I Am Behind You (24 page)

When it was all over and the audience had gone, Isabelle stood in front of the screen for a long time, but she saw nothing but the green
meadow. Then the projector was switched off and the screen rolled up. The silver-coloured caravan had already been removed. She had missed her chance.

That was how she thought of what had happened during the days and weeks that followed. Something had been offered to her, something

Come. This is where you belong

that was fundamentally
different
from the life she was living, the life of an object. When she found out that they had gone for an ethnic look complete with Eskimos, it was merely confirmation that she had done the wrong thing when she ignored the call. Fear and anxiety sank their claws into her, and she was prescribed Xanor. After a while she called Peter and offered to come down to Italy.

Yes, she is ready now. For ten years she has waited to see the figure again, to be given another chance. During those years she has tried the conventional methods available to create meaning in her life. She got married, had a child. It didn't really help at all.

So now Isabelle is sitting next to Carina, her gaze sweeping across the field.

This is where you belong.

Whatever is demanded of her, she will do it. Anything at all to be freed from life, but to go on living.

*

Lennart and Olof's neighbour, Holger Backlund, once went mad. He picked up both of his hunting rifles, went to Olof's cow pasture and started methodically shooting dead every single animal within range. He had managed to kill five excellent dairy cows before Lennart and Olof put a stop to the massacre by reasoning with Holger, gently and calmly, until he put down the gun.

This means they have experience, so Lennart and Olof approach Donald's caravan slowly, looking relaxed, as if they are just paying him an ordinary social call and are not in any particular hurry. In
some ways it is similar to the occasion when they talked Holger down; in other ways it is very different.

One similarity is that as on so many other occasions they would really like to hold hands to find strength in each other, but who knows what reaction this would provoke in someone like Donald? Therefore they approach the awning as two separate and, to tell the truth, pretty scared individuals.

When they are five metres away, they can see that one of the caravan's side windows is open, and that Donald is sitting inside watching them.

‘Hello, Donald,' Lennart says, pointing to the small fridge outside. ‘We were just wondering if you had any of that beer left.'

‘We haven't really had a proper chat,' Olof adds.

They stop outside the entrance to the awning. Lennart pushes his hands into his back pockets and manages to sound completely relaxed: ‘How about it? Shall we sit down and have a drink together?'

Olof admires Lennart's courage; he doesn't move a muscle when Donald sticks the barrel of the shotgun out of the window, while Olof himself can't help pointlessly stooping over slightly to reduce the target area.

‘You're having none of my fucking beer!' Donald bellows. ‘And you're not touching my fucking floor! You can both fuck off!'

Lennart only has time to say, ‘But…' before a shot is fired. A tuft of grass just centimetres away from Lennart's foot flies up in the air and crumbles, scattering soil all over his legs. Lennart pulls Olof to the right so that they are hidden by the awning as they back away from the caravan.

‘Stay away!' Donald roars, and they hear a series of clicks. ‘Fuck off! All of you, fuck off!'

Lennart and Olof turn and run back to their own caravan, where Peter and Stefan are waiting. Majvor has gone over to Stefan's caravan to recover. The four men sit down at the kitchen table, slightly hunched because one of the windows faces Donald. Lennart is out of breath, and speaks in short bursts.

‘So. That didn't. Go too. Well.'

‘We'd better leave him alone,' Stefan says. ‘If we leave him in peace, maybe he'll…'

‘Daddy?' Molly's voice comes from the open door. ‘Daddy, I'm frightened.'

Peter leaps to his feet, rushes over and picks her up. Just as he takes her in his arms, they hear another shot. Fragments of plexiglas fly everywhere as the window shatters, and there is a dull thud as the bullet penetrates the fridge.

Everyone crouches down even further, and Peter sinks to the floor with Molly in his arms, with a kitchen cupboard behind him for protection. They wait for ten seconds, thirty seconds, a minute without any further shooting. Molly extricates herself from Peter's grasp and crawls under the table, where she attempts to tie Lennart and Olof's shoelaces together.

