*
Majvor isn’t quite sure how it happened, but she seems to be alone in the camp. Stefan came in and dragged his son away before they had even started the attack on the Death Star, and when Majvor stepped out of the caravan she saw Lennart and Olof shambling across the field after Molly, just as Stefan drove off.
So.
Majvor looks at the spot where her own caravan stood, and it is a sorry sight. What used to be the floor of the awning is now a lonely expanse of wooden decking, with upturned chairs, tables and plant pots. It needs tidying up, and guess whose job that will be?
The sound of Stefan’s car fades away, and all is quiet. Majvor hears a noise she can’t identify, a quiet smacking and slurping coming from somewhere nearby. She bends down to look under Stefan’s caravan, but her back is so stiff that she has to get on her knees to see properly.
Benny. It’s a while since she thought about the dog, but he is lying here with that cat he was barking at before. The cat yawns, apparently not in the least bothered by the proximity of her former arch-enemy, while Benny carries on chewing.
What’s he chewing?
For a moment Majvor imagines that Benny is chomping away at the cat’s tail. She crawls forward and takes a closer look. There are a few scraps of black rubber between Benny’s front paws, and Benny is determinedly destroying the larger piece in his mouth. A hose, or what was once a hose.
‘Benny,’ Majvor says, and he looks up at her. ‘Have you made a new friend?’ Benny snorts and shakes his head, then resumes his chewing, as if the question is too stupid to warrant an answer. With some difficulty, Majvor gets to her feet.
So.
Funny how things can change. Yesterday evening she and Donald had sat there peacefully watching the music festival from Skansen, then Donald went off to talk to Peter while Majvor read the latest instalment of the serial in her magazine. Now Peter, Donald and the magazine have gone, and she is standing here all alone in the middle of a field. How did that Gunnar Wiklund song go?
Something about walking alone on a deserted shore, as the waves… hm, hm…What was it the waves were doing?
Majvor wanders aimlessly towards the decking, because at least it is a place that is somehow hers. The fridge is lying on its side with the door open and the cans have rolled out. She looks around and thinks she sees something glinting in the grass where their caravan used to be. What can it be?
Ouf!
Down on her knees again, that’s all she seems to be doing these days. She scrabbles in the grass until her fingers close around an object made of metal. It is a ring. A gold ring, one half blackened and pitted as if something has been eating away at it, while the other half is more or less intact.
Majvor peers at the inscription on the inside. Part of it has been destroyed, but she can just make out what remains: ‘& Erik 25/5/1904’.
A wedding ring. Belonging to someone called Erik, or the person he married one hundred and ten years ago. Judging by the size, it was probably Erik’s ring; women don’t usually have such large fingers. Then again…Majvor tries it on her own ring finger, pushing it down until it meets her own wedding ring, and it’s not a bad fit. Only slightly too big.
She crawls around, searching in the grass, and she is rewarded with another discovery: a small, irregularly shaped lump of gold. When she bites it to check if there is any softness in it, she immediately realises what it is: a gold filling from someone’s tooth. It probably isn’t all that far-fetched to assume it was Erik’s.
A few metres away she finds a blackened gold chain and two more fillings. Then another ring, but this one is so badly damaged that it is impossible to read the inscription.
Majvor jingles her collection in her hand. Very interesting. First the crosses, and now this. It’s astonishing what discoveries you can make if you don’t spend all your time rushing around and coming up with stupid ideas. If you just take things a little more slowly.
*
When Lennart and Olof reach the Toyota, Molly has already been there for quite some time. They are puffing and blowing, and the sweat is making their eyes sting, which is why they don’t see anything strange about the group. Two adults and a child, just as they expected.
They catch their breath and look over at the car; only then do they realise that Carina is sitting inside, clutching a rounders bat and staring out of the side window at a complete stranger who is talking to Molly. A man in a suit who is crouching down, his head so close to Molly’s that the brim of his hat is touching her forehead as they whisper together.
Lennart gives a start when he sees Isabelle, who is leaning against the back of the car looking very unhappy. There is blood around her mouth, and her face is swollen and discoloured.
