by Håkan Nesser
‘We’ll meet again,’ says Mark. ‘I know we shall.’
‘You can read my mind, can you?’
‘There is no end of ways in which I know. If I haven’t heard from you in a week’s time, I shall come looking for you. But of course it’s best that you sort out what has to be done, and then come back here. Any questions?’
I laugh. ‘So this is plan A, is it?’
‘Exactly,’ says Mark. ‘And you’d rather not know about a plan B, I can assure you. I’m in love with you, have I said that before?’
I give him a big hug and say that I probably feel more or less the same. He doesn’t need to worry.
‘I’m not worrying,’ says Mark.
I shake Jeremy’s hand – he’s wearing a yellow Harlequins jersey today, with blue and red text – and then Castor and I leave Heathercombe Cottage. In the car on the way up towards Winsford Hill I start crying, and I let the tears flow freely until they dry up of their own accord.
Early in the morning of the twenty-ninth of January I close the gate of Darne Lodge. Drive down Halse Lane for the last time and park by the war memorial. It’s a foggy morning, grey and gloomy. I take Castor for a short walk up Ash Lane and knock on the door of Mr Tawking’s neighbour. It’s answered by the same nurse as last time: she tells me that old man Tawking is in hospital in Minehead, and probably doesn’t have much longer to live. I thank her and hand over the key.
‘So you’re leaving now, are you?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m leaving now.’
‘You should come back at another time of year,’ she says. ‘Winter is so damned awful.’
I nod and say that I shall certainly be coming back.
We walk past the computer centre but it’s so early in the morning that it isn’t open yet. I knock on Alfred Biggs’s door, but there is no answer. For once he’s not in – but then I’ve already said thank you and goodbye to both him and Margaret Allen.
And I intend to come back after all.
I do, don’t I?
Then we walk back to the car, and drive off.
The A396 via Wheddon Cross, the same road as we came on. We don’t go into The Rest and Be Thankful Inn for a glass of red wine. Besides, they’re not open.
FIVE
54
I’m sitting at a round table set for six people. The other places are empty and so is the whole dining room come to that. An elderly, bald waiter in a red jacket comes in with my main course: Wiener schnitzel with potato cake and mushroom sauce. He fills my red wine glass without even asking.
It’s nine o’clock in the evening. The hotel is called the Duisburger Hof, and the city is Duisburg. Castor is lying on the bed in our room upstairs, having a snooze – we have been for quite a long evening walk. It’s a big hotel and in a room adjacent to the dining room a Rotary club is having a meeting: I can occasionally hear laughter and shouting from in there, which underlines my loneliness in no uncertain way. I think the waiter has caught on to that fact as he keeps coming over to ask if everything is to my satisfaction. Every time I tell him it is. Jawohl, alles gut.
The journey has gone smoothly and according to plan so far, but everything has felt more strange the further away from Exmoor we have come. The further away from England. I had to show my passport before we drove onto the train taking us through the Channel Tunnel from Folkestone, but a half-asleep policeman merely glanced at it. I didn’t even have to hide Castor away – it’s when you’re travelling in the other direction that checks are thorough. When you are about to enter the United Kingdom.
And then we drove through France, Belgium and Holland before eventually ending up in Germany. Trouble in finding the ring road around Antwerp, trouble in getting coffee out of an automatic machine at a petrol station just outside Ghent, but apart from that, no problems.
Apart from a nagging conviction that everything was unreal, that I was out of touch with the surroundings.
And as a consequence, a feeling of frailty that I haven’t experienced since the first few days on the moor. But I tell myself it is a weakness that can be transformed into a strength, in view of the role I have to play in the days ahead. A nervous breakdown wouldn’t be a minus – on the contrary. All I need to do is to postpone it for a day: as long as I don’t allow it to affect me too soon, it wouldn’t be a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all.
