‘For fuck’s sake, Majvor,’ he says, pushing her away. She stands in front of him, blocking his way. When he takes a step to the side, she does the same. Eventually he stops and stares at her. She tries to smile.
‘Majvor,’ he says, his hand moving towards his hip. For a second she has the foolish idea that he is going to produce a wedding ring and go down on one knee. Then she sees the revolver in his hand, the barrel pointing at her belly. ‘I’m going to count to three. One…’
What happens if I die? Can I die here?
She stares at the piece of metal in Jimmy Stewart’s hand. Is it real? Can it shoot? If it can shoot then surely it must contain dummy bullets, they wouldn’t give an actor real ammunition…
They? Who are they?
‘Two.’
She daren’t risk finding out, she doesn’t want to risk a red-hot bullet drilling into her belly. Before Jimmy reaches ‘Three’, she holds up her hands and backs away from him, then turns around. The darkness is only a few steps away from her now. She takes those steps.
*
Blood. Blood soon. Soon it will start to bleed.
The thing that used to be Molly is sitting motionless, contemplating the thing that is still Carina. The name Carina no longer has any meaning. The thing kneeling in front of Molly is merely a container filled with blood. Soon that blood will come out.
The thing that used to be Molly has always existed. It has been waiting. In mountains or in seas. Sometimes it has entered into a human being. Waited for the blood to come so that it can live again. ‘Live’ is an unknown concept. Continue to walk. Continue the movement.
There are many of them. If one ceases to exist, the darkness creates another so that the movement can continue. ‘Blood’ is an unknown concept. Blood is life. And life is the movement.
When the thing that used to be Molly looks at Carina, it sees the opportunity for continued movement. Its task is to demonstrate. So that the blood can come. Soon it will come. First the liquid from the eyes, the scream from the mouth. Then the blood. Now. Carina is using her teeth. Biting her arms.
Then there is an interruption. Noise and movement. The movement becomes a car and out of the car steps a person. The person takes Carina before the blood has had time to come. They drive off.
The thing that used to be Molly gets up and continues to walk, continues the movement. There will be others. There are always others.
*
Majvor is so unhappy and disappointed that it is a relief to enter into the darkness. It enfolds her like the embrace she has longed for.
Out of the darkness we call unto you.
Majvor tips back her head, but there is nothing but darkness. She wouldn’t call out or pray even if she thought there was someone who could hear her. It is too late.
What do you want, Majvor? What do you want from the darkness?
Buried deep within her there is a burning point, a feeling. When she glimpses just such a point in the darkness, she walks towards it. The glow fades, moves, grows brighter, then fades once more.
The third time the glow burns brighter she thinks it is illuminating a face; she can see the contours of a face shimmering, fiery red. Then it vanishes as the glow fades yet again, moving to the side. Majvor edges forward as the glow intensifies, moves higher; the face reappears. Suddenly she realises what she is looking at. A cigarette. Someone is sitting here smoking a cigarette. With each drag the glow lights up an emaciated face. Majvor stops a metre away as the face is once again plunged into darkness.
‘Hello?’ she says, as if she were talking to someone far away.
The voice that responds is hoarse and croaky; she thinks she recognises it as it says: ‘Hi there.’
The cigarette flares again, revealing sunken cheeks in a long, narrow face, grey hair in a pudding bowl cut. It is the unflattering hairstyle that gives it away.
‘Peter Himmelstrand,’ she says. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’
‘Too right,’ he says after a brief coughing fit. ‘And who are you?’
‘My name is Majvor. Majvor Gustafsson.’
‘Majvor, Majvor…no, I’ve never written a song with a Majvor in it. But it’s never too late.’ Peter Himmelstrand laughs, and the laughter turns into another bout of coughing before he adds: ‘Not here, anyway.’
The cigarette is down to the filter and Peter Himmelstrand uses it to light another, takes a deep drag. Majvor’s expectations of what she might find in the darkness were unclear, but one thing she does know: she wasn’t expecting Peter Himmelstrand.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asks.
