I Am Behind You

by John Ajvide Lindqvist

  Majvor can’t predict what might happen, but Donald’s stressed expression and bloodshot eyes suggest that things could go really badly as he places his finger on the trigger.

  ‘Donald!’ she shouts, and manages to divert his attention. She smiles as sweetly as she can, and says: ‘I’m useless anyway. Wouldn’t it be better for me to stay here and look after you?’

  The muscles around Donald’s eyes twitch as he lowers the gun. Perhaps he is not ready to shoot an unarmed woman in spite of his insanity; perhaps he needs Majvor’s care and attention. Whatever the reason, he lets out a snort and says: ‘Okay, yes. But the rest of you need to get going right now!’

  Majvor catches Carina’s eye and nods reassuringly, a nod that means she will take care of Emil while they are away. Carina hesitates for a couple of seconds then returns the nod before joining the rest of the group.

  Donald sits down in the folding chair and lays the shotgun across his knees, mumbling to himself as he follows the preparations for departure through narrowed eyes. Then he notices Majvor, standing alone a couple of metres away.

  ‘Don’t just stand there looking stupid,’ he says, waving towards the refrigerator. ‘Fetch me a beer.’

  The Volvo has just started up when everyone becomes aware of the sound of another engine approaching the camp. All activity stops, and before anyone has the chance to react, Donald’s Cherokee appears, with Peter at the wheel.

  It stops next to the Toyota and Peter leaps out. With no grasp of what is going on, he runs over to the other car, shouting: ‘We have to get out of here! Right away!’

  The plan is to slam the Toyota into reverse then hook up his own caravan. Donald gets to his feet, the gun in his hands, and Majvor knows him so well that she can tell from his back view that he is smiling. Beaming, in fact.

  *

  ‘Don’t moving a fucking muscle, Peter. I’ve got you in my sights. Hands up!’

  One of Peter’s talents as a player was the ability to make a decision in a fraction of a second. He didn’t waste time fiddling around with the ball while he made up his mind. Better to do something unexpected, take a major risk, than to allow the other team to close ranks.

  He can tell from Donald’s tone that this is serious; he also realises that Donald has the gun. His eyes are still fixed on the tow bar, but he is able to work out roughly where Donald is from his voice. He decides to raise his hands slightly first of all, so that Donald will think he is cooperating, then he will throw himself under the caravan and roll out on the other side. After that he will have to improvise. If he can just explain about the clouds, the situation might change.

  Peter lifts his head and begins to raise his hands. Then he stiffens, frozen in mid-movement. There are four people standing in the middle of the camp, staring at him. No, not four people; four versions of the same person. The final version, which is the most unpleasant, is something he has never seen in reality. His jaw drops and he whispers: ‘Dad?’

  When his father came out of prison, it turned out that the woman he had abused had a big family, who didn’t think that prison was the best punishment for knocking women about. They thought someone who did that kind of thing should be bound naked to a tree in the forest before a number of significant wounds were inflicted with a pair of secateurs. In conclusion the perpetrator should be castrated using the same implement, then left to bleed to death. That was their view, which was soon translated into action.

  By the time Peter’s father was found, predators had started eating away at the soft tissue, and the organ that had been responsible for Peter’s conception was never found. There was little doubt about who had carried out the attack, but there was no forensic evidence, and the entire family provided one another with watertight alibis. The court concluded that a person or persons unknown had tortured Peter’s father to death.

  Peter has already established that God does not exist in this place. He has also briefly considered the natural progression from this thought: that this is the only place where God does not exist—hell, in other words. However, he dismissed the idea as ridiculous. Why would four families from the same campsite be condemned simultaneously to eternal torment in hell? It just didn’t make sense.

  As he looks over at the middle of the camp, it seems a lot less ridiculous. If there is one person in his life who deserved to end up in hell, it is his father. And here he is. Four versions of the same man.

  One is the drunken monster who almost killed Peter’s mother, one is the vicious brute who smashed up their caravan, a third comes from Peter’s early childhood, before the booze took over. But the figure that makes Peter forget his planned manoeuvres is the fourth, the one he has never seen, only imagined, over and over again.

