now. All it needs is a phone call to the chief of police in Ljungslöv – Lennartson, isn’t it? I believe he’s a close friend of your brother-in-law?’
Arne felt the air go out of him, felt his shirt gape at the collar and his belt slip down over his hips.
‘OK, so this is what we’re going to do,’ Lasse continued, grasping Arne by the shoulder again – harder this time. ‘You back that smart police car up to the shed and you load twenty five-litre containers into the boot. Actually . . .’ Lasse squeezed until Arne grimaced with the pain. ‘Take twenty-one. You can keep the last one. After all, we’re old friends.’
12
‘You’d have liked Kerstin Miller, I’m sure of it. She’s the kind of person who has a
glow about her. A good soul.
‘I can hear you snorting, saying that surely I’ve experienced enough misery to realise that anyone is capable of doing bad things. That genuine goodness doesn’t exist. I’d like to believe that you’re wrong.’
T
he kitchen in the hunting lodge is warm and cosy. There are bunches of dried herbs hanging on the walls, a wood-burning stove crackles in one corner, and a big fluffy cat is stretched out on the stone floor in front of the fire.
Kerstin Miller has a subtle sense of humour that immediately appeals to Thea. She offers rhubarb tea, chatting away as if they already know each other.
‘You really didn’t need to drive all the way out here for my sake. I’m already better. I’m intending to be back at school in a couple of days; the supply teacher is having a few problems.’
‘You need to stay home for the rest of the week,’ Dr Andersson insists.
‘It’s nothing, just a bit of a temperature. Alvedon will sort it out. We’ve got so much to do before the summer. I don’t want the children to suffer because I’ve got a cold.’ Kerstin turns to Thea. ‘So tell me – how are you settling in at the coach house? Are you coping with the lingo? You can always ask me if there’s something you don’t understand – we northerners must stick together!’
Kerstin comes from somewhere in the north, and speaks a charming mixture of ‘standard’ Swedish and the Skåne dialect.
‘I’ve picked up a few words,’ Thea assures her.
‘There you go – you’ll be speaking fluent Skåne in no time.’ Kerstin’s smile is inviting. ‘Will you get everything done in time for Walpurgis Night?’
‘Absolutely. David’s working flat out, but I’m sure it’ll be fine. There will be a lot of people at the dinner.’
‘Yes – both Jeanette and Sebastian have been in touch and said they’re coming. I think it’s wonderful that they’re going into business with David after all these years. They were such good friends when they were children. Hard-working. Conscientious. Let me show you something.’
Kerstin gets up and goes into the room next door. Thea hears the sound of drawers opening.
‘Here they are in their first year.’
Kerstin places a scrapbook on the table and turns to a faded colour photograph. Tornaby School 1981, Year 1 is written neatly beside it.
There are only fifteen children in the class. Some of them are shyly looking down or away, others are more interested in the camera or the photographer. Kerstin is at the far side. She’s about twenty-five years old with long, dark blonde hair. Her face is young, full of energy.
‘There he is.’
David is in the back row; he’s easily recognisable. His mother Ingrid probably knitted the sweater he’s wearing.
‘And there’s Jeanette.’
Kerstin points to a girl with an Asian appearance in the front row. She’s wearing dungarees and a blue hair band, and she’s beaming at the camera. Thea can see the gap between her slightly too large front teeth.
Jeanette’s ethnicity comes as a surprise. Thea has never met her, and somehow she’s always imagined her with blonde hair and freckles, as if all children who grew up in the country automatically looked like Pippi Longstocking. Ridiculous, of course.
‘Jeanette was usually top of the class, except in Maths.’ Kerstin moves her finger to a third child, a shy-looking boy with cropped hair and glasses that are much too big for his face. ‘Sebastian was the mathematician. His parents moved here from Poland when he was a baby. He was a wonderful boy, quiet but kind. And as I said, very gifted when it came to Maths.’
‘And David?’
‘He was good too, especially when it came to his verbal skills. He knew how to capture an audience.’
Kerstin turns the pages, stops at a newspaper cutting from Helsingborgs Dagblad.
‘Look at this.’
David, Nettan and Sebastian again, a few years older now. Nettan has grown into her front teeth, Sebastian into his glasses. David is displaying an early version of that charming smile.
TORNABY TRIO’S SUCCESS IN RADIO QUIZ
Thea skims the text. David is quoted the most; he says he wants to be a fighter pilot and fly a Saab 37 Viggen when he grows up. Nettan wants to be an actress or a company director, or a musician because she plays the piano. Sebastian has the least to say. He wants to be an engineer like his father, or maybe a chess player.
‘They went all the way to the semi-final – lost by one point to the team that won the whole thing.’ Kerstin’s voice is filled with pride. ‘I know teachers shouldn’t have favourites, every class and every pupil is special in their own way – but there’s something about your first class. I can still remember all their names, and their parents were so supportive. I’d only just qualified, and I’d never set foot in Skåne, but the village welcomed me with open arms and made me feel at home right away.’
