I Am Behind You (27 page)

The car is pulling slightly to one side, but the four-wheel drive keeps it moving steadily away from Donald. The next crack is much more distant, but Donald must be a good shot, because judging from the sound he has managed to shatter one of the rear lights.

When Peter looks in the mirror again, the caravan is over a hundred metres behind him, and he should be out of range. He keeps on driving.

The relief at having escaped from mortal danger and achieved his objective lasts for about thirty seconds. Then Peter realises that he is driving out of the frying pan into the fire, so to speak.

During the manoeuvres with the caravan he has lost all sense of direction. The GPS has been destroyed, and there are no markings to show him the way. The field stretches out in front of him, vast and unchanging, and he has no idea whether he is heading towards home or away from home or somewhere in between.

He is driving. That's all.

*

It's time for revenge, and it's not going to be pretty…

Carina sets aside
Martyrs
, the DVD she has found, and carries on rooting through the Toyota's glove compartment, her hands shaking. Make-up bag, instruction manual, advertising leaflets. Right at the back she finds a duster; that will have to do.

Isabelle, who is still sitting on the ground, pulls a face as Carina holds out the dirty rag, but she scrunches it up and pushes it into her mouth to stem the flow of blood from her tongue. Carina looks over towards the field where the tiger is no longer visible, then she tugs at Isabelle's arm.

‘It's on its way to the camp. We have to go.'

Isabelle offers no resistance as Carina pulls her to her feet, but Carina stops in mid-movement. There is something strange about the expression on Isabelle's face. Carina is still frightened following her encounter with the tiger, but Isabelle's eyes are saying something completely different. Carina lets her fall back down.

‘You saw it too, didn't you?'

Isabelle nods and makes a noise that could mean absolutely anything as the corners of her mouth turn up. A thought strikes Carina, and she crouches down in front of Isabelle, who is still gazing out at the field. Eventually she catches her eye and asks: ‘
What
did you see?'

In spite of her battered body Isabelle manages an elegant gesture which cannot possibly relate to the terrifying figure that Carina saw. Isabelle tries to remove the duster from her mouth, but winces and decides to leave it where it is.

‘I'm sorry about that,' Carina says. ‘It was…it became…'

She doesn't know how to explain the madness that came over her, but nor does she need to, because Isabelle gives her the finger, thus erasing Carina's desire to apologise. Isabelle is now staring at the ground next to Carina, her eyes flicking from side to side.

‘Yes, I noticed it too,' Carina says. ‘The blood has gone. It's taken it.'

Isabelle closely examines the grass. She nods to herself, then looks
up at Carina, stares at her for a long time. Carina gets the impression that she is being
assessed
, like some antique objet d'art. Or a piece of meat. It is not a pleasant feeling.

Isabelle drags herself to her feet and walks over to the car. Carina follows her. She gets behind the wheel and reaches for the start button with a sense of dread. Part of her just wants to turn the car around and drive in the opposite direction, away from the tiger.

But not Isabelle. As soon as she is settled in her seat she waves towards the horizon in front of them. Eagerly. Longing to get there.

*

Majvor sits in Stefan and Carina's caravan and watches Peter drive off with Donald. She stretches her neck so that she can follow them for another thirty metres before they are out of sight, and the only thought in her head is:
My cinnamon buns
.

Given the current situation, what are the chances of Donald putting the buns in the oven before they are over-proved? About the same as the chances of her winning the Olympic long jump. Today has been one miscalculation after another.

However, she does realise that it was necessary to remove Donald. He is much too volatile; he can blow up over nothing, and this time he really did go too far. Firing the shotgun at her! She could have had a heart attack. On these occasions there is only one thing that helps: time. When Donald gets worked up there is no point in arguing with him, no point in doing anything except staying out of his way and letting him cool down.

Majvor hopes that a few hours' calm and contemplation will have the desired effect on her husband, and might even bring him to his senses with regard to this insane idea that she and the others are a figment of his imagination.

