She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. What Donald has said is pure arrogance, claiming that Majvor is not a real person, but merely a figment of his imagination. Who has brought up his children, run his household, washed his clothes and suffered through something like forty Åsa-Nisse films in the darkness of the cinema? A fantasy figure?
Majvor stares at Donald’s bald head, allegedly the only place she exists. Then her eyes drift to the rolling pin. She could…
No, Majvor.
She draws a big cross through the picture, deletes it. The cross changes slightly, turns into the one on the outside of their caravan, on all four caravans.
Delete.
‘Donald, can you move please?’
‘Why?’
‘I’m going to do some baking.’
‘You’re going to do some baking?’
‘Yes, I’m going to do some baking.’
‘Why?’
Sometimes Majvor feels so very tired. It seems as if she has spent years of her life having this kind of conversation. She sharpens her voice, finding the stern tone she so seldom uses: ‘Donald. Move. Now.’
Donald may well regard her as non-existent at the moment, but he knows when she is serious. He mutters something, gets to his feet and goes and sits on the bed.
Right.
Majvor clears the table, which gives her a surface of approximately one square metre as she hums the Mona Wessman song she heard on the radio earlier. Now everything is as it should be. She is busy in her kitchen, making something nice for everyone to share. Not that anyone will thank her, but she’s used to that. Her role is to nourish and nurture and care for others. People are just small children, when it comes down to it.
And no child refuses Majvor’s cinnamon buns!
*
The group around Stefan’s caravan has drifted away. Stefan and Peter have climbed down from the roof and are discussing the best way to construct something which will give them extra height. Lennart and Olof are heading back to their caravan.
‘That question you asked,’ Olof says. ‘About his mother. Why did you do that?’
‘Because it’s strange. It means we are somewhere after all.’
‘Didn’t we think we were?’
‘Well, no, I didn’t,’ Lennart says. ‘Did you?’
Olof stops, his brow furrowed. After a while he says: ‘No, I don’t suppose I did, come to think of it.’
‘No. But now…’ Lennart gestures towards the open field. ‘Now anything could happen. Perhaps it was a good idea to set out those canes after all.’
‘But probably not.’
‘Probably not, as you say. But we can’t be sure.’
‘Exactly.’
Lennart goes inside, while Olof checks on their experiment. This is completely pointless; it can’t be more than ten minutes since they planted and sowed. In certain cases plants can react quickly to a change of soil, but not this quickly.
And yet…Isn’t the colour of the pelargonium leaves a little darker? Under normal circumstances a plant will wilt slightly until it has recovered from the shock of moving, but that doesn’t seem to apply here.
Olof is about to hunker down to examine the pelargonium more closely when Lennart pokes his head out and whispers: ‘Psst. We’ve got a visitor.’
The visitor in question is Molly. She is curled up on the sofa and appears to be asleep. Lennart and Olof stand side by side, gazing down at her. In their scruffy caravan she seems like an elf who has strayed into the kingdom of the trolls and fallen asleep—indescribably cute.
The trolls themselves have no idea what to do. Lennart and Olof look at one another, whispering about the best course of action to take. Should they let the child sleep and tell her parents where she is, or wake her up? In the midst of their deliberations Molly sits up and makes a great show of rubbing her eyes. ‘I fell asleep,’ she says in a very small voice.
‘That’s all right,’ Olof says. ‘As long as your parents don’t start worrying.’
Lennart glances around the caravan. ‘What are you doing in here, by the way?’
‘I’m just wandering around,’ Molly says. ‘Checking things out. I felt sleepy. I’ll go home now.’
There is a faint rustling sound as she gets up. She is about to walk past the two farmers, but Lennart holds out his hand and stops her.
‘Hang on,’ he says. ‘What have you got under your T-shirt?’
‘Nothing.’
Lennart sighs and nods in the direction of the worktop so that Olof will understand what is going on. The half-full packet of sweets has gone. Molly tries to push past, but Lennart moves in front of her.
‘Give us back our sweets, then you can go.’
Molly stares at him with big, frightened eyes and says: ‘Help.’