‘What’s happened?’ he asks, pointing at the man. ‘Did he…?’
Isabelle shakes her head. What has happened to her is a question for later, but at least the man wasn’t responsible, so Lennart walks over to him, holding out his hand. ‘Hello. We didn’t think there was anyone else around. I’m Lennart.’
With a nod to Molly, the man stands up. ‘Bengt,’ he says, shaking Lennart’s hand. ‘Bengt Andersson. Travelling salesman.’
Lennart can’t help suppressing a laugh. Travelling salesman. When did that profession cease to exist? People schlepping around the countryside selling underwear, with their entire stock in the back of the car. Lennart is clearly dealing with a joker here, so he answers in the same vein: ‘Lennart Österberg. Vagabond and tenant farmer.’
Bengt raises his eyebrows. ‘Excuse me, sir, but are you jesting with me?’
He seems to be genuinely annoyed. Lennart looks him up and down: his suit is old-fashioned, the pomaded hair is reminiscent of men’s hairstyles when Lennart was a child, and there is no denying the overall impression: from his appearance and manner, Bengt Andersson could be any boring, ordinary man from the 1950s.
Lennart’s doubts turn to confusion when Olof says: ‘Are you just going to stand there, Lennart?’
‘What do you mean?’ Lennart says. ‘We’re having a conversation.’
Olof bursts out laughing and looks to Isabelle for support, but she refuses to meet his eye. ‘No you’re not,’ he says. ‘You’re just standing there.’
Lennart has only Molly to turn to for confirmation, but the girl is simply staring at him with a supercilious smile.
Bengt tips his hat and says: ‘You must excuse me—I’m late for a meeting.’
Aren’t we having a conversation?
Lennart expands his examination to take in Bengt’s face, and his confusion turns to discomfort when he realises that he somehow can’t see it. Bengt has a face, of course, but it is kind of unclear, like the memory of a person you haven’t met for a long time. If Lennart were giving a witness statement to the police he might possibly be able to help with a rudimentary ID sketch, but nothing more. The mouth in particular would create major problems. Lennart has no impression of it at all; it’s as if the man has no mouth.
Lennart takes a step to the side and places himself directly in front of Bengt, who is about to leave.
‘Hang on a minute, mate,’ he says. ‘Who exactly are you, and what…’
Bengt interrupts him. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I really don’t think it’s appropriate for you to address me as mate.’
Olof comes over to Lennart and says: ‘That’s enough.’ He holds out his hand and Bengt shakes it. After a brief silence, the two men let go of each other’s hands. Lennart looks at Olof; it is clear from his expression that he is reacting to something that is being said, and is saying something in reply. But his mouth doesn’t move. Bengt turns to Lennart: ‘If you will excuse me, I’m afraid I really do have to leave now.’ He tips his hat once more and sets off towards the camp.
‘Hang on a minute,’ Lennart says again; now that he is aware of the phenomenon, he realises that talking requires no effort whatsoever from the muscles in his tongue and lips. It is as if an imaginary mouth inside his head is produci
ng the words. ‘Wait. What kind of meeting are you going to, sir?’
Without slowing down, Bengt says over his shoulder: ‘I’m meeting a colleague. Good day to you.’
*
Emil is sitting in his car seat staring sulkily at the floor. It was really stupid of Daddy to drag him away like that. He was having fun with the lady. People who talk about God and Jesus are usually a bit of a pain, but the lady was cool. She knew how to play, and old ladies are often rubbish when it comes to playing.
Emil also thinks Daddy’s behaviour is strange, not to mention alarming. He isn’t saying anything, and he seems scared. That’s the worst thing in the world as far as Emil is concerned: grown-ups who are scared. It’s okay for children to be scared for a little while, of Alfie Atkins and the ghost for example—although that doesn’t frighten Emil any more—but it soon passes. When grown-ups get scared, they stay that way.
They have been driving for a little while now, and Emil doesn’t like the fact that they have gone away from Mummy. Daddy never does that. Perhaps this is what it’s like when children are kidnapped? That’s it. Emil will pretend he’s been kidnapped, and everything will feel much better.