Where does all this come from?

Like the time he decided they should start selling soft-whipped ice cream at the yard. The customers could buy a cone while they
were waiting to be served. There would be three sorts of sprinkles. Nobody thought it was a good idea, but it was only Majvor who dared to speak up.

Not that it helped. Donald was adamant, and installed the most expensive machine on the market. It was meant to be a gimmick, he explained. Something that would make his yard stand out. And indeed it was a gimmick. The customers laughed and wondered what the hell that monstrosity was doing there, but hardly anyone wanted sticky ice-cream fingers when they were about to handle their goods. Donald was the one who made the most use of the machine, and by the following summer it had been consigned to the loft insulation store room. He refused to sell it, because that would have meant admitting that he had made a mistake, so he insisted that it had just been put away temporarily ‘until the time was right'.

Majvor continues to run through the catalogue of stubborn decisions and ridiculous ideas that Donald has come up with over the years, until she is interrupted by a child's voice.

‘Hello?'

A little boy is looking down at her from the sleeping alcove above her head.

‘Hello yourself,' Majvor says.

‘What are you doing here?'

She smiles at the directness of the question, and responds in the same way: ‘My caravan has gone, so I'm sitting here for a little while. Is that okay?'

‘Of course. Why has your caravan gone?'

‘It needed…a little outing.'

The boy frowns, but seems to decide that her answer is acceptable. He clambers down and stands beside Majvor. He looks her up and down, then asks: ‘Have you got children?'

‘I have. Four of them. All boys.'

‘They must be really old.'

‘They're quite old, yes. And some of them have children of their own.'

The boy nods, pleased that he has drawn the right conclusion. He sits down opposite Majvor, lowers his voice and asks: ‘When your children were little…did you ever lie to them?'

‘I might have done, now and again. Why do you ask? Has someone lied to you?'

‘Mmm. Grown-ups shouldn't tell lies.'

‘No. You're right, of course, but sometimes….was it about something important?'

‘Quite important.'

‘Would you like to tell me?'

The boy straightens up and looks out of the window, chewing his lower lip. The muscles around his eyes are twitching in the way they do when we dream; he is probably studying some internal image. Majvor places her hands on top of one another on the table and waits. She enjoys the company of children; she always has done. Their needs and wishes are not so tangled up in dark urges and unhealed traumas as is often the case with adults.

On the table next to Majvor is a Lego construction that looks like the beginning of a chimney, with four high walls. When she leans forward, she can see three figures down at the bottom.

‘Did you build this?' she asks.

‘Mmm. Me and Mummy.' Still staring out at the field, the boy says: ‘What are we doing here? Why are we here?'

‘Goodness, that's not an easy question!'

‘Do you know the answer?'

‘No, but I can tell you what I
think
.'

‘Okay.'

‘I think…' Majvor's gaze rests on the Lego as she remembers how she felt when she first saw the crosses on the caravans. ‘I think everything has a purpose. That there's a reason why we're here. And that it will all become clear.'

The boy looks disappointed. ‘Is that all?'

No, that's not all, but Majvor doesn't know how to explain the rest, so instead she asks: ‘Do you believe in God?'

The boy shrugs. ‘I suppose so.'

‘Would you like to say a prayer with me?'

Once again the boy frowns as if he is concentrating hard, weighing up the pros and cons of her suggestion. After a moment he says: ‘Okay. If you promise to play with me afterwards.'

Majvor holds out her hand to seal the deal. The boy looks a little lost, then does the same. As Majvor's fingers close around his fragile little hand, for the first time today she feels a real
confidence
. A conviction that everything will sort itself out, one way or another.

Then she lets go and interlaces her fingers in prayer. The boy copies her, a determined look on his face. Majvor begins to recite the Lord's Prayer, and the boy repeats it after her, one phrase at a time. When she reaches ‘For ever and ever', she adds: ‘Show us the way we should go and lead us back home. Amen.'