‘So how come you ended up in Tornaby of all places?’ Thea asks.
‘Oh, the usual reason when someone moves halfway across the country – love. It didn’t work out, but I fell in love with the area instead. I rented the lodge, got myself a horse, and that was that.’
‘And you’re not afraid of the dark?’ Dr Andersson interjects, as if she’s feeling left out of the conversation. ‘I’d be too scared to live out here in the marsh on my own, with no neighbours for several kilometres.’
Kerstin shakes her head. ‘After a tiring day in school I appreciate the peace and quiet. And of course I have the horses and Vanderbilt here to keep me company.’ She points to the cat, who has moved from the floor to the sofa. ‘I love this house, and the forest, and I intend to stay here as long as I have my health, and the foundation allows.’
She pauses, catches a sneeze in a handkerchief that she produces from her sleeve. Then she turns her attention to the scrapbook once more. Another newspaper article, a much later date.
BELOVED TORNABY TEACHER CELEBRATES TWENTY-FIFTH ANNIVERSARY
‘That was 2006. The house was full of flowers, and Jeanette came all the way from Switzerland to see me!’
She shows Thea a large colour photograph with smiling people arranged in two rows. There is a banner above them:
CONGRATULATIONS, MISS MILLER! WE LOVE YOU!
It takes a few seconds for Thea to realise that this is the same group who were in the first picture, in the same room and standing in exactly the same places twenty-five years later. The rounded, childish faces have acquired beards and double chins, the serviceable school clothes have been replaced by smart shirts, jackets and pretty dresses.
David is handsome now, his teeth are sparkling white and his gaze is full of confidence. Nettan has shaken off her provincial roots and is wearing a trouser suit. Her hair and make-up are perfect – she is a businesswoman to her fingertips.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Kerstin sounds even prouder, if that were possible. ‘They did it for me – as a surprise!’
The new version of Sebastian has swapped his glasses for contact lenses, and his hair is clearly thinning, even though he can’t be much more than thirty in the photograph.
‘Sebastian did his doctorate in Lund, then started a business with some friends. Microprocessors – very technical. The company was bought up by Sony, and he made a fortune. He bought a big house in Poland for his parents when they retired.’
‘How lovely.’ Thea can’t think of anything else to say.
She thinks she recognises someone else – a square-built man with a fleshy face. He’s wearing an ill-fitting blazer, and he looks extremely uncomfortable.
‘Isn’t he the guy who was up the ladder outside?’
‘Jan-Olof? Yes, that’s right. He was the fourth member of their little gang. A quartet, you could call them.’
The final sentence hangs awkwardly in the air, and suddenly Thea thinks back to the Polaroid photo. Four children in the spring of 1986.
‘Could I just check something?’ She points to the scrapbook.
‘Of course.’
Thea leafs through the pages until she finds what she’s looking for.
TORNABY SCHOOL 1986, YEAR 6
She runs her finger over the faces, spots David and his three friends. Dr Andersson clears her throat and looks meaningfully at her watch.
‘Time we made a move, Thea.’
Thea ignores her. She takes the Polaroid out of her pocket, smoothes it down and places it next to the scrapbook. One of the masked children is wearing a striped jumper that is a lot like the one Sebastian has on in the school photo. It can’t be a coincidence.
‘Where did you get that from?’ Dr Andersson asks sharply. Both she and Kerstin have moved to stand behind Thea.
‘I found it in an old tin in the forest yesterday. Could this be David and his friends? Nettan, Jan-Olof and Sebastian?’
Kerstin and the doctor exchange a long look, which answers the question as far as Thea is concerned. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Hasn’t David told you anything?’ Kerstin asks quietly.
‘About what?’
Another look, followed by an almost imperceptible shake of the head from the doctor, who is no longer so talkative.
Kerstin takes a deep breath. ‘About poor Elita Svart. The spring sacrifice.’
13
Walpurgis Night 1986
Men are so easy to manipulate. They lie at home in their beds, fantasising about me. What they want to do to me. Elita Svart is the kind of girl you screw, not the kind you marry. A gypsy, a slut, a little whore.
Which is why I behave exactly as everyone expects. I tease and tempt them. I’m good at it, I’ve had plenty of practice, but deep down I’m tired of this role.
One final performance remains. And then, dear reader, it will all be over.
You haven’t forgotten that I’m going to die, have you?
‘F
ucking hell!’ Arne swore out loud as he loaded the white plastic containers of moonshine into the boot of the police car. Lasse’s ‘distillery’ was a shed mounted on blocks of concrete out in the marsh, hidden by brambles and undergrowth. Only the muddy tyre tracks on the ground outside revealed the presence of the low wooden building.
Rites of Spring Page 6
