It was a mistake. Memories of childhood and love and bright summer days lurked in every corner of the house and garden. Carina and her father crept around among those memories like two ghosts, incapable of doing anything to create a life that was about here and now. Before long Carina was only sleeping at home, and often she didn’t even do that.
Back in town she had started hanging out with a different crowd, but out in the sticks her old summer mates would have to do. She was the most popular member of the gang, the one everyone wanted as their special friend. The fact that she wanted to go to the disco made it cool.
They pre-loaded with a witches’ brew of as much booze as they could lay their hands on, listening to Dr Alban and laughing their heads off. At about ten-thirty they headed down to the disco, where the bass beat of ‘Living on a Prayer’ floated out across the inlet, woppa-wo-wa, woppa-wo-wa. A few over-thirties were dad-dancing, and perched on a fence with a can of Fanta in his hand was Stefan. Kamilla with a K pointed to him: ‘Check out the guy from the store! I bet he’s actually got Fanta in there!’
She could well have been right. Stefan was wearing a pair of dark blue jeans that looked brand-new, and a red checked shirt buttoned almost to the top. His large black-rimmed glasses reflected the glow of the coloured lights, flashing out of time with the music.
‘See anyone you fancy?’ asked Camilla with a C, and Carina shrugged.
‘I see someone who’s been hit with the ugly stick!’ Jenny said, waving her hand in Stefan’s direction.
It was just an idea. Suddenly Carina heard herself saying: ‘What do I get if I snog him?’
The girls slurred ‘a thousand’ and ‘ten thousand’, but when they realised that Carina was serious, they settled on fifty kronor each. A hundred and fifty. Carina insisted on two hundred, and after a brief period of negotiation the deal was done.
Carina and her father had got into serious financial difficulties after her mother’s death. Carina received only half of her student grant, and two hundred kronor was a lot of money to her—something the others didn’t know, of course. They came from well-off families, and assumed she was haggling just for fun.
Carina sashayed across the dance floor and stood in front of Stefan. ‘So,’ she said. ‘What you got?’
Stefan held out the can, and she took a swig. To her surprise there was a noticeable kick of rum. She handed the can back and asked: ‘Got anything neat?’ Stefan nodded. ‘Fancy sharing?’ Carina said. Stefan shrugged. This was going better than Carina had expected. As she followed Stefan off the dance floor, her friends made meaningful gestures, egging her on.
Stefan’s hiding place was an upturned rotting skiff that had been in the same spot for as long as Carina could remember. He pulled out a half-full bottle of Bacardi, and Carina whistled. ‘Wow. Were you going to drink it all yourself?’
‘No. I’ve had it for quite some time.’
Carina laughed. ‘Hang on, have I got this right? You’ve got a bottle of Bacardi, and you just…have a little drop now and again?’
‘On special occasions.’
‘That’s kind of crazy. I mean, that’s like what adults do!’
‘And?’
Stefan passed her the bottle, then reached under the boat for another can of Fanta. Carina took a swig of the neat rum. When Stefan straightened up, she took another swig before giving him back the bottle. She loved the burning sensation in her throat, and warm fumes filled her brain. Stefan waved the can: ‘Aren’t you going to…?’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’
Carina looked over at the dance floor where people were staggering around to ‘Moonlight Shadow’.
‘You dancing?’ Stefan asked, his eyes fixed on the ground.
‘What?’
‘You dancing?’
‘No, I’m just standing here.’
‘I mean…’
‘I know what you mean. Come here.’
She grabbed the front of Stefan’s shirt, pulled him close and fastened her lips on his. When she thrust her tongue into his mouth, it was a couple of seconds before he responded. She closed her eyes, and actually enjoyed the sensation for a moment. His lips were soft, his tongue warm as it whisked over hers. Then her nose bumped against his glasses. She pushed him away, said, ‘Okay. Thanks for the drink,’ then walked away.