‘Amen,' the boy says. They sit for a few seconds looking into each other's eyes, struck by the seriousness of the moment. Then the boy asks: ‘Do you know Star Wars?'

‘The film?'

‘
Films
. Yes.'

‘Not very well.'

‘Do you know Chewbacca?'

Majvor and Donald's son Henrik had the first three Star Wars films on video, and Majvor watched the first one. She can't remember anyone called Chewbacca, but she thinks they might have made more films later on.

‘No. Who's he? Is he the one in the black mask?'

Her comment provokes an unexpected reaction. The boy throws himself backwards on the sofa and bursts out laughing. Majvor picks at the Lego building. It can't have been
that
funny, but the boy is laughing so hard that he is clutching his stomach, legs waving in the air.

‘Darth Vader,' he shouts. ‘That's Darth Vader!'

‘I see,' Majvor says, and in spite of the fact that there is no reason to do so, she feels herself blushing slightly. ‘So who's Chewbacca?'

The boy's face is flushed as he sits up, gasping for breath. ‘He's… Han Solo's co-pilot. He's all furry and…he talks like this…' The boy makes a noise that could be a cross between a tiger and a goat, and something stirs in the back of Majvor's mind.

‘The one who looks like an ape?'

She is afraid that this might cause another fit of hysteria, but the boy nods thoughtfully. ‘Yes. I suppose he does look a bit like an ape.'

‘So what about him?' Majvor says.

‘You can be him.'

‘Do I have to sound like you just did?'

‘Of course. See if you can do it.'

Majvor tries to imitate the sound the boy made, and he laughs again, but appreciatively this time. Then he explains the game. They are going to blow up something called the Death Star, there will be lots of enemy spaceships, and Chewbacca must be ready to man the guns. Majvor makes the noise to show that she has understood, and they're off.

Majvor used to play games with her boys when they were little, and it's amazing how quickly it all comes back to her. After a few minutes Majvor steps back and watches herself. She is sitting there grunting and waving her paws and pretending to fire laser guns, while at the same time her mind feels clearer than it has done for a long time. She doesn't give a thought to Donald or her cinnamon buns, or anything else outside the situation.

Since the children moved out she often feels incapable of grasping what it's all
about
, what is important, what she should be doing with her life. That kind of egotistical brooding doesn't exist right now. She knows what she should be doing, and she knows what is important. She must defeat Darth Vader!

*

Stefan has never had unrealistic expectations of himself or his life. When he left school with acceptable grades, he immediately started
working full-time in his father's grocery store. His little cabin in the grounds was extended, and he lived there until he was twenty-three, when he was able to buy a house of his own just three hundred metres away, with a loan secured by his parents.

For two years he lived with Jenny, a girl he had met at school. Then Carina came back to Ålviken, and a few difficult months followed before everything settled down. They married when they were twenty-eight, and two years later Stefan took over the store.

It was a couple of years before they decided to try for a baby, and another three before they succeeded. By the time Emil was born in 2006, the store was flourishing as well as a store in a small community could be expected to flourish, and they had renovated the house from top to bottom.

Stefan remembers that moment a year or so later very well indeed. It was a Sunday morning at the beginning of June. He was looking forward to opening up the store; this was the best time of the year. Enough customers to make him feel secure, but the frantic rush of high summer was still to come.

He was humming ‘Hey Hey Monica' as he walked downstairs and stopped three steps from the bottom. Carina had got up with Emil an hour ago and the two of them were in the kitchen; Stefan had a perfect view from where he was standing.

The morning sun was shining in through the window, casting its soft light over the oiled wooden floor and rag rugs. The aroma of coffee and freshly baked bread filled the air. Carina was moving around the floor with Emil's feet balanced on her own as she held his hands. Emil was laughing, his downy blond hair almost transparent as Carina kissed the top of his head and nuzzled him with her nose.