I Am Behind You (3 page)

*

The sun.

Stefan is standing outside his caravan, his arms hanging by his sides, his mouth wide open. He stares up at the sky once more, as if he had made a mistake the first time. Missed the thing that was right in front of his eyes. But there really is no sun, just the dazzling blue sky that seems to be illuminated by some internal light.

He takes a few steps in different directions to check the fragments of the horizon hidden by caravans and cars. No sun. He looks up again. The entire cupola of the heavens is equally bright, and exactly the same shade of blue everywhere. It doesn't even look like sky; it is more like something that has been put there to
resemble
sky. The absence of shifting nuances or clouds makes it impossible to decide whether it is ten or ten thousand metres above him.

He searches around on the ground and finds one of Emil's little toy cars; he picks it up and throws it in the air, as high as he can. It goes up perhaps twenty metres, then falls back down and lands on the grass, without having encountered any kind of obstacle on the way.

For as long as Stefan can remember he has lived with a feeling of fear in his chest. Sometimes it is stronger, sometimes weaker, but it is always there. If this fear had a voice, it would constantly repeat the same phrase:
Everything will be taken away from you.

If the sun can disappear, then anything can disappear. Stefan's chest is aching, as if something is tugging at it from the inside. He looks over at the door of the caravan. As long as Carina and Emil exist, almost anything is bearable.

And what if they're not there? What if they've disappeared too?

Suddenly he cannot breathe. He takes a step towards the door, stops. He is seized by an insane urge to put his hands over his ears and simply run, run.

He makes a huge effort and takes a couple of deep breaths. The panic subsides, only to be replaced by a new torment. He doesn't want to wake Carina to this world, doesn't want to introduce Emil to a sky with no sun.

Stefan closes his eyes. Screws them shut as tightly as he can. He conjures up a sun in the sky, brings back the mini-golf course, the kiosk and the trampoline. He creates sounds: the morning breeze whispering through the trees, the shouts of children who have just woken up playing by the water's edge. Everything that is supposed to be there.

When he opens his eyes, it has all gone. He has no world to offer his family, and he cannot create one. He glances towards the door, and the fear returns. Is he looking at an empty caravan?

He can't stand it any longer. He dashes forward and yanks the door open, steps inside and stands there with his heart pounding, gazing at his sleeping wife and listening to his son's voice. As long as he stays there, not moving or speaking, it's as if nothing has happened. It's just an ordinary morning on their caravan holiday. In a little while they will have breakfast. Emil will come up with a tricky question about the world around him…

World? What world?

Stefan pulls himself together and climbs onto the bed so that he is lying face to face with Carina. He strokes her cheek and whispers: ‘Darling?'

Carina blinks, then opens her eyes and says, ‘Ooh.' She often does this when she wakes up, as if she is surprised that she has been asleep. ‘Ooh. Morning. What time is it?'

Stefan glances at the alarm clock; it is ten to seven. Does that mean anything any more? He brushes a strand of hair from Carina's sweaty forehead and says: ‘Listen. Something's happened.'

*

As there is no phone signal and no internet connection, Isabelle decides to look through her portfolio instead.

Synsam, 2002.
A close-up that brings out her blue-green eyes in contrast to the black-rimmed glasses she is wearing. Her lips pout as if she is sucking on an olive.

Guldfynd, 2002.
A luxurious full-length shot with chromatic lighting, a backless evening gown. A hunk in a dinner suit is approaching cautiously, as if he is unsure about speaking to such a beauty. Micro-spots glinting on a bracelet, a ring. The lighting alone took four hours.

Lindvalls kaffe, 2003.
Her perfectly shaped nails around the bone-white coffee cup (false nails—she has always had a tendency to bite her own), the light that seems to come from the dark liquid creating shadows that emphasise her cheekbones.

Gaultier, 2003.
The top of the tree in terms of professional credibility, but this was a men's fragrance campaign, so Isabelle is slightly out of focus behind the dark-haired man, his features as sharply delineated as if he were a cartoon character. Greek. The handsomest man she has ever worked with. Gay, unfortunately.