She went the long way round, trying to avoid her friends, but they came rushing to meet her. When Kamilla with a K held up her hand for a high five, Carina felt a sudden urge to slap her face instead.
Stefan kept giving her long looks for the rest of the evening, but she ignored him. A couple of times she crept back to the skiff and helped herself to the Bacardi until the bottle was almost empty. She didn’t know if Stefan realised what she was doing, nor did she care.
At some point the dance ended without her even noticing. By that time she was sitting on a rock at the water’s edge with her head between her knees. The music had stopped and the lights had gone out; the moonlight over the sea was the only source of illumination as she got to her feet, fell over and sliced her elbow open on a sharp stone.
‘Fucking hell,’ she muttered, fumbling for something to get hold of. She found a hand.
‘Come on, let me help you.’ It was Stefan’s voice. He pulled her to her feet and looped her arm around his neck. She allowed herself to be led; they were going in the same direction after all. They had been walking in silence for a while and her head had cleared when Stefan suddenly said: ‘You shouldn’t drink so much.’
‘You shouldn’t wear such ugly glasses,’ she replied, and that was the end of that. They followed the dirt track leading to both their houses, and Carina saw that the kitchen light was on in the cottage; her father was still up. She stopped, and with her arm still around Stefan’s neck she asked: ‘Do you know how to fuck?’
His shoulders tensed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean do you know how to fuck? Have you done it before?’
‘I have.’
Carina let out a long, drunken sigh. ‘I can’t handle having to teach you, you know.’
‘No, I’ve done it before. Once.’
‘Okay. Shall we do it then?’
‘What, now?’
Carina withdrew her arm and rubbed both hands over her face.
‘No, let’s go back to yours. Not for coffee or anything, just to fuck. And I’ll stay over. Okay?’
Stefan had a small place of his own next to the main house. His walls were adorned with photos of birds, and a picture of some guy made of fruit. Carina wondered whether he had been lying when he said he’d fucked before.
Without further ado she stripped off and placed Stefan’s hand on her pussy. She squeezed his crotch and was relieved to find that he was both hard enough and big enough. She lay down on her back on his bed, spread her legs and said: ‘Come on then. I’m on the pill.’
It wasn’t good. It wasn’t even okay. Stefan was far too cautious. If he had at least made up for it with a thorough exploration of her body, it might have been all right, but he couldn’t even bring himself to do that. There was just a gentle thrusting which went on for a couple of minutes, during which time Carina lay and looked at the picture of the fruit man, wondering if it was a photograph or a painting. Then Stefan let out a whimper, and it was all over.
He curled up beside her, stroked her hair and said: ‘I lied. That was my first time.’
‘No shit, Sherlock.’
‘I wasn’t very good, was I?’
‘I’ve had better. But it’s okay.’
‘Do you want to smoke?’
For a moment Carina thought he meant did she want to smoke. That he had some gear. Then she understood; he was asking if she wanted to smoke one of her own ordinary cigarettes now they’d had sex. He’d probably seen it in some film. There wasn’t the faintest whiff of smoke in Stefan’s cottage, and she realised he was making a major concession. To make up for what had just happened.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Pass m
e my jeans, will you?’
She dug out a crumpled packet of Marlboro Light and her lighter as Stefan picked up an empty Fanta can from the floor. He was obviously a Fanta guy. While she smoked and dropped her ash into the can, Stefan caressed her breasts, her stomach. He shook his head.
‘You have no idea how long I’ve dreamt about this,’ he said. ‘Ever since I started having that kind of—’
‘I know,’ Carina interrupted him.
‘And then it turns out like this.’
He frowned and a shadow passed across his eyes. He was on the verge of tears. Carina patted his cheek. ‘Hey, it’s cool. It’s fine. Really.’ If he starts crying, I’m out of here.
Stefan pulled himself together and gently stroked her pubic hair. Carina felt a tingle, and pressed herself against his hand. He didn’t seem to notice. With his eyes fixed on a picture of eight birds that all looked exactly the same, he said: ‘I know this is a one-off. Is there anything I can do to change that?’
