PRAISE FOR JOHN AJVIDE LINDQVIST
PRAISE FOR LET THE OLD DREAMS DIE
‘There are two kinds of horror writers: those who have imagination and style in abundance, and the other kind. Lindqvist is firmly in the former; all you can do is look on and admire.’ Sydney Morning Herald
‘Although Lindqvist reminds us of the way fear and hatred of the unfamiliar makes monsters of all of us, it is not fear and hatred he is interested in, but love and the way it binds us to one another.’ Australian
‘A delicate balance between macabre and moving.’ Sunday Telegraph
PRAISE FOR LITTLE STAR
‘Finely crafted and psychologically sharp parables of a cracked society…Against a backdrop of Swedish pop classics he concocts a climax of splattering intensity that gives an entirely new twist to the plastic positivism of girrrl power.’ Australian
‘Proves once again that he’s Scandinavia’s answer to Stephen King. Actually he’s better right now.’ Daily Mirror
‘Edgy, well-crafted horror…[He] proves with the apocalyptic ending that he’s up there with the best literary horror writers.’ Independent UK
‘A bestseller in the making.’ Time Out
PRAISE FOR HARBOUR
‘Lindqvist balances horror with credibly drawn feeling—the characters here are also a vulnerable bunch—and of course the setting helps enormously: they make a vivid picture, blood and snow.’ Age
‘MUST READ.’ Sunday Telegraph
‘A magician of genre fiction…Lindqvist again trips along that thin high wire between supernatural devices and psychological vérités…Between monsters outside and demons within, Lindqvist covers the haunted waterfront.’ Independent
PRAISE FOR HANDLING THE UNDEAD
‘Horror fans will rejoice…A macabre and strangely affecting tale, at once compassionate, witty and deliciously gruesome.’ Age
‘I would have said his strengths were more cinematic than literary—until I read this. Haunting.’ Weekend Herald NZ
‘Unsettling and shocking.’ Who Weekly
‘You’ll be leaving the bedside light on after reading this.’ West Australian
‘So clever that perhaps it could be the one horror novel not to be missed this year…Lindqvist isn’t afraid to touch nerves and violate taboos.’ Courier-Mail
PRAISE FOR LET THE RIGHT ONE IN
‘A genuinely gripping read. If you read only one gore-filled, vampire love story complete with rich, dark humour and strong cinematic possibilities this year, make sure it’s Let the Right One In.’ Age
‘Brilliant and unexpected…not simply shock and gore, but an offbeat exploration of fear and the meaning of violence.’ Weekend Australian
‘Like all good vampire books, you want to gulp it down in one go.’ Bulletin
‘Reminiscent of Stephen King at his best.’ Independent on Sunday
‘A terrifying supernatural story yet also a moving account of friendship and salvation.’ Guardian
‘An unsettling and durable horror tale from the mind of a dangerously imaginative man.’ Herald Sun
‘A surprising and sometimes delightful reading experience… Lindqvist manages to maintain a light touch in an otherwise bleak landscape.’ Sunday Times
‘This was a bestseller in Sweden and could be equally big here. Don’t miss it.’ The Times
‘An energetic, noisy, highly imaginative novel that blends the most extreme kind of vampirish schlock-horror with a complicated love story, a profoundly gory sequence of murders and some rather good domestic realism about life in 1980s Stockholm.’ Kerryn Goldsworthy, Sydney Morning Herald
‘A compelling horror story, but it’s also a finely calibrated tale about the pain of growing up.’ Sunday Telegraph
‘Lindqvist has reinvented the vampire novel and made it all the more chilling…Immensely readable and highly disturbing.’ Daily Express
Also by John Ajvide Lindqvist
Let the Right One In
Handling the Undead
Harbour
Little Star
Let the Old Dreams Die
JOHN AJVIDE LINDQVIST lives in Sweden and has worked as a conjurer and stand-up comedian. His first novel, the international bestseller Let the Right One In, was published in more than thirty countries and adapted into two feature films: one by Swedish director Tomas Alfredson, and an English-language version, Let Me In.
I Am Behind You is the first book in a planned trilogy; John is currently working on the second.
MARLAINE DELARGY is based in the UK. She has translated novels by Swedish writers including Åsa Larsson, Ninni Holmqvist and Johan Theorin—with whom she won the CWA International Dagger 2010 for The Darkest Room.
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Copyright © John Ajvide Lindqvist 2014
Translation copyright © Marlaine Delargy 2016
The moral right of John Ajvide Lindqvist to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
First published in Sweden under the title Himmelstrand by Ordfronts Förlag, Stockholm, 2014
First published in English by The Text Publishing Company, 2016, by agreement with Ordfronts Förlag, Stockholm, and Leonhardt & Høier Literary Agency A/S, Copenhagen
Cover design based on original jacket design by Jeannine Schmelzer, © Bastei Lübbe
AG, Köln 2016
Cover image of caravan by Jill Battaglia / Arcangel
Page design by Text
Typeset by J & M Typesetting
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Creator: Ajvide Lindqvist, John, 1968– author.