H&M, 2004.
The most professional sessions ever. The summer campaign should have been her big break. At the last minute they decided to go down the ethnic route instead. Africans, Asians and an Eskimo. For the summer campaign. It was during this period that Isabelle started using Xanor.

Ellos, 2005.
The only reason she has kept these pictures in her portfolio is because they show off her body to its best advantage. Swimwear and lingerie, fortunately. No frumpy blouses.

PerfectPartner, 2009.
No one could fail to believe that she is madly in love with the man whose cheek she is caressing; her eyes say it all. Peter wasn't happy when the ad popped up as a banner on his email.

Gudrun Sjödén, 2011.
When you're thirty you have to swallow your pride. But it was a pretty cool shoot in Morocco. Earthy colours, flowing fabrics, the afternoon light in the desert. Her eyes sparkling, hungry, as if she has just arrived in an oasis. As if she
is
the oasis.

Molly curls up beside her on the bed, moves her hand through the air in front of the screen.

‘You're so pretty, Mummy!'

*

Benny has ventured as far as the opening of the awning. What he sees confirms what his nose and ears have already told him. There has been no transportation, but he is in a different place.

He sits down and scratches his ear with his hind leg, then tentatively pokes his nose through the opening. Certain scents are still there. The caravan that smells of Cow and contains Cat. Perfume.

He gazes out into the emptiness, blinks in the light. It is not at all like yesterday, and there are hardly any smells. Benny yawns, has a good shake. He turns around, then sits down again, peeps out and looks in the other direction this time.

Cat is lying in the window of the caravan that smells of Cow. Benny stretches and forgets his fear. He will give Cat a good telling off.

He has just stepped off the wooden floor of the awning and placed his front paws on the grass when he sees someone coming towards him. A big He. Benny stiffens, irresolute for a second. Then he withdraws, turns around and scuttles back to his basket.

*

For Peter, this holiday was a last attempt to save his marriage, a final shock with the defibrillator before declaring the patient dead.

They usually went to a five-star hotel in some exotic location, where Isabelle could indulge in a series of spa treatments while Molly was looked after in the children's club and Peter read crime novels by the pool. A luxury break made Isabelle more amenable, and they drifted along in a limbo that made them feel neither better nor worse. When they got home it was usually a few days before the quarrelling started again.

Needless to say, Isabelle had been less than enthusiastic about the idea of hiring a caravan, but Peter had insisted, on the grounds that he wanted to relive memories of childhood holidays with his mother. There was a certain amount of truth in that, but above all he wanted to give Isabelle one last chance. She hadn't taken it, and to be honest
he had always known that was going to happen. He'd just wanted to be able to look back at this week and think:
That was when I'd had enough. That was when it all got too much.

He has had enough, and it is all too much. He has to get away from here. Soon.

He walks over to Donald's caravan. A little beagle turns and scampers back into the awning as Peter stops and looks around.

The caravan is a Kabe Royal Hacienda, ten metres long and hooked up to a Cherokee SUV. Plus an awning at least twenty metres square. Teak furniture and a smallish garden made up of pots. On the supporting poles there are photographs of Elvis Presley, plus a couple of airbrushed pictures of wolves and native Americans. In the middle of the garden table there is a small flagpole flying the American flag. Half-hidden behind the beautiful plants is a gold brocade wall hanging: ‘A kindly word at the right time helps the world go round.'

The beagle's basket is next to the door of the caravan, and the dog whimpers as Peter moves closer; its entire body is saying:
I know you're going to hit me, but please don't.

The fear of a beating is provocative; one is tempted to become what one is presumed to be, and Peter has a sudden urge to give the dog a good kick in the head to make sure it keeps quiet. Instead he crouches down, holds out his hand and says: ‘I won't hurt you.'

The dog's eyes dart from side to side, and it presses its chin against the bottom of the basket.
If we run out of food we can eat the dog.
Peter shakes his head and straightens up. He is not in his right mind. He has to get out of here. Soon.

