I Am Behind You (36 page)

He said something to his neighbour. Anette said something to hers. They looked at one another. Peter's expression was completely open, searching, a question mark based on the electricity that she too must be feeling. In Anette's eyes, however, there was a tinge of sorrow as she looked down at her arm, then back at Peter.

It would be a few years before Peter understood that sorrow. Understood that it was about age, about the fact that things can happen at the wrong time, when it's already too late, but that you still have to pretend that it's not too late. They looked at one another and a decision was made, even though they had no idea how to carry it through.

The group started to break up, and Peter got to his feet, his mouth
dry. Some people were going into town, but not for long; they had training in the morning. Others were going to play cards or watch TV. Peter turned down a couple of invitations, said he was going to do a few laps of the pitch, which of course led to comments such as ‘Looks as if Hammerhead can't get enough', ‘Going back for a rematch with the post?' and so on.

However, when he got out onto the pitch, faintly illuminated by the odd floodlight, it felt right. Because he had just eaten he could only jog, but it was nice to exercise in the semi-darkness, concentrating only on the movement of his body. Round and round, the fabric of his tracksuit bottoms flapping against his legs.

He was halfway through the fifth circuit when he noticed Anette, leaning against the wall by the players' entrance. A tingle ran up through his belly from his crotch, then dissolved in his chest. He cut across the pitch and jogged up to her.

Her hair was wet; presumably she had just showered. A few damp patches were visible on her tracksuit, which was identical to his, as if she had got dressed in a hurry without drying herself properly. Peter took all this in, interpreting the signs as the tingle started up again and grew.

He was starting to get a hard-on, and pushed his hands deep in his pockets. Under cover of darkness he grabbed hold of his cock with one hand and held it against his body so that the situation wouldn't get any more embarrassing than it already was.

‘Hi,' he said.

‘Hi. How's it going?'

‘Good. It's a bit chilly, but…' He couldn't think of anything else to say.

‘Yes, it does get quite cool in the evenings.' Anette's voice sounded strained, as if her throat had closed up. She blinked and shook her head. When she spoke again, she sounded regretful. ‘Peter, I…'

Perhaps it was the fact that she used his name, confirming that this was really happening to him; it gave him the courage to act. He moved forward, took his hands out of his pockets and kissed her.

For one terrible moment he thought he had got it wrong; her lips were tense and didn't respond to him. He was standing here trying to force himself on the assistant coach with his erection poking her in the stomach, and apart from the fact that it was so embarrassing that he wanted to die, it would mean that his career in the national team was over before it had even started.

A second later, everything changed. He had kissed a few girls, those half-hearted snogs at parties. But this was something different. When Anette relaxed, softened and kissed him back, she did so with her whole body, and all the warmth that was within her came pouring out through her lips.

‘Come with me,' she said.

They walked along the corridor to the changing rooms, side by side and so close that the fabric of their tracksuits rustled as they touched. Everything was in darkness as they moved away from the faint light on the pitch. When they were halfway along the corridor they could see nothing but the gleam of each other's eyes, the faint shimmer of the reflective band on their clothing. And yet it wasn't enough. Anette opened the door of one of the changing rooms and they went inside. When she locked it behind them, they were in pitch darkness.

The room was warm, and the moisture from the showers hovered in the air. The lack of light intensified the sensory impressions, and Peter was aware of the strong scent of shower gel, which he thought was Axe, plus the smell of disinfectant from the toilets. A tap was dripping, he and Anette were breathing, and he knew that
now, now
, but he didn't know how. He groped for Anette and found her hip, squeezed it, but she moved away and said: ‘No. Get undressed.'

As he took off his tracksuit he could hear her doing the same. There was a faint crackle as she pulled her top over her head and the polyester reacted with her hair, sending a shower of tiny sparks into the darkness. The smell of Axe mingled with her shower gel, a girl's gel, a
woman's
gel that he couldn't identify.

He heard her voice: ‘Lie down.'

This wasn't how he had pictured his first time, this wasn't how he had pictured
any
time, but when Peter lay down on the damp floor in the total darkness it felt better than he could ever have imagined, it felt
right
.

His penis was throbbing and burning so much that he thought he ought to be able to see it, that it ought to be glowing, but when he looked down there was only blackness, and he felt a breath of Anette's scent as she straddled him, guided him inside her and began to rock.

It was so glorious that he stopped breathing. The concrete floor beneath him disappeared, the walls of the room dissolved, and it was only when flashes of yellow began to dance before his eyes that he realised he was feeling dizzy due to lack of oxygen. He gasped and thrust into her as deeply as he could; it was as if he was screwing the darkness itself. The warm, engulfing, all-forgiving darkness. His hands fluttered over her far from perfect body, with flabby skin here and there, but to him it was the perfect body, the body of the darkness.

He didn't even bother trying to perform or to hold out. He had no idea how much time had elapsed when everything that he was flowed inwards from his limbs, from the very tips of his fingers, was concentrated in his crotch and then exploded into the darkness. His arms fell away from his body, his head went back, his eyes flew open, and as if his pleasure really had created
light
, he found himself staring at an upside-down sign that said, ‘Will the last person to leave please turn out the lights!' before he floated away on a cloud of sweat and shower gel and became one with the darkness and the moisture.

Twenty-two years ago. Twenty-two years and ten months. They had got dressed in the darkness, parted in the darkness, and the following day they had barely looked at one another. It was a few years and quite a few girls before Peter realised that the first time had been the best, and would always be the best.

On the Sunday he had gone back to the changing room to check. On the wall by the door, just above the light switch, was a handwritten sign: ‘Will the last person to leave please turn out the lights!'
He had torn it down and taken it, but at some point during all the subsequent moves it had disappeared.

