I Am Behind You (42 page)

And the rain just keeps on falling.

*

Peter is sitting on the bed next to Molly, doing something that he hasn't allowed himself to do properly for a long time: he is thinking. The rain is hammering on the roof, sliding down the window panes; a few drops find their way in through a tiny gap above the sink and burn holes in the dishcloth. How can rain like this exist? Why
shouldn't
rain like this exist?

Peter can't remember the exact figures, but the series of coincidences that must be combined in order for new life to be viable is an astronomical number. It is usually too hot or too cold, or there is no atmosphere, or the atmosphere that does exist is toxic, or covalent hydrocarbon bonds cannot form, or there is no water; there are thousands upon thousands of other factors that make life impossible.

We shouldn't exist.

The existence of humanity borders on unimaginable, so it is not too far-fetched to think that there must be a plan behind it all, a God who has set the machinery in motion and perhaps continues to keep a watchful eye on what is going on. But if this creator, this engineer and caretaker, is removed from the equation, then what is left? Perhaps nothing more than an endless field where humanity and its attributes have no right to exist, and must be erased from the clean surface.

‘What are you thinking about, Daddy?'

Peter shines the beam of the torch on Molly, and to his astonishment sees that there are tears pouring down her cheeks. Molly can sound desperate and tearful if she thinks it will serve her purpose, but Peter can't remember when he last saw her actually cry.

I am a fountain of blood…

‘I'm thinking about God.'

Molly grins and there is nothing in her voice to suggest that she is crying when she replies: ‘There's no need for that.'

The tears leave pink streaks on Molly's skin, and Peter's suspicions are confirmed when another drop of liquid falls from the ceiling onto her forehead, then runs down her nose without causing any serious damage, merely a slight irritation.

…in the form of a girl.

The drip reaches Molly's chin, and before it has time to fall, Peter wipes it away with his index finger. For a moment he thinks that the rain has changed, that it has become diluted and less dangerous. Then his finger begins to burn as if he had held it over a lighted match. The nail turns white and grows as a few millimetres of the cuticle are eaten away.

Molly runs a hand over her face, sounding surprised as she says: ‘It hurts. It stings.' She looks at her damp hand and shakes her head. The words that come out of Peter's mouth are unexpected; he hasn't had time to think the thought through.

‘You belong here, don't you?'

‘I don't know. Not
yet
.'

A few drops land on Peter's head, and however much he would like to give up, fall backwards onto the bed and let the rain pour down on him, it is out of the question, because it is so bloody painful.

Humanity…

Hanging by its fingertips above the abyss, drowning in the ice-cold sea, standing on the window ledge of a burning building. Always trying to get a
slightly
better grip, hold its breath for just a
few
more seconds, withstand a
little
more heat before the fall, the end. To squeeze the very last drop out of life.

Peter doesn't know what Molly is, but he is a human being, and he can't help trying to survive for as long as possible. He crawls to the top of the bed, tucks his hands under Isabelle's arms and drags her into the kitchen area. He checks the ceiling for holes, then props her up against the sink.

His back and arms feel as if they are on fire as he strips the bed
and removes the thick cushions that serve as a mattress. He opens out the table and places the cushions on top, creating a refuge underneath, a den with a half-metre thick roof of foam rubber. He knows that he is only putting off the inevitable, but he cannot do anything else; he is a human being.

‘Come on!' he shouts, turning and sweeping the beam of the torch around the caravan. ‘You need to…'

Molly is standing there looking expectantly at him with liquid running down her face. Isabelle is not there, and the sound inside the caravan has changed. The hammering of the rain on the roof mingles with a rustling, splashing noise as the rain falls on the grass; the door is open. Peter shines the torch in that direction and sees the outline of Isabelle's body as she walks through the rain, away from the caravan.

‘No, Isabelle!'