Carina looked at him. Now that he had taken off his glasses, he could have been any one of a thousand ordinary, boring guys. Even though the movement of his hand felt good, she felt no attraction whatsoever. She shook her head slowly.
He carried on stroking her. ‘In that case I just want you to know that…I think you’re the best girl in the world. Every summer I wait for you to arrive, just so that I can see you. And if there was anything I could do…’
Carina stubbed out her cigarette and put the can on the floor. She pressed herself harder against him. ‘You can carry on doing that. I’m not leaving just yet.’
A little while later they did it again; this time it was okay, and Carina looked at Stefan rather than the fruit man. Afterwards they lay there chatting for a while, and Stefan took a drag of Carina’s cigarette, which made him cough.
In the morning she left via the window and cut across the neighbour’s garden so that nobody would see her on the road as she walked home. The following week she and her father went home, and it would be eight years before she saw Stefan again.
She blew the two hundred kronor on cigarettes.
*
‘So why did you do it?’ Stefan asks. ‘The first time you kissed me—why did you do it?’
Carina doesn’t know if sluicing his back is having any effect at all; it looks like a pizza that has just started cooking. White strips of skin and dark red muscle tissue, and several blisters the size of a five-kronor piece. It’s difficult to grasp that human skin can look like this, that the person whose skin it is can speak rather than scream, and that the person in question is Stefan. Her Stefan. Her poor Stefan.
‘You were kind of cute,’ she says, pouring water over his neck and shoulders. ‘A bit lost, somehow.’
‘Is that true?’
Carina is glad Stefan can’t look her in the eye as she nods and says: ‘Absolutely.’
Stefan might well be right when he says it is dangerous if they don’t know each other in this place, but wherever they are it’s also dangerous to hurt each other, and Stefan has already been hurt enough. The exposed muscles have a life of their own, twitching like tiny fish when the water runs over them. However, Stefan refuses to give up.
‘I just think it’s so weird,’ he says. ‘I mean, I know what I looked like, what you looked like, who you were—’
‘Stefan,’ Carina breaks in as she empties the jug. For a moment she considers telling the truth, but reducing the amount of money. Twenty kronor. Telling him it wasn’t about the money. The truth is that back then she would have kissed the Salty Sailors’ bass player, and he looked like a pig that was tired of life.
But that lie would be worse, more elaborate, so when Stefan says, ‘Yes?’, she pushes up the sleeve of her T-shirt and points to the tattoo on her shoulder. ‘Do you know what this is?’
‘Two eternity symbols.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
Carina goes over to the sink and refills the jug. Anything but that kiss. Stefan asks more questions, but she doesn’t start talking until she is standing behind him once more. She tells him about the tattoo and how she got it. About the people she used to hang out with, about her life up to the point when, in a final attempt to save herself, she went out to Ålviken and knocked on Stefan’s door.
Her story takes twenty jugs of water. When she has finished, there is silence, and in that silence they hear a car start up. Carina doesn’t know if it is because she is afraid of how Stefan will react, but suddenly her whole body feels cold, as if someone has stabbed her in the heart with an icicle. She has been so taken up with her account that she has forgotten.
‘Emil,’ she says. ‘Where’s Emil?’
*
‘Come on.’
‘I’m not allowed to hang out with you.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know, but I’m not allowed.’
Emil clutches Sabre Cat to his stomach like a shield when Molly comes over. Her eyes are red, as if she has been crying, and there are pink lines on her face. Ever since Emil met her for the first time she has been kind of double in a way that he can’t understand. Just as Transformers can be two different things. She is a girl, and something that isn’t a girl.
Now, with puffy eyes and marks on her face, she is almost nothing more than a girl, particularly when she pouts as she looks at Sabre Cat and says: ‘Nice cat.’
‘It’s not a cat. It’s a lynx.’
‘What’s it called?’