‘I’m responsible for the songs. That’s kind of my thing.’
‘But how did you get here?’
‘Fuck knows. I was offered the gig and the alternative was crap, so I went for it. What about you?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes—what are you doing here?’
If only she knew. There are so many questions Majvor would like to ask Peter Himmelstrand, mostly to do with the nature of this place, but there is plenty she would like to know about Peter himself. As a dedicated listener to the Swedish pop charts, Majvor knows lots of his songs by heart, and she thought it was really sad when she heard that smoking had killed him back in 1999. But here he is, puffing away as if nothing has happened.
What really went on between him and Mona Wessman? How much of that song about the priest is taken from their life together? How do you come up with a lyric like hambostinta i kort-kort? And her favourite, the one that Björn and Agnetha from Abba sang, what was that called again?
But that’s not the question right now. The question is what she is doing here, and What do you want, Majvor?
‘I don’t know,’ she replies. ‘I have no idea. I thought…’
‘Yes?’ There is a hint of impatience in Peter Himmelstrand’s voice. ‘What did you think? Let’s hear it. I’m pretty busy here, you know.’
Majvor doesn’t understand how sitting in the dark smoking constitutes being pretty busy, but he is the first celebrity she has ever met, and it is not her place to doubt him. Besides, she has a feeling that this is real, in a different way from James Stewart.
‘I thought there would be something here. Something for me, something that…I don’t know, and please don’t take this the wrong way, but surely it can’t be you?’
‘Nope,’ Peter Himmelstrand says, taking an even deeper drag that highlights the crater-like shadows on his cheeks. ‘Seems unlikely. But hang on a minute, if you just chill, then…’
In the faint glow Majvor can see him fumbling around on the ground, until his fingers find what he is searching for. He picks it up and holds it out to Majvor. ‘Could it be this? Is this your thing?’
The object that is placed in Majvor’s hands is a revolver, and as her fingers close around the grooved butt, she knows he is right. This is why she came here. This is what she was supposed to find. She spins the cylinder around and hears a series of clicks.
Peter Himmelstrand is in the middle of another coughing fit; he points at the revolver. When he has recovered, he says: ‘Two shots have been fired, so there are only four bullets left. Make sure…well, you know.’
‘No,’ Majvor says. ‘What?’
Peter Himmelstrand sighs. ‘Well, I’m no expert, but if you’re thinking of using it, make sure there isn’t an empty chamber in front of the hammer. Got it?’
Yes, Majvor has got it. The gun is heavy, and in spite of the fact that she has never fired a pistol or a revolver, it feels completely natural. You could say it fits her like a glove, as if it has been waiting for her fingers and hers alone.
‘Where has it come from?’ she asks.
‘Haven’t a clue. It was here when I arrived.’
Majvor raises the revolver, aims it into the darkness.
Two shots have been fired.
As Peter Himmelstrand sucks on his cigarette once more, Majvor takes the opportunity to read the inscription on the barrel. Smith & Wesson .357 Mag
num.
Just as few Americans can hear the date 9/11 without thinking about the Twin Towers, so there are few Swedes who can hear .357 Magnum without seeing the image of Hans Holmér, chief of the Swedish National Security Service, with two revolvers dangling from his forefingers. Not the actual gun, but the type of gun that killed Olof Palme. The actual gun has never been found.
A shudder runs down Majvor’s spine, and as if he can read her mind—perhaps he can read her mind—Peter Himmelstrand says: ‘No idea. Maybe, maybe not. But it’s yours now. Do you know what you want?’
The words stick in Majvor’s throat, so she merely nods.
‘Excellent. Off you go, then. Life is short.’
He starts to laugh, and once again the laughter turns into a bout of coughing, much worse this time. Majvor turns and walks away. When the coughing subsides, she stops and says: ‘By the way, I love “This Is How Love Begins” by Björn and Agnetha. Fantastic song. Thank you.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Peter Himmelstrand’s voice says from the darkness. ‘Didn’t help much, did it? Good luck.’