After finally succeeding in extracting coffee from that automatic machine in Ghent, I devoted half an hour to finding somewhere to spend the night as there was a link to the internet at the petrol station, and I found this hotel. I rang them from the mobile I’d been given by Mark Britton and explained that I was travelling with a well-behaved dog, that my credit card had been stolen and that I would like to pay in cash. All that was accepted without question, and I am relieved to think that this is the last time I shall need to resort to that cheap trick. As soon as I land in Denmark I shall be able to resume my real identity and re-enter the real world, a fact that leaves me with mixed feelings. There is something attractive about the thought of booking incognito into a comfortable hotel, with or without a Rotary club party, with or without a Wiener schnitzel, but with red wine and a red-jacketed waiter, for the rest of my life.
I also realize, of course, that if anybody were to start checking up on all the details – our address in Morocco, the route we had travelled, our stops and overnight stays en route – then everything would collapse like a house of cards. But why would anyone want to start checking? Why?
This is in fact a stroke of genius in my plan: I can’t resist congratulating myself on it as I sit here in this secure German hotel dining room, chewing away at my well-earned schnitzel. All the focus will be on what has happened to Martin, nobody will question our stay in North Africa. It is too well documented in all the incoming and outgoing e-mails. All that is in store for me is sympathy and understanding, no impertinent questions. No checks.
I take a swig of wine. Think once again that I can allow myself a minor – or major – nervous breakdown: it would be regarded as perfectly natural.
Yes, very natural indeed in view of everything that has apparently happened. The poor thing, just imagine what she has had to put up with.
I smile, I can’t resist smiling in all my loneliness. All that remains is for tomorrow’s little bit of play-acting to be successfully concluded, and that isn’t going to be too difficult. I shall no doubt pull it off.
I drink the rest of my wine slowly, and since my waiter suggests that I might like a coffee and a cognac I drink that as well. I feel slightly drunk, and through the thin veil this creates in my mind I am able to observe everything from a convenient and comfortable distance. My life consists of so many different components: perhaps the whole of my stay on Exmoor is a closed chapter – and Mark Britton a short story, despite everything – and perhaps in the future I shall be able to look back on it in that way. In a year or so’s time these three months will be no more than an ingredient, a series of circumstances connected with Martin’s death . . . Perhaps also I might recall with regret how vital and significant that period seemed to be while it was actually happening, but also how quickly it faded away.
Or perhaps I might actually return there. I twirl my glass of cognac in my hand, and try to imagine such a development. Perhaps what I partially suggested to Mark might in fact happen, perhaps I really will sell the house in Nynäshamn and leave Sweden. Tell the few good friends I have that I have been thinking of going to live in England for a few years: I need a change of scene now that I have become a widow. What could be more natural than that? Who would suspect that there was something odd about such a thought? You can’t continue trundling along as before when one wheel is no longer turning. I smile once more, this time at the formulation of my thoughts. I wonder if I made it up, or if it’s something I’ve read. When one wheel is no longer turning.
For some unknown reason, while I’m still sitting here in my splendid isolation and still have a drop of cognac in my glass, I start thinking about all
the people I’ve met who are now dead. Wondering if they can actually see me and can follow my thoughts as I sit here in a slightly tipsy state in between two chapters. In between the fourth and the fifth act. Rolf. Gudrun Ewerts. My father and my mother. Gunsan of course, she was the first in line. Vivianne, the loony. Elizabeth Williford Barrett – I’ve never actually met her, naturally, but I have passed by her grave at least a hundred times during the last three months: what is she lying there and thinking about? And Martin. What is he mulling over, lying in his bunker? Or possibly in a Polish mortuary. Or is he sitting on a cushion of cloud, watching what I’m up to with a furrow in his brow, a deep and very familiar furrow?
At this point I feel a pang of discomfort and drink the rest of my cognac. I wave to my red-jacketed friend and explain that I’d like to pay. He asks if I want him to add it to my hotel bill, and I say that he might just as well. I leave him a ten-euro note on the table as a tip as I don’t have anything smaller, and take the lift up to my bedfellow.
