I Am Behind You (49 page)

Warm, cool, warm, boiling hot

and he works out that it is least painful, in fact it hardly hurts at all, when he is standing on the track. The track that cuts through the camp, and is intersected by another track by the barbecue. He stands still, and after a while the pain comes back. He moves forward a couple of steps, and it subsides.

He has to walk right through the barbecue area to avoid deviating, then he carries on along the narrow track that leads further into the camp. He has to put his feet one directly in front of the other, almost taking baby steps so that he stays within the boundaries, and it's like a game.

Walk the line.

Although he's not looking for birds this time, but something else. Something that the track is leading him to.

Walk the line
, he thinks again, the words of the song running through his head.

It might be fun if he weren't so terribly tired. It's as if he has a temperature, a really high temperature, and his legs feel like jelly. He can't go on. Where are Mummy and Daddy?

He can barely keep his eyes open as he looks around. He knows what's supposed to happen. If a child is poorly, grown-ups are supposed to come and help. He is a child, but all the grown-ups are looking in different directions. As if they don't want to see him.

In spite of the fact that the pain in his chest is getting worse, he has to stop and rest. He stops. Sits down. Lies down. Just for a minute. Then he'll carry on. He closes his eyes, fumbles around in the grass and finds his mother's hand.

*

Carina feels the pressure of Emil's hand in hers; she gasps and looks at his face. His eyes are screwed tight shut as he concentrates hard. As she gazes at him his expression softens, the muscles relax and he opens his eyes.

‘Emil?' Carina says, forcing back the tears. ‘How are you feeling, sweetheart?'

Emil says something she can't make out, and she leans closer. ‘What did you say, my darling boy, my precious…'

‘Walk the line,' Emil whispers. ‘I walk the line. Mummy…'

Stefan's hands are joined as if in prayer, and he presses them to his chest as he looks at Emil.

‘What is it, sweetheart?' Carina is so close now that her lips are touching Emil's cheek. ‘What do you want me to do?'

‘Mummy. Must go.'

Emil's eyes close, and Carina's tears run down his face as she kisses his cheeks, his forehead, and whispers: ‘No, no, no, no, you can't go, sweetheart, don't go.'

Emil's eyes remain closed, but the thing Carina fears most in all
the world does not happen. He carries on breathing, carries on living, even if he is inaccessible. Carina flops down onto the floor, stroking his hand.

‘What did he say?' Stefan asks; it is difficult to hear the words because he is now pressing his joined hands to his mouth.

‘Must go,' Carina replies. ‘Mummy. Must go.'

Carina's fingers stop moving.
Mummy. Must go. Mummy must go.
She hears a discreet cough behind her, then Lennart's voice.

‘Perhaps we should leave you in peace. But if there's anything we can do, anything at all—'

Carina interrupts him. ‘He wants me to go.'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘That's what he said.
Mummy. Must go
.'

Carina pulls herself to her feet and is already on her way to the door by the time Stefan says: ‘Hang on, where do you think you're going?'

‘I don't know, but that's what he said. That I must go. So I'm going.'

If there's one thing Carina thinks she has understood about this place, it's that they don't understand anything at all. They are like newborn babies thrown into an incomprehensible reality where everything is new. Chaotic. But just as a child, deep within its genetic makeup, has at its disposal a machine built to bring order out of chaos, little by little, Carina has gradually begun to discern patterns. As soon as she tries to make sense of them or to think rationally, they slip beyond her grasp, but they are there. The machine recognises them.

Why else would she have become so obsessed with the crosses on their caravans, and felt such dread when she discovered the crossroads? And now the mark over Emil's heart. It's all connected. She doesn't understand it, any more than a baby understands the link between the nipple and the warm, delicious taste in its mouth, but the connection is there, and all she can do is act on that basis. She is not going to die, Emil is not going to die. There are tracks. Mummy must go along one of these tracks. But which one?

In spite of the fear kicking deep inside her belly, she laughs out loud when she steps down from the caravan; it is the laugh that is forced out of someone riding the ghost train, when something scary but oh-so-obvious leaps out of the darkness.