  A naked man with the corners of his mouth slashed to form a broad smile, his body marked with eight or ten gaping wounds, and no sex organs. His dead father, bloodless and clean, but still on his feet.

  Without lowering his hands Peter closes his eyes, squeezes them tight shut. When he opens them again the father figures are still there, but Donald has moved closer. Majvor is behind him with a can of beer in her hand, while Stefan, Carina and the dairy farmers are getting out of the Volvo. There is no sign of Molly or Isabelle.

  Donald stops ten metres away from Peter, puts the gun to his shoulder and takes aim. ‘Now you’re going to die, you bastard.’

  Everything Peter had intended to do or say is gone. He realises that Donald really does mean to shoot him, that the time has come. He must remain calm. Breathe evenly, prepare himself.

  Peter closes his eyes once more, takes a deep breath and thinks about the darkness, the smell of shower gel and disinfectant. He thinks Anette, he turns all his senses into a phallus and drives into her sweetness. Then Donald fires.

  *

  It’s not that Donald hates Peter. Not really. But because Peter did what he did, Donald has no choice but to shoot him. In the real world he wouldn’t act this way—he doesn’t want to end up in jail after all—but in this pretend world it is the only thing he can do.

  One of Donald’s key characteristics is his ability to hold a grudge. He is well aware of this, in fact he often boasts about it: ‘I’ve got a long memory, let me tell you.’

  If someone has wronged Donald, there are virtually no lengths to which he will not go to restore the balance, preferably by doing something even worse to the perpetrator.

  For example, take the wholesaler who sold a huge consignment of untreated wood to Donald at a good price, because he was supposed to be winding up his company and moving to the Costa del Sol. Eighty thousand kronor down the pan; the entire consignment was riddled with woodworm after being kept in an unventilated storeroom for years and years. Worthless timber, firewood.

  Donald bided his time, made sure he kept an eye on the person in question. When he still hadn’t set foot in Sweden after a couple of years, Donald spent a considerable amount of time making the right contacts, then paid certain people to pay the former wholesaler a few visits.

  Three local thugs were temporarily employed to wreck his garden, scratch his car, start a fire in his garden shed, and to break into his house a couple of times. Nothing major, but as the incidents were spread out over a period of several months, they had a significant impact on the man’s peace of mind.

  Eventually Donald sent him a postcard: ‘Hope you’re very happy in your house, and that things are going well. Best wishes, Donald’. After all, there was no point in doing all that if the guy didn’t know.

  As a result the man called Donald, weeping and promising to pay back the money for the wood, if he could just make it all stop. Donald said he had no idea what he was talking about, but he was happy to accept the money because the consignment really had been rubbish.

  He hadn’t done it because of the money, but he wouldn’t be much of a businessman if he turned down eighty thousand kronor. At least it covered the amount he had spent to break the bastard, but the important thing was the victory itself, t
he fact that he had sat there shaking in his shoes in the heat of the Costa del Sol, and had realised that you couldn’t get away with ripping off Donald Gustafsson.

  Such measures are not an option when it comes to Peter. He dragged Donald away like a dog, wrecked his caravan and stole his car. The Bloodman turned white when Donald shot him, the mask disintegrated. What will happen to this fantasy creature called Peter? There’s only one way to find out.

  Donald closes one eye and aligns the crosshairs with the middle of Peter’s forehead. He pulls back the trigger and takes a deep breath to steady his hands.

  A yellow flame bursts into life in the back of his head, he hears a hissing sound, and the gun goes off.

  *

  Come on, Majvor. Come on.

  Stefan’s thigh muscles are tensed, his body leaning forward as he gets ready to run. He hasn’t had time to reflect on whether he actually has the nerve, but perhaps his new role as leader has given him the extra courage he needs.

  He was the one that Majvor looked at. As Donald walked towards Peter, Majvor followed him with an unopened can of beer in her hand. When it became clear that Donald really did intend to shoot Peter, Majvor raised the can, pointed to Donald’s head, then looked over at Stefan. Stefan, nobody else. He swallowed hard and nodded. And got ready to sprint.

  ‘I’ve got you in my sights.’