How much will the kidnapper demand as a ransom? Would Mummy and Daddy pay a million to get Emil back? How much is a million anyway? Perhaps it’s the same as the cost of a house. Would Mummy and Daddy sell the house?
Emil thinks it over. Yes, they probably would, because they’ve told him over and over again that he’s the best thing in their lives, that they think the world of him. In which case he must be worth more than the house. It’s a strange thought. The house is huge, and the cooker is brand-new, with those hotplates you can’t burn yourself on.
Emil feels quite pleased. A million. He is worth a million. Probably. He comes out of the game for a moment to ask a question.
‘Daddy? If someone came and kidnapped…’
Daddy holds up his hand to shut him up. Emil really doesn’t like it when Daddy does that, treating him as if he was a little kid. Emil is about to push the hand away and ask the question anyway when he realises from Daddy’s expression that this is serious, that Daddy can see something. Emil turns his head to look through the windscreen, and what he sees makes him gasp and let out a sob.
About two hundred metres away there is an elephant, coming towards them. It is heading straight for them on its four tree-trunk legs, and it looks exactly like Molly said it would look.
Emil has seen ordinary elephants at the zoo in Kolmården, and although they’re a bit scary because they’re so big, there is something really nice and gentle about their slow, heavy movements. It’s as if they are always thinking carefully about everything they do.
This elephant is not nice or gentle. For a start it isn’t pale grey, the colour that dolphins are too; no, this elephant is covered with so much dirt and mud that it is almost black, and Emil knows that it isn’t thinking about anything except moving forward with its thick, dark trunk swinging from side to side.
Ordinary elephants don’t have any teeth, at least not that you can see, but this one has. Jagged yellow teeth that are so long they don’t fit in its mouth, so the elephant’s jaws are open as it lurches along on a collision course with their car.
And it is smoking. Just like when Daddy burns piles of leaves in the spring, a pillar of smoke is rising from the elephant and dispersing against the blue sky. With his hands pressed to his tummy Emil stares at the elephant, struck dumb with terror, because he knows what it is: the most dangerous thing in the whole wide world.
That is when Daddy does something terrible. So far they have been driving at forty kilometres per hour; Emil has glanced at the speedometer from time to time. Instead of turning the car around, Daddy puts his foot down, and their speed climbs to fifty, sixty.
‘No, Daddy! No!’ Emil screams.
‘We have to,’ Daddy says through gritted teeth. ‘Close your eyes, there’s a good boy. Keep your head down and close your eyes.’
Emil realises what Daddy is intending to do. He is going to drive straight at the elephant, which is crazy. If it was an ordinary elephant the impact might have broken its legs so that it wouldn’t be able to walk, but that’s not what is going to happen in this case. This elephant is going to pick them up in its trunk, lift them to its mouth and chew them up.
Emil tears his eyes away from the speedometer and looks up. He blinks a couple of times and looks again. The elephant is gone, but walking towards them now, so close that Emil can see the details of his mask, is Darth Vader. His black cloak is billowing around him, and through the roar of the engine Emil thinks he can hear the deep, wheezing sound of Darth Vader breathing. He is carrying his lightsaber in his right hand, and his left hand is pointing straight at Emil. In a few seconds the car will hit him.
At that moment Emil has a sudden flash of insight. He can’t put it into words that would convince Daddy, and time is short, so he simply yells: ‘It’s just pretend!’ He twists towards his father, grabs the steering wheel and pulls it towards him.
Daddy is much stronger, of course, but Emil’s unexpected intervention makes the car swerve to the side, and they miss Darth Vader by a metre. They carry on for another twenty metres or so before Daddy manages to brake. His face is red, his mouth is opening and closing, but no words are coming out.
Emil has never felt so strongly that Daddy might be about to hit him; he remembers the iron grip on his arm, and shrinks as far away as his seatbelt will allow before he says: ‘It’s not real, Daddy. It’s just pretend.’