Of course.

The tiger is waiting for her. It is lying next to the spot where Emil had his accident, its head resting on its front paws. When it sees her, it gets to its feet and yawns, exposing a row of sharp, white teeth. It is the beautiful tiger, the terrible tiger. The tiger from the Brunkeberg tunnel.

The tiger turns around, glances over its shoulder and begins to walk out into the field. Carina is about to follow when she feels a hand on her shoulder.

‘Carina,' Lennart says. ‘What are you doing?'

‘I don't know. But I have to go. Tell Stefan…' A series of alternatives that might make her conviction sound reasonable flash through her mind. None of them work, so she simply says: ‘Whatever you like.'

The tiger is now about twenty metres away, and it is following one of the tracks. Perhaps it is important to stay close to it, so she hurries along until she is five metres behind the swishing tail, then she slows down and continues at a steady pace.

For so many years she has felt this tiger creeping up behind her, following her every step, lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce. Perhaps she has misinterpreted the whole thing. Perhaps it was just waiting. Waiting for
her
to follow
it
.

*

Donald has parked a short distance from their caravan and got out of the car. When Majvor fails to follow suit, he walks around to her side, opens the door with a chivalrous flourish, and says: ‘Madame!'

Majvor doesn't know what Donald is planning, but she feels obliged to clamber out of the uncomfortable seat, using the doorframe for
support. She accompanies him on an inspection tour of the caravan: most of the contents appear to have fallen on the floor, and the remains of her unbaked cinnamon buns are smeared all over the parts of the sofa that haven't been eaten away.

‘Dear oh dear oh dear,' Donald says, wringing his hands. ‘Dear oh dear oh dear.'

He opens the cupboard under the sink and takes out a couple of plastic bags, which he fills with undamaged food. He fills a third bag with bottles of booze from the drinks cupboard. Majvor has found a corner of the sofa that is more or less intact and is not covered in sticky dough, and she sits down, folds her hands neatly on top of one another, and watches his activities.

‘Donald,' she says eventually, ‘what are you doing?'

‘What am I doing?'

‘Yes.'

Donald has reached the tool drawer, and he places the hammer, the small axe, the drill and several screwdrivers in a basket, then adds rags, rust remover and glue. He puts the basket on the draining board and sits down opposite Majvor.

‘Surely it's perfectly obvious,' he says. ‘I'm gathering up things that might come in useful.'

‘What then?'

‘Then I intend to get out of here.'

‘How?'

‘I'll drive until I get to the end. It must end somewhere.'

‘But don't you think we ought to…'

‘Mmm-mm.' Donald wags his index finger at Majvor. ‘Wrong. There's no
we
. You're staying here.'

Majvor looks around the devastated and now plundered caravan. ‘Here?'

Donald leans closer and lowers his voice, as if he is about to share a confidence with her. ‘Majvor, would you say you've been loyal to me?' Majvor is about to protest, but Donald silences her with a gesture. ‘I'm talking now. You can't gag me this time, you know.'

Donald summarises everything that has gone on during the course of the day, and from his point of view Majvor really does come across as the most perfidious of wives. Donald does not, however, include details of his own ridiculous behaviour. This is hardly the time to correct him, because he is gradually working himself up into another frenzy of rage. He snorts and shakes his head as if he cannot believe the words coming out of his mouth as he concludes: ‘…then you taped me up like some fucking parcel.'

There is a brief pause in the onslaught, and Majvor dares to speak: ‘You're wrong, Donald.'

Donald nods thoughtfully. ‘That's possible, Majvor. That is possible. But it really doesn't matter. Do you know why?'

Majvor doesn't really want to hear what is coming next, but nor does she know how to avoid it, so she says nothing.

‘Because, Majvor, I am sick to death of you anyway. I am tired of your saggy body and I am tired of your stupid face. I am tired of your cinnamon buns and the food you cook, and I am tired of bloody Jesus. Everything you say makes me tired, and everything I am not allowed to do makes me tired. I have been trying to work out how I can get rid of you so that I can spend a few years without you dragging me down with your rolls of fat and your pathetic personality. And now the chance has come, and I intend to take it.'