Emil can’t remember where he got the name Sabre Cat from, and since he’s just said it’s a lynx, it seems like a silly name. He feels as if he’s letting Sabre Cat down, but because he’s just been thinking about Transformers, he says: ‘Megatron. It’s called Megatron.’
‘Like in Transformers?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Cool. I’ve got a lion called Simba.’
‘Like in The Lion King.’
‘Yes. He’s at home, though. I’ve got the DVD as well.’
‘Me too.’
Without thinking about it, Emil has tucked Sabre Cat under his arm and moved closer to Molly. ‘Do you know Star Wars?’ he asks, and Molly shrugs. ‘A bit.’
He really wants to show someone, and even if Molly might not understand how amazing it is, perhaps she might understand to some extent if she knows a bit about Star Wars. Emil takes the two Darth Maul figures out of his breast pocket, but leaves the lightsabers where they are so that he won’t lose them. ‘Check these out.’
‘Oh!’ Molly says. ‘Can I have a look?’
Emil hands over the figures and is pleased to see that Molly seems seriously impressed as she examines them. Although it is disappointing when she asks: ‘Who are they?’
‘You said you knew Star Wars.’
‘Only a bit. I’m guessing he’s evil?’
‘And then some! That’s Darth Maul.’
Emil tells her about Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon Jinn, and Molly listens, wide-eyed. In a way it’s better than if she had known everything already. When he has finished, Molly says: ‘We can play Star Wars!’
‘With Darth Maul?’
‘Yes! Come on!’
Emil has almost completely forgotten that he’s not allowed to hang out with Molly, and as he doesn’t know why, it doesn’t really matter, as Daddy would say. The image of his father’s back flickers across his mind as he and Molly walk towards her caravan, but it disappears when Molly says, ‘The emperor strikes again!’ and crawls underneath the caravan.
Emil sighs and says, ‘The empire strikes back,’ then he crawls in beside her and lies down on his tummy.
Molly places the two figures on the grass outside the caravan, making them say things that are nothing to do with Star Wars, so Emil has to take over. She laughs when he makes his voice as deep as possible and intones: ‘Fear is my ally.’
‘Hang on a minute, I’ll just go and get something,’ Molly says.
She wriggles out and runs off. Emil stays where he is; he rolls over on his back and looks up
at the sky while kicking at the underside of the caravan. He’s glad that Molly is being nice now; this place is boring and horrible at the same time, and it’s good to have someone to hang out with, even if it is a girl.
Emil picks up the two Darth Maul figures and makes them walk up the side of the caravan as he whispers: ‘Fear is my ally.’
Then he hears a car start up.
*
Molly knows what to do, she has seen Daddy do it loads of times. The key is on the passenger seat, and it’s the kind of key that doesn’t have to be inserted in a lock. You have to push down the brake pedal, though.
Molly stretches full length so that she can reach the pedal and press the start button at the same time. The engine roars into life. She takes her foot off the brake and slowly begins to accelerate.
*
Peter is dreaming of a football pitch as big as the whole world, an immense green surface with people moving around in regular patterns. There are no goals, there is no ball, no apparent purpose to the game. Is it even a game? The only thing to suggest that there is something to win or lose is the tense concentration on the people’s faces as they run, jog or amble across the pitch. As if it were a matter of life and death.
As is always the way with dreams, logic has no part to play, and Peter is watching the whole scene from high above, while at the same time he is down on the pitch. He knows that he must run and he knows why, but it is impossible to put it into words. When he tries, he finds himself enveloped in darkness that smells of shower gel and disinfectant.
Another body is there with him. This body is the goal and the ball and the point of the game, and yet curiously enough it is outside the pitch, even though the pitch encompasses the whole world. Peter holds out his arms in the darkness. Something bumps into him, and he opens his eyes.
The caravan jolts and Peter just has time to realise that it is moving, has time to think for a second that Donald is driving off with him and for an image of Goofy from the usual Christmas Eve TV show to flash through his mind
So who’s driving?
I Am Behind You Page 36