‘I won’t say anything to your mum and dad,’ Lennart goes on, ‘but I want those sweets back.’
Molly opens her eyes even wider and says it again, louder this time: ‘Help!’
Olof realises what Molly is playing at, and he doesn’t know what scares him the most: what she is trying to do, or the fact that such a young child could think of such a thing. He is about to say that she can go, that they can manage without the sweets, but Lennart’s grim expression stops him.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Lennart says. ‘Your father saw us come in here a few seconds ago.’ His tone sharpens and he repeats: ‘Don’t even think about it!’
Molly’s expression changes as she faces up to Lennart, each taking the measure of the other. Then she shrugs and sits back down on the sofa, with more rustling. She rests her chin on her hands and contemplates the two men.
‘Why do you live together?’ she asks.
Lennart’s mouth is set in a thin, angry line, and he doesn’t answer. Olof also thinks that was a nasty trick on Molly’s part, but perhaps she was frightened and turned to desperate measures. ‘Because we get on well,’ he says.
‘Do you get on really well?’ Molly asks, tilting her head to one side.
‘Enough,’ Lennart says. ‘Put the sweets on the table, then go.’
Molly gazes at him for a couple of seconds, then says: ‘I think you do. I think you get on really well.’
‘Yes, we do,’ Olof replies. ‘What about it?’
Molly turns her attention to Olof. ‘Shall we play a game?’
Lennart sighs. ‘I think I’d better go and fetch your father.’
‘No, don’t do that. I might say something that would make him cross. Let’s play a game instead.’
Lennart and Olof stay exactly where they are. Neither of them has ever encountered a child like Molly. It’s like facing a completely different species, whose behaviour and instincts are totally unpredictable. Molly brings both palms down on the table, then waves to the chairs opposite her.
‘Come along!’ She lets out a theatrical sigh. ‘We’ll have a little competition. If I win I get to keep what I’ve got—if I have got something. Then I’ll go home.’
Some of the tension in Lennart’s body eases. The creature in front of him might be strange, but it probably isn’t dangerous. ‘That doesn’t sound like much of a deal,’ he says. ‘What do we win?’
‘You get what I’ve got, obviously. And I won’t tell anyone that you two get on really really well.’
‘You’re welcome to tell people that we get on well,’ Olof says. ‘It’s not a secret.’
Molly pulls a face and holds up one hand, fingers outspread. ‘We’re going to play scissors, paper, stone. And I have to win five times.’
‘Best of five?’ Lennart asks.
‘No, five times in a row. Then I win. Otherwise you win.’
Olof can’t help smiling. He wouldn’t necessarily describe Lennart as competitive, but he does find it difficult to resist a challenge. He’s also very good at scissors, paper, stone, insofar as it is possible to be good at it. He and Olof used to play the game when they had different views on how a problem should be addressed, but Olo
f refused to carry on when he realised that Lennart won three times out of four.
‘Okay,’ Lennart says, sitting down opposite Molly. ‘Let’s do it.’
Molly points to Olof. ‘You’re the referee.’
Olof moves over to the table. Lennart and Molly raise and lower their clenched fists in time, chanting: ‘One, two, three!’
Lennart has paper. Molly has scissors.
‘One, two, three!’
Lennart has paper. Molly has scissors.
‘One, two, three!’
Lennart has stone. Molly has paper. Lennart licks his lips and clears his throat, straightens his back.
‘One, two, three!’
Lennart has paper. Molly has scissors. Four–nil. ‘Come on, Lennart!’ Olof says, but Lennart’s eyes are locked on Molly’s, and he doesn’t seem to hear.
‘One, two, three!’
Lennart has stone. Molly has paper. She says it out loud—‘I’ve got paper’—upon which she removes the bag of Twist sweets from underneath her T-shirt and places it on the table. She takes one out, unwraps it and pops it in her mouth. Lennart scratches the back of his neck and says: ‘Well, I’ll be…’
‘Mmm,’ Molly says with her mouth full of caramel. She chews for a little while, then points at Olof and mumbles indistinctly: ‘You too.’