He knocks on the door. After a few seconds the caravan rocks and he hears the sound of heavy footsteps. Peter thrusts his hands into his trouser pockets, screws up the sweet wrapper and clears his throat. The door is flung open.

The man standing there is in his seventies. He is completely bald, although his chest is covered in white curly hair. An impressive tanned belly conceals the upper half of a pair of red and white striped boxers. The slightly bulbous eyes give a kind of hunted intensity, as if he is
both prey and predator at the same time. His face lights up when he sees Peter.

‘Wow! A visit from sporting royalty at this early hour!'

‘Morning,' Peter says, lowering his eyes.

The previous evening Donald had come over uninvited and sat down to discuss the penalty against Bulgaria in 2005. In his opinion, Peter's career in the national team had been much too short, and he proceeded to go through a number of reasons for this, incidents that Peter himself had long forgotten.

Peter had supplied him with several drinks to keep him talking, in spite of meaningful sighs from Isabelle. He had served up a few anecdotes from his time in the Italian league, and Donald had taken it all in with admiring comments. Peter had basked in the glow of his fame, simultaneously ashamed of himself while revelling in the attention.

Donald had eventually weaved his way home, with an ‘arrivederci, maestro' flung over his shoulder, and Isabelle had called Peter the most pathetic human being she had ever met. She had then proceeded to remind him that he had wasted the majority of his Italian millions on a failed restaurant project. And so on, and so on. A perfectly normal evening.

‘What can I do for you?'

Donald steps down from the caravan, using the doorpost for support. Peter takes a step backwards to make room for the belly, and says: ‘Something's happened. It's hard to explain, it's best if you take a look for yourself…' Peter follows the American custom and adds: ‘…Donald.'

Donald looks around. ‘What do you mean, Peter? What's happened?'

Peter backs out of the awning and makes a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘You need to see for yourself. Otherwise you won't believe me.'

As Peter heads for the last caravan where the occupants are still sleeping, he hears Donald gasp and mutter something that sounds like: ‘Holy shit.'

*

Emil has come down from his alcove and is kneeling between Stefan and Carina on the double bed, looking out of the window. He points at the horizon and turns to Stefan.

‘How far is that?'

‘The horizon, you mean?'

‘Yes.'

‘About five kilometres—that's what they say, anyway.'

Emil nods as if this is what he suspected all along, then says: ‘Maybe there's nothing after that.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, you can't see anything else.'

Stefan glances at Carina, who has hardly said a word since she first looked out of the window, then went outside for a minute before going back to bed. Her gaze is lost in the distance, and Stefan cups her shoulder with his hand. ‘Are you okay, sweetheart?' he asks.

‘This…' she says, waving her hand at the window. ‘This is crazy. Have you tried the phone?'

‘Yes. No reception.'

Carina's eyes flicker back and forth across the field, but find nothing on which they can settle. She hides her face in her hands.

‘Don't be sad, Mummy,' Emil says, patting her back. ‘Everything will work out. Won't it, Daddy?'

Stefan nods. The promise does not involve any kind of commitment; things always work out. Sometimes for the best, sometimes for the worst. But they will work out, one way or another.

Emil picks up a Donald Duck comic from the shelf above the bed and lies down on his stomach. He looks at the pictures, his lips moving as he spells out the words. He is old enough to realise that what has happened to them is very strange, incomprehensible in fact, but then a lot of things are like that in his world. Thunderstorms, elks, electricity and why eggs go hard when you boil them, while potatoes go soft. This is just something else to add to the list. He
has an enormous amount of trust. Mummy and Daddy will fix this, somehow.

Carina takes her hands away from her face, chewing on her lower lip as she asks: ‘Is this for real?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I mean…this just can't be happening. Is it for real?'

Stefan understands roughly what she means, but the thought hadn't occurred to him. Could this just be in their heads, like a hallucination or a mass psychosis?

‘I think so,' he says. ‘We're here now. Somehow.'