Title: I am behind you/by John Ajvide Lindqvist; translated from the Swedish by Marlaine Delargy.
ISBN: 9781925355000 (paperback)
ISBN: 9781922253583 (ebook)
Other Creators/Contributors: Delargy, Marlaine, translator.
Dewey Number: 839.738
In memory of Peter Himmelstrand (1936–1999)
CONTENTS
1. Outside
2. Inside
3. Beyond
We know a person by their flaws.
We can form an impression of someone by noticing their talents and qualities, good or bad—everything that appears on the surface. But if we really want to understand who they are, we must step into the darkness and acquaint ourselves with their flaws.
The missing cog defines the machine. A picture is judged by a poor brushstroke, a dissonant chord makes a song fall apart. Or makes it interesting. That is the other side of the coin.
Without our flaws we would be like a well-oiled machine, and our actions and thoughts could be predicted through simulation, if we only had sufficient processing power. That will never happen. Our flaws are a variable outside the scope of such a calculation, and they drive us to great achievements or to utterly despicable deeds.
If you wanted to, you could say that this is what makes us human, imperfect and wonderfully interesting. You could also say that it makes us into reptiles, dragging ourselves along between heaven and earth, searching for something to fill the vacuum.
Whatever the truth of the matter, it is these flaws that drive us on, whether we know it or not. And just like everything else they can rea
ch a critical mass, a point where they change character and become something else. Many events that we regard as inexplicable can be explained in this way. What follows is an example.
I switch on the light.
1. Outside
‘Mum, I need a pee.’
‘Well, go to the toilet then.’
‘It’s not there.’
‘Of course it is. It’s where you went yesterday. The service block.’
‘It’s not there.’
‘For goodness sake, can’t you let me sleep just for once?’
‘But I need a pee. I’m going to wet myself.’
‘So go to the service block. It’s only fifty metres away. Surely you can manage that?’
‘It’s not there.’
‘It is. Go outside, turn left and go around this revolting caravan, then carry straight on. That’s where it is.’
‘Which is left?’
‘Oh, pee on the grass for heaven’s sake, and let me sleep. Wake your dad if you insist on playing up.’
‘Nearly everything has gone.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Come and look.’
‘Look where?’
‘Out of the window. Nearly everything has gone.’
Isabelle Sundberg props herself up on her elbow. Her six-year-old daughter Molly is kneeling by the window. Isabelle pushes her out of the way and pulls back the curtain. She is just about to point in the direction of the service block, but her hand drops.
Her first thought is: scenery. Like the backdrop behind Mickey Mouse’s caravan on TV on Christmas Eve. Something artificial, unreal. But the details are too sharp, the three dimensions clearly distinguishable. This is no backdrop.
‘I need a pee I need a pee I need a pee!’
Her daughter’s voice grates on her eardrums. Isabelle rubs her eyes. Tries to erase the incomprehensible sight. But it is still there, just like her daughter’s monotonous whine. She turns over and drives her knee into her husband’s back. Pulls back the other curtain.
She blinks, shakes her head. It makes no difference. She clenches her jaw, slaps her own face. Her daughter falls silent. Isabelle’s cheek is burning, and nothing has changed. Everything has changed. She grabs hold of her husband’s shoulder and shakes it hard.
‘Peter, wake up for God’s sake. Something’s happened.’
*
Thirty seconds later, Stefan Larsson is woken by a door slamming somewhere. His pyjamas are sticking to his body; it is hot in the caravan, very hot. He has had enough. Everybody else has air con. Later on today, when they go shopping, he is going to buy a couple of decent electric fans to sit on the table, at the very least.
‘Bim, bim, bim. Bom.’
Stefan’s son Emil is humming quietly up in the alcove, caught up in some fantasy as usual. Stefan frowns. Something is wrong. He reaches for his glasses with their thick black frames, puts them on and looks around.
The faithful old caravan looks the same. When he and Carina bought it fifteen years ago, it had been around for at least that long already, but after countless holidays and birdwatching expeditions, it feels like a friend, and you don’t sell a friend online for a few thousand kronor. The worn surfaces have a dull sheen in the light penetrating the thin curtains. Nothing unusual about that.
Carina is asleep, facing away from him. She has kicked off the sheet and the generous curve of her hip is like something from an old painting. Stefan leans over her and picks up the salty aroma of her body; he can see tiny beads of sweat at her hairline. Decent fans, that’s what they need. His gaze fastens on the tattoo on her shoulder. Two eternity symbols. The yearning for a lasting love. She had them done when they were both young. He worships her. It is a strange word to use, but it is the only one that fits.
His eyes widen. Now he knows what it is. The silence. Apart from Carina’s breathing and Emil’s humming, there is total silence. He glances at the clock: quarter to seven. A campsite is never silent. There is always the hum of machinery on stand-by, air conditioning units. But not now. The site has stopped breathing.
Stefan gets out of bed and glances up at the alcove. ‘Morning, kiddo.’
Emil is totally focused on his soft toys, moving them around as he whispers: ‘But what about me? Can’t I…? No, Bengtson, you’re in charge of the guns.’