A hard lump has formed in Majvor's throat during Donald's monologue. Their life together over the past few years hasn't exactly been hearts and flowers, but she thought they had a mutual understanding, an acknowledgement that they would stick together and make the best of it. The revulsion in Donald's voice suggests that she was completely wrong.

The way he is looking at her, like a disgusting insect he has just squashed and can't wait to wipe off his fingers, means that she can't help letting out a sob as she gets up from the sofa. Donald gets up too, ignoring her as he goes over to the bedroom area and starts rummaging around for his reading glasses.

Tears blur Majvor's vision as she walks towards the door, then
stops and looks back at Donald who is now kneeling on the bed with his back to her. To think that she once wrapped her arms around that back, digging in her nails in a moment of pleasure.

She pulls herself together and opens a cupboard, takes out the spare car keys. Then she steps outside; behind her Donald is still muttering because he can't find what he's looking for.

Halfway to the car, she stops. Will Lockhart is leaning on the boot to stop himself from falling over. The cowboy shirt and jacket hang loose on his sloping shoulders, the gun belt is dragging him down, and his body seems ready to give up as he breathes heavily, his hands fumbling at the metal. The eyes that gaze into Majvor's do not belong to the Man from Laramie, just a very old James Stewart.

Jimmy. Oh, Jimmy.

Because not even the wretched state he is in can extinguish the openness, the kindness deep down inside. Her Jimmy. She moves a little closer, and he holds out his hand.

‘Majvor,' he whispers. ‘Help me.'

She takes his hand, brings it to her lips and kisses the wrinkled skin, marked with liver spots.

‘Of course, Jimmy,' she says. ‘Whatever it takes.'

Majvor is not a good driver; she has been told this over and over again. She got her licence when she was thirty, mainly so that she could drive the children around, and she had to take her test five times before the examiner reluctantly signed her off. She hadn't actually done anything
wrong
, but…she just wasn't a very good driver.

Since the children have grown up Majvor has had no need to drive, and since the incident with the carport four years ago, which resulted in twenty thousand kronor's worth of damage to the bodywork, she has put her licence on the shelf, quite literally. The shelf above the extractor fan in the kitchen.

As she settles down behind the wheel, she realises that she has never driven this car. She doesn't know where the ignition is, and when she eventually finds it she fumbles with the key for some time before managing to insert it. She isn't sure what to do, because she
doesn't really know where she's up to. Everything Donald said, the way he looked at her, has changed the world, made it messy and confusing.

She starts the engine and studies the gearstick, trying to understand how it works. First, second, reverse.

A kindly word at the right time helps the world go round.

Whatever happened to that wall hanging? It could be anywhere. Many self-evident truths have been lost in this place. She will just have to find new ones.

Donald must have heard the sound of the engine; he emerges from the caravan with a plastic bag in each hand. It seems his intention was to transfer anything of value to the car, then leave Majvor here. That's not very kind, is it?

A kindly word…

Majvor glances in the rear-view mirror. Jimmy Stewart is standing behind the car, staring at the horizon with eyes that have grown cloudy with age and weariness. What is more real: what we dream of, or what is right there before us?

First or reverse?

A kindly word
…She will let kindness decide. Donald is standing in front of the car, looking straight at her. She smiles at him to give him a push in the right direction, but perhaps he interprets her smile as scornful, or else he just doesn't care what she does, because he yells: ‘Get out of the car, you miserable fucking—'

That's it. Not a hint of kindness. Majvor puts the car in first gear and accelerates. The wheels skid on the grass before they find their grip and hurl nine hundred kilos of metal straight at Donald, who only has time to drop the bags before the grille hits him in the stomach. He is pushed backwards three metres with his upper body draped over the bonnet, then the whole thing crashes into the caravan. Majvor is thrown forward, the world explodes in a burst of white, and she loses consciousness for a few seconds.