Majvor takes a few steps and finds herself back in the light. She clicks open the cylinder, ejects the two spent cartridges and puts them in her pocket, flicks the cylinder shut and spins it so that there is a bullet in front of the hammer. It is as if she has never done anything else.
*
Carina is slumped in the passenger seat, her hands resting limply in her lap. When Stefan strokes her head, she doesn’t react. He glances at her left wrist, which is covered in angry red bite marks, and asks: ‘What were you thinking?’
There is no response, and Stefan looks towards the horizon, where a dark cloud is growing bigger and bigger, as if a gigantic black disc is being inexorably pushed up out of the green grass.
Hurry.
He doesn’t know if he is doing the right thing, if this was what Emil meant, but he can see no alternative. He turns to the back seat, where Emil is lying quietly, surrounded by his cuddly toys. His ribcage is moving and his feet are twitching.
‘Get rid of me,’ Carina says. ‘Get rid of me and everything will be fine.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Carina’s voice is a monotone as she goes on: ‘It’s what I’ve been thinking. All day. That I have to go. All the bad stuff I’ve done. I’m the one who’s marked us. I’m the one who has to pay.’
‘Carina, we don’t know that.’
‘It was a bet.’
‘What was?’
‘When I kissed you. My friends scraped together two hundred kronor. Which I would get if I kissed you.’
The darkness is growing fast, and already covers such a large part of the sky that the light inside the car is beginning to fail. Stefan thinks back to that evening by the jetty. How it began, how it ended. He clears his throat and says: ‘In that case I’d better write and say thank you.’
‘Who to?’
‘Your stuck-up friends. Who would have thought something good would come from them? I’ll send them a postcard.’
‘But Stefan, you don’t understand…’
‘I understand perfectly. I also understand that if they hadn’t scraped together that money, I would never have stood on the stairs watching you and Emil in the kitchen.’
‘What? When?’
It is like dusk now, and Stefan can see that the darkness has a clearly defined edge approximately twenty metres in front of the car. He pulls up, turns to Carina, takes her head between his hands and says: ‘God did make the little green apples. We’re sticking to that, okay? I love you.’
Together they lift Emil out of the car, still lying on the sofa cushion, and carry him towards the darkness.
‘Stefan,’ Carina says. ‘Why are we doing this?’
Stefan really wishes he had a good answer. Something else about little green apples, about faith, hope, love, or the road we have to travel. But when he looks down at his son’s broken, struggling body, there are no such answers. They must go into the darkness because they are already in darkness. Because there is nothing else left.
*
Jimmy Stewart is standing on the field with his chin raised as if he is checking out the lie of the land. Or sniffing the air. As Majvor walks towards him he turns and sets off in the same direction from which they came.
‘Hey you!’ Majvor shouts. ‘Stop right there!’
She has a real weakness for cowboy films. She has seen all of Jimmy’s, of course, but also everything featuring John Wayne and Clint Eastwood. She knows this scene.
The two men meeting in the middle of nowhere. Eyes locked, getting the measure of one another. Who will draw first? Majvor daren’t risk that kind of confrontation. For a start she doesn’t have a holster, and even if the figure in front of her isn’t Will Lockhart, she knows that Jimmy Stewart was also a competent marksman in real life.
In real life?
Honestly, a person could die laughing. Majvor doesn’t even wait for Jimmy to turn around; she simply raises the revolver, pulls back the hammer, aims at his back and fires.
BANG!
She was expecting the recoil, and made sure she was holding the gun firmly. It was nowhere near enough. The impact that travels from her wrist and all the way up her arm makes the barrel jerk upwards. It feels as if someone has punched her hard, and she staggers.
Her ears are buzzing as she straightens up and rubs her shoulder. Jimmy is facing her now, taking his time as he draws his gun and aims at Majvor, his arm outstretched. This is no duel. It is more like an execution.
Fate gives her one last chance as she throws herself to the ground a fraction of a second before the gun goes off.