Stefan goes over to the sink and is filling the coffeepot with water when movements and voices on the grass outside catch his attention. The footballer and his wife are also up and about. So is their daughter. The child is pressed against her mother’s bare legs as the woman gestures angrily at her husband.
Stefan tilts his head on one side. In a parallel universe he would be obliged to lust after that woman. She is in nothing more than her bra and panties, and she looks as if she has stepped straight out of an ad campaign. She is the woman men are supposed to desire. But Stefan has chosen something different, and he is not to be moved. It is a question of dignity, among other things.
The coffeepot is full. Stefan turns off the tap, pours the water into the machine, spoons coffee into the filter, then switches it on. Nothing happens. He flicks the switch up and down a couple of times, checks that it is plugged in properly, then thinks:
power cut.
Which also explains the absence of an electrical hum. He tips the water into a pan and places it on the hotplate. Hello? He scratches his head. If there’s a power cut, the electric stove won’t work either, obviously.
As he leans across to switch on the gas instead, he glances out of the window, past the quarrelling couple, to see what the weather is like. The sky is clear and blue, so it should be a lovely…
Stefan gasps and clutches the edge of the sink as he leans closer to the window. He doesn’t understand what he is seeing. The stainless steel is warm to the touch; he feels dizzy and his stomach is churning. If he lets go of the sink he will plummet into emptiness.
*
Peter has found a sweet wrapper in the right-hand pocket of his shorts. There is a faint rustling noise as he scrunches the wrapper inside his clenched fist. Isabelle is yelling at him, and he stares at the exact spot on her cheek where the palm of his hand might land if it were not fully occupied with the sweet wrapper.
‘How could you be so fucking stupid? Leaving the keys in the car when you were so fucking drunk that some idiot was able to drive off and dump us in this…this…’
He mustn’t hit her. If he does, the balance of power will shift, temporary peace agreements will be torn up and everything will be sucked down into chaos. He did hit her once. The satisfaction was enormous, the aftermath unbearable. Both aspects scared him: the pleasure he took from inflicting physical damage on her, and her ability to inflict mental damage on him.
He thinks: Ten thousand. No. Twenty thousand. That’s what he would be willing to pay for five minutes’ silence. The chance to think, to come up with an explanation. But Isabelle’s words hammer down on him and the taut strings of his self-control vibrate. He is capable of only one thing: smoothing out and screwing up the sweet wrapper.
Molly is clutching her mother’s legs, playing the role of the frightened child. She does it well, exaggerating only slightly, but Peter sees through her. She is not afraid at all. In some way that Peter cannot understand, she is enjoying this.
He hears a discreet cough. The man with the thick glasses from the caravan next door, tedium personified, is coming towards them. Right now he is a welcome sight. Isabelle’s torrent of words dries up, and Molly stares at the new arrival.
‘Excuse me,’ the man says. ‘Do you have any idea what’s happened?’
‘No,’ Isabelle replies. ‘Do tell.’
‘I don’t know any more than you. Everything has disappeared.’
Isabelle jerks her head and snaps: ‘You as well? You think someone’s come along and taken away the other caravans, the kiosk, the service block, the whole fucking lot? Does that sound reasonable? We’ve been moved, you idiot.’
Th
e man with the glasses looks at the caravans, all that remains of Saludden campsite, and says: ‘In that case it looks as if they’ve moved several of us.’
Molly tugs at Isabelle’s panties. ‘Who are they, Mummy? Who did this?’
*
Four caravans. Four cars.
The caravans are different ages, different sizes, different models, but they are all white. The cars have less in common, but two of them are Volvos. They all have a tow bar, of course. Two have roof racks.
Besides that: nothing apart from people. Three adults and a child, wandering among the caravans and the cars, the other occupants still sleeping, perhaps dreaming, unaware.
Beyond the little circle lies only grass. A vast expanse of grass, each blade just over three centimetres long, stretching as far as the eye can see in all directions.
It is an empty space.
It is impossible to know what lies beyond the horizon, under the ground, above the sky, but at the moment it is an empty space. Nothing. Apart from the people. And each person is a world within himself.
*
Molly insists that Isabelle accompany her when she goes behind their caravan for a pee. Peter crouches down and runs a hand through his hair, sighing heavily.
‘Where the hell are we?’ Stefan asks no one in particular. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
The corners of Peter’s mouth twitch. ‘I have. I’ve spent half my life on grass like this. First football, then golf. But how can it be so… neat?’
The grass has the appearance of a well-tended garden or a golf course. Stefan pulls up a small clump and rubs it between his fingers. It is real grass; there is soil attached to the thin roots. It would take an army of lawnmowers to keep it this short. Is there a variety of grass that only grows to a certain length?
Isabelle and Molly return. Isabelle is stunning, her daughter cute as a button. Long, wavy hair frames the girl’s little round face and big blue eyes. She is wearing a pink nightdress with a picture of a fairy princess not unlike Molly herself. And then there is Peter: cropped blond hair and a strong jawline. Narrow hips, broad chest, biceps clearly defined beneath the skin.
I Am Behind You Page 1