  Donald places the butt of the gun to his shoulder and rests his cheek against it. His finger is on the trigger.

  Come on, Majvor. Don’t miss.

  Majvor was probably intending to hit Donald over the head with the can, but suddenly it is urgent, and she has to act fast. She is only two metres away from Donald when she raises her arm above shoulder level and hurls the can with unexpected force. It flies through the air like a red and white stripe and strikes the back of Donald’s head.

  Stefan has been concentrating so hard on adopting the correct position and on his run that it seems only logical that he hears a starting gun go off as he charges at Donald with the aim of snatching the shotgun.

  The can has caught Donald at an angle; it bounces upwards and forwards over the top of his head, then down in front of his face. At the same time the can flips open and there is a hissing sound as a stream of Budweiser spurts over Donald’s face and chest in a white, foaming cascade.

  The can hits the ground and continues to spurt, all over Donald’s feet. If he turns around to see who threw it, he will see Stefan, but fortunately he looks down at the projectile itself first of all, and as he leans forward to get a better look at the hissing, bubbling object at his feet, Stefan reaches his goal.

  Once again he surprises himself. His aim was to get hold of the gun, and he had pictured himself whirling past and grabbing it. Instead he stops dead right next to Donald. Without any particular sense of urgency, as if he were relieving a teenager who had been shoplifting of his ill-gotten gains, he takes the gun out of Donald’s hands and says: ‘Okay!’

  Donald’s reaction is not dissimilar to that of the beer can. As if a valve has been opened, releasing some internal pressure, Donald’s shoulders drop, and with beer dripping from his face he looks at the gun, at Majvor, at Stefan, and says feebly: ‘What the…fuck?’

  There is nothing to suggest that Peter has been hit; he is standing open-mouthed, gaping at the four white figures.

  ‘Peter!’ Stefan shouts, backing away from Donald with the gun raised. ‘Peter!’

  Stefan doesn’t know what Peter sees when he looks at the figures, but judging by his expression it is something terrifying. Stefan points the barrel of the gun at Donald, but realises that it is only the afterglow of the heat of battle that is making him do this. Without the shotgun, Donald is just an angry old man. Stefan lowers the weapon and goes over to Peter, obscuring his view of the figures.

  ‘Peter?’

  Peter isn’t completely out of it. ‘My father,’ he says. ‘He’s dead. So how can he…how…’

  Stefan slips the strap of the gun over his arm so that he can place both hands on Peter’s shoulders. When Peter tries to move his head to the side so that he can look at the figures, Stefan places his hands on Peter’s cheeks, holding his head still, and locks eyes with him.

  ‘Peter, listen to me. That’s not your father. They’re just pretending to be whatever might scare or upset us, so that…blood will be spilt. Do you understand me? They are not your father, nor anything else. They’re just…nothing.’

  Peter abandons the attempt to turn his head, and Stefan removes his hands. Then Peter gives a start as if he has just remembered something.

  ‘Clouds,’ he says. ‘There are clouds coming.’

  ‘I know, I’ve seen them.’

  ‘Something falls from the clouds, something corrosive. It eats through metal, through everything. We have to get away from here. Right now.’ Peter points in the opposite direction from which he came, then turns his attention back to the tow bar.

  ‘It’s no good going that way,’ Stefan says. ‘There are clouds coming from that direction too.’

  Peter presses his hands to his temples. ‘Bloody hell, Stefan, it eats through everything. And there are…’

  He falls silent. Listens. Stefan can hear it too. Screams of pain in various keys are coming from the field, from both directions. And they are getting closer.

  *

  ‘Have you calmed down, Donald? Have you calmed down now?’

  However crazy everything might be, Majvor cannot deny that she finds a certain amount of satisfaction in the current situation. She has always had to deal with Donald’s unpredictable moods alone, picking her way through the minefield of his capricious nature. Now at least she has help.

  Lennart and Olof have stayed with Majvor so that they can keep an eye, or rather six eyes, on Donald who seems anything but calm now that the initial shock has passed. He pulls a face and sets off towards Stefan, muttering something about his gun, but Lennart and Olof grab an arm each and hold on to him.