Having come up to my room I make the mistake of switching on the telly. Apart from an occasional flickering image on a screen some distance away in various pubs, I haven’t watched any television for three months: and now when I see some sort of heavily made-up panel sitting bolt upright in front of an enthusiastic audience I feel an urge to throw up. A compère, who looks as if he’s combed his hair with a pitchfork and is wearing a glittering jacket, struts around in front of and behind the panel shouting out incomprehensible assertions that they have to respond to by pressing either red or green buttons. Then the one who pressed first comes out with something funny and the audience roars with laughter. Over and over again. I watch the appalling display for five minutes before switching off. And this is what I’ve devoted my life to, I think.
It is clear to me that whatever happens, this is not a path I shall continue to trundle along. Not this lonely path.
When I eventually collapse into bed I fall asleep more or less immediately and dream about a large number of people – living and dead – who simply won’t fit into set patterns: Mark Britton and Jeremy. Jane Barrett, Alfred Biggs and Margaret Allen. Tom Herold and Bessie Hyatt. Professor Soblewski. And the vicar in Selworthy, the one who painted his church white so that he would be able to find his way home no matter how drunk and disorderly he was. All of these characters wander into and out of my consciousness without ever stating why they are there or what they want; but they are insistent, as if they wanted to give me credit for something, and when I wake up in the morning it feels as if I haven’t slept a wink. Or a blink or a moment, or whatever it is one doesn’t sleep for.
But in many ways this is the last day, and it seems to me that as long as I don’t get involved in a crash on the autobahn, everything is going to turn out for the best. Thanks to patience and tact I have managed to negotiate every obstacle so far, and there’s no reason why I shouldn’t overcome the final little stumbling block as well. All I need to do is to make sure I drink enough coffee.
I have a shower and then take Castor for a walk round the block: it’s drizzling, and he does his business on the first stretch of grass we come to. He then has a bite to eat in our room while I go down and sit at the same table as last night for breakfast. The waiter is different though: thirty years younger, but he is wearing a red jacket as well.
We leave the Duisburger Hof at half past nine and continue our journey northwards.
55
I’m kept awake by coffee and the fear of getting involved in a crash. It’s a windy and rainy day, and the autobahn northwards through Germany – A2, then A43, then A1, via Münster, Osnabrück, Bremen and Hamburg – is jam-packed with heavy traffic. I don’t think I have ever driven so slowly and carefully in the whole of my life, but the thought of something nasty happening – something that could ruin everything within the space of just a few seconds – feels at times like a noose around my neck. After a few hours the rain develops into sleet, and there is even more need to proceed with caution.
By six o’clock, however, we have passed Hamburg and it has stopped raining. I think it would be as well not to arrive at the ferry terminal too early, and so we allow ourselves an hour-long stop at an Autohof. We go for a little walk, share a bratwurst in the car, and then missus has a coffee in the bar. After filling up with petrol we continue up towards Fehmarn and Puttgarden.
There are about fifty cars waiting at the dock, and it strikes me it’s good that there are so many people wanting to cross over into Denmark. Our ferry is due to depart at 21.00 – departures are a little less frequent as late in the day as this. We start boarding at about ten to. I end up at the very back of a long line of cars next to a wall: that couldn’t be better.
We make our way up to the commercial deck. There are a few restaurants and cafes, shops selling perfumes and spirits and cigarettes, and lots of people who seem to know exactly how they are going to spend the hour or so the crossing will take. Castor and I wander around aimlessly until we walk up a flight of stairs and sit down on a banana-shaped sofa in a sort of lounge. There are about twenty people ensconced in there, and several more coming and going all the time. I check my watch and see that we have been under way for twenty-five minutes.