Sitting in Donald's car right now, his fingers clutching the wheel, his feet braced against the floor, he can smell spilt whisky mingled with shower gel, disinfectant, and the thick odour of aroused bodies. Out there in the darkness is what he wants. The place where he wants to be.

He nods to himself and starts the engine. As he is about to put the car in gear, something changes. The light dims, and he hears a noise. When he leans forward and looks up at the sky, he sees that the top of the wall of darkness is shifting. Thick black plumes rise up, as if the darkness has turned into clouds, hiding the light of the sky. The clouds grow and come away from the wall, turning into heavy rain showers, moving towards him as the noise gets louder, and he realises that it is the sound of screaming. Screams of pain, many voices.

‘What the fuck….?'

Just as the darkness in the sky has metamorphosed into clouds, it has also taken on a physical form on the ground. A hundred metres or so ahead he can see a number of distorted figures running towards him. They are moving rapidly but jerkily, as if they are suffering from painful cramps, and the agonised screams now make sense, because the flesh has been virtually burnt away from their bones, with only scraps of blackish-brown leathery skin remaining to shield their skeletal bodies. They are screaming with pain and running towards the car.

*

When Stefan, Carina and Emil return from their tour around the camp, the others have gathered outside Isabelle's caravan. They have laid Isabelle on her bed, after establishing that her condition does not seem to have deteriorated.

‘Mind you, it would be good if Peter came back before too long,' Lennart says. ‘That would help…'

What he would really like to say is that he's not very keen on the
idea of leaving Isabelle alone with Molly. Since the four figures got up, she has finally taken an interest in her mother, announcing that she wants to sit beside her and hold her hand. Of course it is impossible to say no, but it doesn't feel quite right.

Another thing that doesn't feel right is those four travelling salesmen. Their old-fashioned suits ought to be covered in blood from lying on the grass, but this is not the case. On the contrary; the jackets that looked slightly shabby before are now glowing with a new freshness, and the limp trousers are now sporting a razor-sharp crease. Four diffuse, faceless figures have become four separate individuals with their own characteristics. One has prominent ears, another a long, straight nose. And so on.

The blood that was spattered all over the grass has disappeared, and it is not difficult to draw the obvious conclusion. Lennart looks over at the group of travelling salesmen, who are now waiting quietly once again. He rubs his eyes.

Yes, it is possible to draw conclusions, but what is the point of those conclusions when you don't understand what they mean? It's just like the old days, when Gunilla used to come home with her maths homework, asking for help with her equations:
x
and
y
and
z
. Lennart never even went to high school, and he wasn't exactly a star pupil in maths in junior school. He said as much to Gunilla, and she explained: ‘Yes, but if 2
x
plus
y
equals
z
…' But by then he was already lost.

What does it matter how these letters relate to other letters, when you have no idea what those letters
mean
? You could just as easily say that one Gupp plus two Hupps make eight Plupps. Where exactly does it get you?

That's how he feels now. There are a number of variables, and when you put them together, they make this or that. But he doesn't understand the system.

Whatever they put in the ground grows unnaturally quickly, in spite of the fact that the sun is gone. Okay. And yet there is only grass here. The four figures he can see look different to different people,
and these figures clearly benefit from absorbing blood. Okay. Lennart felt considerably more optimistic a few hours ago, when he and Olof sat gazing out across the empty field. Emptiness is only
one
concept, and in some ways it is quite normal. But now there are all these other aspects that need to be interpreted.

Carina's account of what she has noticed hasn't improved the situation. Apparently they are at a crossroads, where two tracks intersect. In the middle of a cross, just like the ones painted on their caravans. What does that mean?

The whole thing is insane; he has experienced nothing like it since the moment when he opened the door of his mother's room and found that the perspective had shifted. It makes him uncomfortable, and he has some sympathy with Donald. The best and most sensible explanation is that the whole thing is a dream. Unfortunately he doesn't believe that, but it would be nice.

‘How are you?' Olof asks. ‘You don't look too good.'

‘I don't feel too good either,' Lennart replies. ‘Isn't all this making
your
head spin?'

Olof glances around. ‘Yes, but I'm sure it will sort itself out, one way or another. We've been in tricky situations before, haven't we?' Olof laughs and shakes his head. ‘Do you remember that summer when a thunderstorm knocked out the power? All the stock got out because the fence was no longer electrified, and we had to round them up in the dark and the pouring rain? But we got them in. Every single one.'

Lennart looks at Olof with a measure of scepticism, but his friend's expression is open and honest. He really does think that the two situations are comparable.

Lennart remembers that night very well. He and Olof were out in the rain until daybreak, searching for their cows, driving them back to the barn in small groups or one by one. After only a couple of hours normal life had been washed away in the wind and rain, and they both ended up wandering around like restless spirits, with just enough strength to persuade the cows to go home. Then they were off again, hunting for the next one.

It was a very difficult situation, which made everyday concepts disintegrate. But still. However tricky it was, they had a job to do. A job that might have seemed impossible at times, but it was clearly defined. Find the cows, get them inside the barn. But here? What is their job here? What is it they're supposed to
do
?

No, however much Lennart would like to share Olof's confidence, the innate unnaturalness of this place has begun to chafe at him like the sight of a fly trapped between two panes of glass that cannot be opened. There is nothing you can do except wait for the buzzing to stop. Or smash the glass, which of course you don't do.

Under normal circumstances Lennart is not much of a one for brooding, but now he finds that he has been so lost in his own thoughts that he has no idea why Majvor is standing in front of the group holding out her hand, palm upwards. She has said something, but he missed it. He moves closer and sees that she is showing them several objects made of gold: a chain, rings, and some irregularly shaped lumps.

‘Sorry,' he says. ‘What have you got there?'