‘There's only one thing to do,' Peter says. ‘We can't have someone sitting there shooting at us. He has to go.'

*

To Carina's relief, Isabelle hasn't said much since they left the camp. She has spent most of the time sitting in silence, staring out at the expanse of green. The emptiness around them is counterintuitive and ought to be frightening, but Carina doesn't feel that way.

For the first kilometre she sat up straight, looking out for signs of people or habitation. From time to time she checked the GPS to make sure that they were following a route that could be retraced, in spite of the fact that the roads shown on the GPS didn't exist in the world they could see.

Then something happened. She stopped searching, and was perfectly happy to gaze out at the field before her. By now her brain is completely empty, and it would be extremely difficult to recall what was so important about finding buildings or people. Moving through the emptiness is all she requires.

When she happens to glance at the GPS screen, it seems perfectly logical that it has now turned blue, and is no longer showing a map.
Blue, blue, my love is blue
, she thinks listlessly, staring out through the windscreen once more. She feels so contented that the hairs on her arms stand on end. She is
resting
in the empty space, resting in a way that she so rarely does. Suddenly she hears Isabelle's voice: ‘Heil Hitler.'

It's like having a bucket of cold water poured over her head. Carina gives a start and looks at Isabelle, who is staring at Carina's shoulder.

‘Are you crazy? What did you say?'

Isabelle nods at Carina's tattoos. ‘Heil Hitler.'

‘Those are two eternity symb—'

‘Like hell they are. They're two figure eights. H H. Heil Hitler.' Isabelle's eyes widen as a thought occurs to her, and she laughs out loud. ‘Does
your husband
think they're eternity symbols? Perhaps I ought to put him straight.'

Carina rests her hands on the wheel and stares at the horizon. Isabelle is right. They are two eights, and they represent the eighth letter of the alphabet. H H. Heil Hitler. She has kept the tattoos as a reminder of a life she never wants to go back to. She lets go of the wheel and opens the door, gets out of the car and begins to walk away.

Behind her she hears frantic movement as Isabelle shifts across to the driving seat. Apparently she can drive when things get tricky. Carina hears her push the ignition button, then swear. The key is in Carina's pocket, and the sensor can't pick it up. She hears fabric sliding over leather, footsteps on the grass, then a hand touches her shoulder.

‘Carina,' Isabelle says. ‘Give me the…'

Oddly enough, what happens next is probably a consequence of the peaceful place in which Carina finds herself, on one level. An emotional MRI scan of her brain would show various levels lying parallel to one another, linked together but without any direct internal relationship. On one level peace, on another rage, on another fear. But they are
clear
. Everything is so clear.

With this same clarity she spins around, feeling her right hand clench into a fist. Defined muscle groups radiate strength as she swings her hand upwards from the hip so that it meets Isabelle's chin with a dry crack.

Isabelle staggers backwards until she bumps into the car door; she slumps to the ground, mouth gaping, eyes wide open. Her long blond hair swirls around her face as she shakes her head as if to clear it. Or as if she can't believe what's happened.

Carina walks up to her and grabs the neck of Isabelle's T-shirt with her left hand as if to drag her to her feet and punch her again. She's done it before, although it was a long time ago. The key thing is not to hesitate, not to stop until the job is done and the victory beyond doubt.

There is a tearing sound as the seams of the T-shirt rip, and Isabelle sinks back down before Carina has time to let her have it. Isabelle's right foot shoots out and kicks Carina on the shin. She screams and instinctively bends forward, which exposes her cheek to a kick from Isabelle's left foot. Carina goes down and lands on her side.

‘You fat cow!' Isabelle screams, hurling herself at her opponent. ‘What the fuck do you think you're doing, you stupid bitch!'

Isabelle sits on Carina's stomach and smashes her fist into Carina's left cheek, which makes a lump of bloodstained phlegm fly out of her mouth. A red curtain descends over Carina's eyes. She braces the muscles of her back against the ground and smacks her fist straight up into Isabelle's chin. There is no cracking sound this time, just a muted, fleshy crump, suggesting that Isabelle's tongue was between her teeth at the moment of impact.