‘What?’
‘You play too.’
Irrespective of whether or not there is anything to win, Olof can’t help being fascinated by Molly’s self-confidence in what is basically a game of chance. He wouldn’t mind having a go; it would wind Lennart up, if nothing else.
Lennart is about to get up and make room for Olof, but Molly waves her hand, indicating that he should move along the sofa. Olof slips into his usual seat. It feels odd to have Lennart next to him instead of opposite. Molly nods; she finishes off her caramel and swallows.
‘Both,’ she says.
‘What do you mean?’ Olof asks.
Molly holds up both hands, fingers outspread. ‘You use one hand each. I use both.’
Lennart and Olof extend their right hands, fists clenched, and Molly keeps her hands wide apart, one in front of each of the farmers. Four hands bang on the table three times, and they’re off. Molly’s right hand is scissors to Lennart’s paper. Her left hand is paper to Olof’s stone.
They do it again. And again. After the fifth time it is like a ritual incantation, as if they are in a trance: ‘One, two, three!’, ‘One, two, three!’
They play ten times. Molly wins every hand, twenty matches. There isn’t even a single draw. Molly takes another caramel and pops it in her mouth, then picks up the bag and gets to her feet. Before she leaves the caravan she says: ‘You have to be nice to me. Now do you get it?’
*
Stefan and Peter have drawn a sketch on the back of an old receipt. The structure they want to build resembles the kind of tower used in the forest when hunting elk, and should serve its purpose—to bear the weight of a person high enough in the air to get a stable mobile phone signal.
As far as they know, no one has a hammer or nails, so Stefan has come up with a system of knots that will tighten when pressure is applied; he used the same idea when he built a little cabin for Emil, and didn’t want any nails around.
There is, however, a weakness in their plan: the material itself. The only planks of wood in the camp are the ones that make up the floor of Donald’s awning. There has been no sign of Donald since Majvor pointed out the crosses, and they have no idea what mood he is in. That’s the key question.
Stefan and Peter have spent ages on their plan, and have had a lovely time. What they haven’t talked about, however, is the purpose of the tower: who they are going to call. Stefan has an idea, quite a strange idea, and he is about to share it with Peter when Carina comes over to them.
‘Can you look after Emil?’ she says to Stefan.
‘Of course, but why?’
As if she is talking about popping out for a newspaper, she replies: ‘I’m just taking the car for a little while.’
Stefan is going to ask, ‘Where are you going?’, but realises that the question is meaningless. There is nowhere to go out here except everywhere, so instead he asks: ‘Why?’
‘There’s nothing out there,’ Peter chips in.
‘Sorry,’ Carina says, looking searchingly at Peter, ‘but I’m afraid I don’t believe that.’
*
‘What are you doing, Mummy?’
Isabelle is sitting at the kitchen table with a bottle of whisky and a glass. When Molly comes into the caravan, Isabelle picks up the glass and knocks back the last few drops.
‘I haven’t got anything sweet, so I’m drinking this crap instead to get some sugar.’
Molly sits down opposite her mother with exaggerated care. She is pretending to be scared, but in fact she is trying to make sure the bag of sweets doesn’t rustle.
‘So,’ Isabelle says, slurring slightly. She’s not exactly drunk, but the whisky has had a rapid effect on her hungry body. ‘Did you find anything out? About what your friend saw?’
‘He’s not my friend. Can I play on the computer?’
Isabelle’s eyes narrow, her lips tighten. ‘Are you trying to do a deal?’
Molly shrugs and Isabelle takes down her laptop from the shelf, runs her hand over the surface and says: ‘Ten minutes.’
‘Twenty.’
‘We can’t charge the battery. When it runs out, that’s it. Do you understand? Ten minutes.’
‘Fifteen.’
Isabelle sighs. ‘Okay, fifteen. If you have something to tell me, that is. About whether he saw anything.’
‘He did.’
‘And what was it?’
‘A man.’
Molly reaches for the computer, but Isabelle moves it away. ‘What kind of a man, Molly? Tell me, for heaven’s sake!’