And right now, I decide, at this very moment as we are sitting here in this most anonymous of places, me on the sofa and Castor on the floor, I shall re-assume my real identity. From now on everything is authentic. My heart starts pounding as I register this fact, but of course none of my fellow passengers notices anything unusual.
Shortly afterwards there is a loudspeaker announcement to the effect that car passengers should return to their vehicles but not start their engines until instructed to do so. I look around somewhat nervously and check my watch again. Then Castor and I make our way down the stairs, and pay a brief visit to one of the restaurants: I look inside and shake my head.
I look at my watch again. Shrug, and find the door leading down to the car deck.
I let Castor into the back seat but don’t yet sit down behind the wheel. A few minutes later the stern ports open and the cars start driving ashore. But not our queue as yet. I remain standing by the car, looking around ostentatiously. I keep checking my watch.
Then I sit down in the driver’s seat, but change my mind and get out again.
The vehicle in front of me, a large German-registered van, sets off. I remain where I am. The queue next to us starts moving. Before long I’m the only one left on the whole of the car deck. A member of the crew wearing an orange jacket comes up and asks if there is anything wrong. Won’t the car start?
I tell him that there’s nothing wrong with the car, but I’m waiting for my husband. I don’t know where he’s got to.
He looks a bit put out.
‘You were supposed to meet at the car, were you?’
He speaks very clear Danish.
‘Yes, I just don’t understand . . .’
There’s no fear in my voice yet. It’s too early for that. A trace of worry, perhaps, mixed with a dose of irritation.
‘Just a moment, I’ll fetch my boss.’
Half a minute later an elderly official appears. He has a reddish-brown moustache that looks as if it weighs half a kilo.
‘Your husband’s missing, is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he knows where the car is parked, does he?’
‘Yes . . . Yes, he does.’
‘Could he have gone ashore with the foot passengers that don’t have cars?’
His moustache bobs up and down. I say I don’t know.
‘You’d better drive off the ferry – I’ll come with you. Don’t worry, we’ll find him.’
He sits down in the passenger seat. I start the engine and we drive ashore. He points to a low building on the right.
‘Drive in there, and wait for a moment or two.’
He takes out his mobile and talks to a colleague. Then he instructs me to drive to a door where foot passengers are still leaving the ship a
nd taking their seats in a green bus waiting just outside. There are not all that many of them, I notice. Not more than half a bus-full. The driver is standing outside, smoking.
The moustache-man gets out of the car but tells me to stay inside.
‘Sit here and see if your husband comes out through that door. You could take a look into the bus if you like.’
He points, and I nod. I get out of the car and peer into the bus. No sign of Martin. I go back to the car and wait.
After about ten minutes the terminal is empty. No passengers, and the bus has left. The moustache-man comes back accompanied by a man in uniform – I assume it’s a police officer.
‘You haven’t seen him?’
‘No . . .’
My voice is barely audible. I’m really shaken now.
‘Come along with us, please, and we’ll look into the matter.’
It’s the police officer who says that. I notice that he is almost speaking Swedish.
‘Can I take my dog with me?’
He nods. ‘Of course.’
We sit in a small, brightly lit room in the terminal building. Me, Castor, the policeman who almost speaks Swedish and a young female police officer with a ponytail who looks so Danish that she would be a suitable model for a recruitment campaign. I am deeply shaken and hardly need to put on a show. I’m trembling so much that I have to lift my coffee mug with both hands.
‘Let us now take it calm,’ says the female police officer. ‘I am called Lene.’
She is also trying to speak some kind of Scandiwegian.
‘Knud,’ says her colleague. ‘If you are wondering why I almost speak Swedish, it’s because I worked in Gothenburg for ten years. Can you tell us what has happened?’
I take a few deep breaths and try to get a grip on myself. ‘My husband,’ I say. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to him.’
Knud nods. ‘What’s your names? Both yours and your husband’s? You’re on your way home to Sweden, I gather.’