Spot on. Isabelle falls sideways, blood pouring from her mouth. Carina stands up and looks down at Isabelle, who is now on all fours, blood still dripping onto the grass. Perhaps she has actually bitten right through her tongue? That would be good. Carina takes a step forward and kicks Isabelle in the stomach so that she rolls right over, away from the car. When Isabelle makes an attempt to get up, Carina kicks her again.

Isabelle has an amazing body. Those slim legs, those rounded hips, that peachy bum. And that beautiful long hair. The adrenaline courses through Carina's veins and she smiles. She knows what she is going to do. She is going to smash that pretty little face until it is no longer recognisable, then Isabelle can walk around in her pants wiggling her backside as much as she likes.

She just needs to get on with it. Carina walks over to Isabelle and uses one foot to push her over onto her back. Her chin and throat are covered in blood, which is still trickling from one corner of her mouth.

There is something familiar about this scene, something buzzing away in the back of Carina's mind, trying to get her attention, something that is making her flesh creep

It's here

but she shuts it out, pushes it away as she sits down on top of Isabelle, locking the other woman's arms with her knees. With an expert eye she assesses Isabelle's jawline—still visible in spite of the blood—and her straight nose. Right. Shatter the jawbone and smash the nose, but in which order? Best to go for the nose first, because tackling the jaw could damage the hand that Carina is now raising

It's here

as Isabelle whispers in a voice thick with blood: ‘Stop. Please. Stop.'

So she hasn't bitten through her tongue after all. Oh well, you can't have everything. Carina is about to bring her fist down on Isabelle's nose when she sees something out of the corner of her eye, something that is between her and the car. Carina's hand hovers in the air as she looks up.

A black tiger is lying on the grass, staring at her. It is not a beautiful tiger. Its body is emaciated, its coat matted. One side of its mouth is drooping, exposing yellowish-brown, decayed teeth. The tiger blinks; it has lumps of dried pus in the corners of its eyes. Those bloodshot eyes continue to stare at Carina, and the expression in those elliptical pupils is ancient, a gateway to eternity. It is
that
tiger.

Carina's arms drop and she begins to scream.

*

‘Stop. Please. Stop.'

The words are repeated mechanically by Isabelle's swollen tongue, because that is what she ought to say. A plea for the violence to stop. At the same time, there is something deep inside Isabelle that doesn't want it to stop at all. Something that just wants it to go on and on.

As far as she knows, she has never had any masochistic tendencies; she has never been attracted to men who would mistreat her, as some others within the modelling industry have done. Quite the reverse: weaklings who were easily kept under the thumb have been her choice.

But now…Carina's first, totally unexpected blow had sent Isabelle into a fury, and as long as the fight was evenly balanced, she wanted nothing more than to kick the shit out of Carina. But with the blow to her chin, when she bit her tongue and blood started pouring out of her mouth, something changed.

Any desire to beat Carina poured out of Isabelle's body along with the blood. When the first kick in the belly took her breath away, she experienced a moment of clarity, a eureka-moment more powerful than the kick when cocaine grabs hold of the synapses. Isabelle saw herself in the world, she saw her path and her end in a way that couldn't be put into words.

The sensation was beginning to fade when the next kick came, and it burst into life once more. Isabelle was
present
, she was
participating
, and when Carina sat on her and locked her arms by her sides, there was a part of Isabelle that was looking forward to what was to come with a certain level of excitement, while at the same time another, instinctive part of her made her swollen tongue shape the words: ‘Stop. Please. Stop.'

Through half-closed eyelids Isabelle sees Carina raise her fist, and an involuntary sigh escapes her. But the blow does not come. Instead Carina freezes, then lets out a piercing shriek. She shuffles backwards,
holding her hands up in front of her.

Isabelle's chest aches as she pulls herself up into a sitting position. Carina's eyes are fixed on something behind Isabelle, who slowly turns around and

oh there you are