He takes a step towards the door, but is stopped by Molly, who grabs hold of his thumb. She shakes her head. The curtain of rain visible through the doorway is so dense that it is difficult to see through it; it is incomprehensible that Isabelle manages to stay on her feet for long enough to disappear beyond the range of the torch.

Molly pulls him towards the den, and Peter allows it to happen. He can no longer feel individual places where the rain has landed on him; his entire skin is a blanket of pain enfolding his body, and his head is boiling so much that he actually sees red as he and Molly crawl into the cramped space.

He drops the torch on the floor, curls up and screams as the blanket of pain shrinks and the burning heat is turned up yet another notch.

No more. No more. I can't bear it.

A cool hand is laid on his forehead, small fingers run through his hair. Through the veil of red Peter can see that Molly has drawn up her knees and is sitting with her chin resting on them as she smiles at him and continues to stroke his head. ‘It's just you and me now, Daddy. Isn't this cosy?'

*

Under different circumstances you could say that Lennart and Olof, Majvor and Donald have been
lucky
. The worktop that Lennart and Olof ripped off turned out to be exactly the right length when they laid it above the kitchen table, resting on the top of the window frames. In addition, the roof of their old caravan is significantly thicker than modern versions. It was several minutes before they could hear drops splashing on the worktop above their heads as they sat there hunched around the table, with the yellow glow of the paraffin lamp playing over their faces.

Majvor has been unreachable for some time; her eyes are closed, her lips are moving. Donald's aggression has temporarily abated, but his face is set in a scornful grin, as if he finds the situation ridiculous and beneath his dignity. However, he has taken advantage of the extra protection available.

The whole thing seems so bizarre that Olof had to stick out his hand to catch a drop a little while ago. It wasn't a very good idea, because now the palm of his hand is sporting an angry red crater, which is sending stabbing pains all the way up his arm.

This is really happening.

Olof has a tendency to daydream, and since he and Lennart threw in their lot together, he has sometimes dreamt of their old age, when the hard work on the farms is over at long last.

They will sit in their rocking chairs on Olof's porch, or perhaps they will lie in hammocks—why not—gazing out across the fields where Ante and Gunilla have taken over, having provided them with a grandson and a granddaughter.

Lennart and Olof will chat about the past, satisfied with what they have been able to pass on to their children. Sometimes Ante or Gunilla will come to ask for their advice, and sometimes the little ones will come along, wanting help with some project.

They will move quietly through the days, content to be together now that life's toil and struggle are over. There will always be a
beautiful twilight, with the sun setting the cornfields ablaze, and they will take each other's hands and sigh as they share a sweet melancholy.

A drop of rain penetrates the worktop and lands on the laminate surface of the table in front of them. The acrid, chemical smell of acid and burnt plastic reaches Olof's nostrils, and he thinks that the daydream he has just enjoyed once more is going to be his last.

If only I could…

Lennart's hand finds his, and there is no reason to pretend any more; it is too late for that kind of thing. Olof turns and hugs Lennart. There is a rasping sound as stubbly cheek meets stubbly cheek, and Olof whispers in Lennart's ear: ‘I love you.'

Lennart caresses the back of Olof's head and the nape of his neck, and he whispers in return: ‘I love you too, Olof.'

They sit with their arms around each other for a little while in silence, then they hear a snort and Donald's voice: ‘Fuck me. The things you see when you haven't got your gun.'

Lennart and Olof move apart. Donald is sitting up straight on the opposite side of the table, righteous indignation in every fibre of his body. His scornful smile has changed into a grimace of disgust, while his wife is still curled around her own internal world.

‘I'll spare you the sight,' Lennart says, turning off the paraffin lamp.

In the darkness Olof feels Lennart's hands moving across his face. Although they have never done it before he understands what is happening, and leans closer until his lips find Lennart's. It feels strange when they kiss at long last, but at the same time it feels right.

*

Certain people reach a point or several points in their life where they feel that
this is where I have been aiming for
. Defining moments that might involve a blessing or a curse, torment or joy, but the key thing is that they are a consequence, the sum of previous actions, desires
and choices distilled into one place, one time. Isabelle's point is the moment when she steps out of the caravan into the rain.