If she had thought that none of this was real and therefore she couldn’t be shot here, that idea is swept away by the sound of the bullet whining past just above her ear. The next one will find its mark, and as Majvor lands painfully on her belly, she knows that essentially she is already dead. Shot by Jimmy Stewart.
However, she is determined to play this lethal game to its conclusion. She grips the revolver with two hands, supporting herself on her elbows, and aims at Jimmy, who is slowly lowering the barrel of his gun in her direction. A smile plays across his lips as he pulls back the hammer.
Majvor doesn’t have time for such niceties; she simply pulls the trigger as hard as she can. The hammer is pushed backwards and slams down on the bullet.
BANG!
As soon as she fires, she knows that her aim is true. Jimmy Stewart’s eyes widen and he clutches his chest.
She doesn’t know what she was expecting. Did she think he would drop to his knees, fall backwards, whisper a few last words? That’s not what happens. Jimmy’s face begins to dissolve. His clothes become as transparent as gossamer, and the revolver which was so lethal just seconds ago fuses with his hand and disintegrates.
In no time the Man from Laramie has disappeared, and in his place a smooth, white, only vaguely humanoid creature is standing looking at her. It is still wearing a hat, which means the hat must be similar to the gun in Majvor’s hand. Something that actually exists.
As Majvor gets to her feet and walks towards the white creature, revolver at the ready, the last vestiges of shape and colour disappear, and there is nothing left of Jimmy Stewart.
‘The hat,’ she says, pointing the gun at the creature’s head. This time she allows herself time to pull back the hammer. ‘The hat, if you don’t mind.’
If her bullet really did penetrate the heart, there is no longer any sign of a wound. The skin is just as white and smooth as over the rest of the body. Presumably the white creature cannot be killed, but perhaps it still has the capacity to feel pain, because it grabs the hat by the brim and throws it on the ground in front of Majvor.
They look one another in the eye, whereupon the creature turns and sets off along its eternal track. Majvor bends down and picks up the hat.
What do you want, Majvor?
The feeling she had turns to certainty as she puts on
the hat, and finds that it fits perfectly. It’s just a shame the gun belt disappeared like that. It would have felt good, buckling it around her hips.
How stupid. How wrong can you be.
For more than half her life, Majvor has sighed over James Stewart, indulged herself in half-baked fantasies about what it would be like to be with him, just once.
Typical woman, she thinks.
Because her longing wasn’t actually about being with James Stewart, it was about being James Stewart.
Now she has won that right. Won it fair and square, with the smell of gunpowder and her skill with a gun. Majvor tips back her hat and allows the hand holding the revolver to dangle by her side as she heads out into the wilderness.
*
Emil doesn’t know how long he has been walking when the darkness thickens and begins to solidify. It is becoming harder to breathe. When Emil waves his arms he can feel the darkness touching his hands, like millions of tiny strands of gossamer or candy floss, getting more and more dense. He is gasping for air and he can feel something being pressed down, just like in Star Wars when they are in the trash compactor and the walls are closing in so that they will all be crushed to death.
The darkness is tightening around him, and an image comes into his mind. He gets the idea that he is about to be squeezed out. That there is another Emil in here, and there isn’t room for both of them. One of them will have to be squeezed out.
Emil doesn’t want to be squeezed out, it’s bound to hurt, just like being run over by a caravan. He remembers now. Molly, Darth Maul, his shirt getting trapped, the wheel rolling over his chest.
The pressure is coming from all directions. Emil can’t even get enough air to scream. He falls to the ground and wraps his arms around his body as the vice tightens still further. He can’t hear a thing, and he rocks back and forth, until suddenly he is not hugging himself, but his cuddly toys. He is no longer rocking himself, he is being rocked. Back and forth. Whatever he is lying on is rocking. A cushion.
‘Mummy?’ he says. ‘Daddy?’
At long last they are with him in the darkness, patting him, stroking him, kissing him. He can’t see them, but he can hear their voices; he recognises their hands and their smell. Dark soon. Emil gets up from the cushion and says: ‘We have to go. Before it gets dark.’
I Am Behind You Page 41