  ‘Stop it, Donald!’ Lennart says. ‘You can’t go around shooting people, for heaven’s sake!’

  Donald twists and turns in their grip, yelling: ‘Let go of me, you bastard cowfuckers!’

  ‘You’re in a state,’ Lennart says. ‘We can’t have you like this.’

  ‘So what are you going to do? Shoot me? Go on then, shoot me, just like you shoot your bloody cows when you’ve finished fucking them!’

  Olof looks at Majvor, who blushes. Donald can be foul-mouthed, but he doesn’t usually go this far. He is her husband, after all, so she feels guilty by association when he says such terrible things to Lennart and Olof, whom she has come to regard as two fine men.

  ‘Shut up, Donald!’ she says, and perhaps it is his tasteless comments that make her add: ‘Shut your mouth!’

  Donald’s eyes open wide, and he falls silent in the face of this unusually fierce reprimand. He jerks his body, trying to escape from Lennart and Olof, but without success. Lennart sighs and nods towards the breast pocket of his dungarees.

  ‘Majvor, I’ve got a roll of tape here.’

  Majvor has seen enough films to know what he means. Lennart and Olof twist Donald’s arms behind his back so that Majvor can wind the tape around his wrists as she says: ‘I really don’t want to do this, Donald, but you are behaving like a madman right now. As soon as you calm down, we’ll let you go.’

  She sighs, breaks off the tape and pats him on the back. ‘Goodness me, what a mess.’

  Regardless of how Donald has been behaving, this feels wrong. That business with the can of beer was a necessary evil, an emergency measure, but she has wound the tape around his wrists with cold deliberation. You just don’t do that to your husband. She walks around so that she can look him in the eye, and says: ‘Sweetheart, I know all this has been terrible for you, and that you’re confused. I just want to prevent you from doing something you might regret. Do you understand?’

  Donald nods, and Majvor feels a spark of hope; perhaps he is starting to come to
his senses. Then he looks at her and smiles nastily.

  ‘Oh, I understand. The farmer wants a wife. It’s one of your favourite TV shows. So now you’ve got a wet pussy, hoping to get a bit of farmer’s cock, yum yum…’

  He doesn’t get any further; Majvor rips off a strip of tape and clamps it over his mouth. That doesn’t feel wrong. Not at all.

  Donald’s face is bright red as he continues to utter muffled curses, which are fortunately unintelligible. The colour of Majvor’s face isn’t far behind as she turns to Lennart and Olof to apologise for her husband.

  The two men are turning their heads from side to side as if they are listening, concentrating hard. Now that Donald has been more or less silenced, they can hear something else. The sound of screaming, as if someone somewhere is in great pain, and a whiff of…fried food. Majvor sniffs. Fried food and something else.

  Sulphur.

  Fire and brimstone. Majvor looks around, and what she sees approaching from the field makes the association even stronger.

  Lord have mercy on us sinners.

  *

  Carina goes into her caravan, ready to console Emil. He must have witnessed the terrible scene with Donald, and how his father risked his life—things they would never allow him to see in a film, for example.

  But Emil is not where she expected to find him, glued to the window that overlooks the middle of the camp. Instead he is kneeling on the sofa, looking out of the window on the other side. His fists are clenched, his body tense.

  ‘You don’t need to be scared any more, sweetheart,’ Carina begins.

  ‘Look, Mummy!’

  Carina sits down beside him, strokes his head. Then she looks out of the window.

  The first thing she sees are rainclouds covering almost her entire field of vision, and she thinks: Lovely. The unchanging blue sky has made her feel uncomfortable, and has contributed to her thoughts about disappearing. The clouds are something different, and they also mean water, life. Then she lowers her gaze.

  Her mind tries to find an explanation for what she is seeing, and her first thought is marathon runners. Skinny black men whose thin bodies seem to be made up of nothing but muscle and sinew. A group of marathon runners is approaching from the field, but there is something wrong with their technique. They are struggling, throwing themselves forward in a series of jerky movements, as if the component parts of their skeletons are inadequately linked together. She hears the screams, and as they come closer she can see their bodies more clearly. If this is a race, then it started in the kingdom of the dead.