He glances out of the rear window and sees that Darth Vader is still walking along as if nothing has happened, moving away from them so that only the back of his shiny black helmet and his cloak can be seen.
The Groke, Emil thinks. He looks like the Groke.
Daddy read a couple of the Moomintroll books to Emil when he was five, but they had to stop because Emil found the Groke so upsetting; everything she touches will freeze, and as a result she is rejected by everyone, and is terribly lonely. Suddenly Emil understands. If he was still five years old, and if he hadn’t seen Star Wars, it might have been the Groke out there.
Daddy has stopped opening and closing his mouth, and Emil thinks he might be able to find the right words to explain now. ‘It’s just stuff we’ve made up,’ he says. ‘It’s not really there. It’s just… nothing.’
Daddy’s eyes are starting to look more normal, and as if Emil were the grown-up he places a hand on Daddy’s arm and says reassuringly: ‘Daddy? I’m right, you know.’
*
Donald is sitting on the bed with the gun on his knee, gazing at the devastation. Everything that was loose inside the caravan has ended up on the floor or the worktops, at least half of the plates and glasses were smashed to smithereens when they fell out of the cupboards, and Majvor’s ingredients are all over the place. Her unbaked cinnamon buns are plastered across the sofa, where they continue to rise.
Donald is so fucking furious that he has stopped reflecting on whether this whole thing is a dream or not. If it is a dream then it would be pointless to retaliate, which would be unfortunate, so from now on he intends to act as if it were real, whether it is or not.
One of the speakers from the surround sound system has fallen off its shelf and cracked against the bed frame. Donald pokes at it with the barrel of the gun. Twenty-two thousand kronor; that’s how much it cost to have a home entertainment package installed in the caravan, but now both the DVD player and the TV have been torn loose and are lying on the floor, so presumably they’re fucked.
There are people who go around being grateful and humble, whatever life throws at them, thanking God or Fate or Winnie-the-Pooh for the gifts they have received. Donald is not one of those people. He has earned every penny through hard work and good decisions. He’s been given nothing, not one fucking thing.
His stomach ties itself in knots as he thinks about how he sucked up to Peter, a mediocre footballer who made millions running ar
ound after a lump of leather in Italy, and who now has the gall to sit there moaning because he’s been booted out of the national team too soon, in spite of the fact that he can easily live on the money that has simply fallen into his lap. The little shit!
And then the little shit comes along and wrecks Donald’s caravan, for which Donald has toiled in the sweat of his brow, before taking off like a frightened rabbit in Donald’s car!
Donald kicks the speaker so that it flies across the room and lands on top of the dough smeared across the sofa. He is so angry that his hands are shaking when he gets up, slips the gun over his shoulder and goes outside.
All around him there is nothing but emptiness as far as the eye can see. He checks out the caravan and discovers that the fixings for the awning have been torn away, which will mean an expensive repair job. This makes him even more livid, if that were possible. He wants to shoot something, any fucking thing, but there is nothing in sight.
He goes to the back of the caravan and lowers the ladder, then stands hesitating with one hand on the bottom rung. He’s not in the best shape, and if he fell and hurt himself out here it could prove fatal.
They didn’t think about that, the bastards. What if Donald had been seriously injured when Peter drove off with him? Would they just have left him out here in the middle of nowhere to bleed to death like an injured animal? Would they?
Tears of rage spring to Donald’s eyes as he hauls himself up the ladder. Anger gives him strength, and he doesn’t stop until he is on the roof. He unhooks the gun and peers through the sight in the direction in which Peter took off in his car. Nothing. The little bunny has scampered home to mummy.
Or…
Donald lowers the gun. Only now, standing on the roof with nothing to obscure his view, does he realise that there is nothing to say that the camp lies that way. Donald has no idea where the camp is.
He positions the shotgun against his shoulder and slowly sweeps the barrel across the horizon, moving no more than a centimetre at a time so that he can search the entire area for a deviation, a hint of unevenness. When he is looking in precisely the opposite direction from the route Peter took, he spots something. He gasps and lowers the gun, as if to make sure that the sight isn’t playing a trick on him.
I Am Behind You Page 23