Molly rolls her eyes. ‘He saw a man out on the field—he was completely white and he was thin and he moved in a funny way and he looked like a person but somehow he didn’t.’
Isabelle doesn’t protest as Molly grabs the laptop and opens it up. Isabelle’s jaw has dropped and her eyes are wide open.
White and thin and looked like a person. Out on the field.
Isabelle can see the image, she can see it very clearly, because she has seen it before. The music from ‘Plants vs. Zombies’ starts to play on her computer. Molly’s index finger moves over the touchpad and her thumb clicks on the command button as she captures suns and arranges flowers as protection against the zombies who are trying to invade her garden.
Suddenly Isabelle gets up and goes outside. When Molly is sure that she has gone, she retrieves the bag of sweets and pauses the game as she unwraps a slightly gooey chocolate and pops it into her mouth before playing on.
*
Carina is surprised by her own ruthlessness as she slips behind the wheel and closes the car door. It’s as if she is on her way to a vitally important meeting, and mustn’t be late.
To fly. Into the sun.
There is something she doesn’t understand. A movement inside her, like troops relocating under cover of darkness. She knows that something is going on, but can’t decide if it involves enemies or reinforcements, destruction or redemption. It could also be a group of civilians without any particular significance, but something is on the move.
She is about to turn the key when she hears someone tapping on the window. She sighs when she sees Isabelle standing there. What does the stupid cow want now? She considers ignoring her, starting the car and driving off. Then again, perhaps it’s about the gas hose. She really would like it back, so she winds down the window. ‘Yes?’
Isabelle’s eyes rake over the car. ‘Are you going somewhere?’
Her expression is slightly glazed, and when Carina picks up the smell of alcohol on her breath, she realises why.
‘Yes. Why?’
Isabelle nods in the direction of the instrument panel. ‘You don’t have GPS.’
‘No,’ Carina says, imitating Isabelle’s earlier response as she adds: ‘And?’
Isabelle doesn’t appear to notice the sarcasm; instead she simply states: ‘You won’t be able to find your way back.’
‘I’m sorry, but what’s it got to do with you?’
Carina doesn’t think she could sound any more off-putting, but for some reason Isabelle doesn’t move a muscle; her expression doesn’t change at all. All becomes clear when she points to the black SUV.
‘We could take our car,’ she says. ‘That one.’
‘We?’
‘Yes. You and me.’
‘You can go on your own. Unless you’re afraid of getting picked up by the cops, of course.’
Isabelle shakes her head. ‘I don’t have a driving licence.’
‘What does that matter out here?’
Isabelle makes a vague, limp-wristed gesture, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Carina suspects she knows the truth, and milks the situation for a moment longer before she says, in a voice oozing with fake sympathy: ‘You can’t drive, can you?’
Something nasty flickers in Isabelle’s eyes, but she shrugs and says: ‘No.’
Carina gazes out across the field. Her plan was to drive in the same direction as one line of canes, but with GPS it would be possible to check out a different route. On the other hand—Isabelle. She considers the pros and cons, and eventually gets out of the car.
Isabelle holds out one of those keys that you don’t actually have to insert in the ignition. Carina takes it and says: ‘Maybe we won’t need to talk much.’
‘Maybe we should,’ Isabelle responds as they walk over to the car. ‘We could have a real girls’ outing.’
Her tone of voice has regained most of its earlier sarcasm, and Carina is already wishing she could change her mind.
*
As Carina and Isabelle get into the Toyota and start the engine, Peter remembers the sweets that are still in his pocket. The car moves off and he starts to run after it, then stops and watches as it grows smaller.
She’s not your wife any more.
The actual divorce will be messy, with papers and lawyers and a whole load of crap, but as far as Peter is concerned it is already a reality, because he has made the decision. He is no longer Isabelle’s servant. He doesn’t have to do anything she asks him to do, he doesn’t need to care about her wellbeing, and he doesn’t have to give her any sweets if he doesn’t want to.
I Am Behind You Page 16