Here. Now. Me.

The smell of swimming baths or a laundry room fills her nostrils. Chlorine and bleach, falling from the sky and rising from the ground. Her hair is drenched in seconds, and the rain runs down her face and body, over the tape that covers her arms as she walks away from the caravan.

Two steps. Three. Then comes the pain, and it is beyond all reason. Every nerve in her body with the capacity to transmit suffering begins to vibrate, every muscle relaxes or tenses in a series of uncontrollable, jerky movements. Faeces and urine pour out of her, but the receptors that should be able to detect what is flowing down her thighs have already been burnt away, and
shame
has no place here. This is where she is meant to be.

Isabelle's worst fear has always been to be burnt on a bonfire. Of all the horrific images she has seen on film, it is a simple scene from a mediocre production that made the greatest impression on her.
Silent Hill
. The woman who is tied to a frame and slowly tipped towards the fire until her skin begins to boil and her facial features disintegrate.

Four steps, five. This is worse.

At least fire heats the blood quickly, until the heart collapses and death takes over. The rain covering Isabelle's body is slowly gnawing through the skin, the sinews and the muscles, tearing at the nerves and causing a pain more intense than she would have thought possible.

Six steps, seven.

The silver tape on her arms has dissolved into a sloppy mess of plastic and fine threads, slipping down towards her hands where the skin over the knuckles has been eaten away, exposing white, rounded bone. The hair on her head comes away in stinking clumps that slide down her face and would have tickled her lips, if she had any lips. Chunks of skin cover her eyes, and her already blurred vision deteriorates still further as she takes

one more step

with her eyes closed as the colours behind her eyelids go from black to red to orange and soon they too will dissolve and then the rain will reach her eyeballs and then everything will go black and there will be nothing but pain, pain until it is finally over.

Isabelle has no control over her body, and the pain is so immense that she can no longer feel it; her nerves have given up the struggle. In a final attempt at deliberate action, she concentrates all her energy on her now yellow eyelids, and opens them to a beautiful summer's day.

The first thing she sees when she manages to focus is an overweight man in a Hawaiian shirt, on his way to the kiosk to hand in his mini-golf club. An equally overweight woman is waddling along beside him, rolling two golf balls around and around in her hand. Meanwhile a stick-thin little girl is bouncing up and down on the trampoline, and the smell of fried food is in the air.

Fried food.

That's it. Not burnt, but deep-fried. Slowly boiled in oil until the skin falls off and the eyes turn white. Isabelle looks at her arms, where her lightly tanned skin is covered in pale, downy hairs. She touches her face. She can feel her lips and her jawbone now that her cheeks are no longer swollen. She runs her tongue around the inside of her mouth, presses the tip against her front teeth, licks her top lip; she can taste salt. She opens her mouth and says: ‘Fuck.'

She is back where their caravan used to be, along with the other three. The caravans are gone, and no one else has come to take their place. When she looks down she sees that her sandal-clad feet are covered in ash, because she is standing in the communal barbecue area, a circle of stones in the middle of the camp.

You would think the other campers might be interested in the sight of a model standing in a pile of ash, taking deep breaths as she tries to work out what has happened to her. But although there are plenty of people around, no one is looking in her direction. It's as if she is invisible.

The idea is no stranger than anything else that has happened to her today. Isabelle looks over at the child on the trampoline ten metres away, and brings her hands together in a loud clap. The braids whirling around the girl's ears break their trajectory and whip across the top of her head as she immediately turns in Isabelle's direction. Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second, then the girl looks away and concentrates on her bouncing.

Not invisible.

People
can
see her, but consciously or unconsciously they don't
want
to see her. As if she were something that shouldn't be here, a smelly junkie—best to ignore her. Otherwise why is no one looking at her? People
always
look at Isabelle.