I Am Behind You (45 page)

If the children had any questions about the nature of Lennart and Olof's relationship, they kept them to themselves. Everyone thought that living together was much more fun, and more practical. Ante and Gunilla already got on very well, and after the move they became best friends.

Lennart and Olof continued to sleep well at night. As time went by they even ventured to get undressed down to their vests and long johns at bedtime. A year or so after they had moved in together, their hands happened to brush against one another, and somehow they got into the habit of lying there holding hands for a while before they went to sleep.

That was as far as the physical aspect of their relationship had gone, until acid raining down from the sky made them take an enormous step into the unknown.

*

Side by side, but not too close, they amble over to their little plantation and discover that, as they suspected, everything that had been flourishing so unnaturally has been annihilated by the rain. There is not a leaf to be seen, not a stem or a stalk; all that is left is a patch of black earth.

‘This grass…' Olof says, rubbing the sole of his shoe over the bright green surface.

‘Yes,' Lennart says. ‘Let's not talk about it.'

‘You think we shouldn't talk about things we don't understand?'

Lennart sighs and gives Olof an apologetic look. ‘Was there something you wanted to say about the grass?'

‘Not really; I was just thinking that it must be specially adapted to grow here. To survive these conditions.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I don't mean anything. Just that whatever exists here must be specially adapted to survive. Everything else disappears.'

They walk over to the space where Donald and Majvor's awning used to be. The sun lounger has been reduced to a corroded skeleton, the little refrigerator has lost its white coating, and all that remains of the treated decking is a greenish, rotten sludge. Lennart pokes it with his foot.

‘This isn't going to be much use when it comes to building a tower,' he says.

‘No. But then I never did think that particular plan was going to work—did you?'

‘Not really. But it would have been good to be able to phone home at some point.'

‘It would,' Olof agrees.

The tone of their conversation is getting back to normal; both of them can hear and feel it. They glance at one another, tentatively venturing a smile.

‘Lennart…'

‘No. Not now. We'll talk about it later. I need to…'

‘Digest it?'

‘Yes. Exactly. Something like that.'

They look around the camp. Since the white figures' enchanted circle broke up, everyone has gone back to their usual tasks, insofar as any task is normal in this place. Carina is checking her water tank, Peter is throwing out possessions that have been destroyed, while Donald and Majvor are getting ready to set off.

Judging by surface appearances, everyone is acting as if a temporary crisis has passed, and it is now time to tackle the situation afresh. But that is only superficial. Their faces, the way they move their bodies, the sound of their voices—everything has changed following their collective near-death experience. An undercurrent has seeped in, as dark as the sludge at Lennart and Olof's feet.

They have stopped believing that they can survive. For the time being they are getting on with what needs to be done because there is nothing else to do, but they all know that it will take only one or perhaps two showers of rain to reduce them to any items made of precious metals that they might be wearing, just like Erik and the others. It might not be for a day or two, perhaps even a week, but sooner or later it will happen.

*

Isabelle's itchy arms are so irritating that it is almost a relief when a familiar sensation begins to make itself felt, fighting for the space available to deliver discomfort: hunger. She steps out of the barbecue area and walks towards the kiosk, ash whirling around her feet. A few mosquitoes pick up the scent of her sweaty forehead and start whining around her ears.

Fuck. Fuck.

She was supposed to melt, be burnt out of the picture, go clean and pure to her death. Instead, this. The stench of urine and faeces from the toilet block makes a lump of vomit rise into her throat as she reaches the kiosk. The boy inside is perhaps eighteen years old, and suffering from a bad case of acne. His flat face is red and pitted
with scars; he looks shy and unsure of himself. Isabelle straightens her back, sticks out her chest and asks: ‘Have you got any chocolate?'

The boy glances up at her, then he looks away, shakes his head. Isabelle checks that her nipples are sufficiently erect to show through her thin top. His eyes should be out on stalks, but instead he is refusing to look at her. He actually turns around and starts fiddling with something on the shelves.

There is a box of chocolate bars on the counter. Isabelle grabs a couple and backs away as she rips the wrapping off one of them, bites off a huge chunk and begins to chew. She can hear chomping and crunching, but the only thing she can taste is ash. She takes another bite, munches harder, runs her tongue around the inside of her mouth, but the taste of ash merely grows stronger. She begins to sweat, and her hands are shaking.

She looks around. Three indolent middle-aged men are sitting at a camping table messing around with fishing lines, weights and floats. There are three bamboo rods propped against a tree beside them. Isabelle's arms burn and sting as she goes over to them and says: ‘Hi, guys.'

The men nod and murmur in response, but they don't even look up. They carry on attaching hooks, clipping on weights, threading floats.

You're the most beautiful woman I've ever met.

How many men have said that to her? Five? Seven? Ten? And now these three are sitting here; they ought to fall at her feet and worship her, but instead they only have eyes for their fishing equipment. Isabelle pulls off her top and steps out of her pants, drops the items of clothing on the table. She stands naked before the men, spreads her arms wide and yells: ‘See anything you like? Well, do you?
Look
at me, for fuck's sake!'

One of the men moves her top, which has landed on his jar of worms, then returns to his task. Isabelle's body is seething with hunger, a rushing sound fills her head, and the itching in her arms is unbearable.

The two tracks lead away from the table at an angle. She chooses the one on the right, which leads into the trees. She uses what remains of her nails to scrape at her wounds until they start to bleed, then she breaks into a run.

Blood is dripping from her arms as she enters the forest. The track is narrow; twigs and branches scratch her bare skin, and at last something begins to feel real, at last she can actually feel something, and she extends her bleeding arms so that everything that is sharp can stab and tear at her, and eventually the pain is so great that it washes away everything else.

There are five of them moving across the grass, whimpering and groaning. Isabelle slows down to match their pace. Her flesh is screaming, and the muscles that have not been burnt away are throbbing with a pain as deep as the earth itself; her entire body is a ganglion of pain, but it is a pure pain from which there is no hope of redemption, a pain that simply
exists
.

The thing that used to be Isabelle opens its ruined mouth, widens its throat and allows its voice to blend with the others in the lament that never stops, the lament about life, about pain, about hunger and movement. She follows the track that leads out across the field, together with her tribe.

*

Donald has demonstrated many different moods over the past few hours, above all a range of variations on anger and fury, but Majvor has not yet seen the emotion that is etched on his face when he looks at his car. Donald looks
distressed
.

He takes great pride in looking after his car. Washing, polishing, waxing. Donald is rarely as amenable as on a Sunday afternoon, when he comes indoors after spending a couple of hours on the drive with Turtle Wax and a chamois leather, leaving the car shining like the still surface of a lagoon in the setting sun. He might forget to shave, he might wander around for several days with unattractive hairs
protruding from his chin, but he polishes that car until you could eat your dinner off the bonnet.

No miracle cloth in the world is going to be able to restore his car now. Most of the lacquer has disappeared, leaving only odd patches. The plastic housing over the indicators has melted away, leaving a yellowish gunge all over the hub caps.

But that's not the worst of it. The metal bodywork has survived, but the sunroof has not. The plexiglas has dissolved, giving the rain free access to the interior. It has splattered all over the instrument panel, destroying buttons and display screens; it has shredded the leather covering on the steering wheel, and it has burnt big holes in the front seats. For a second Majvor thinks that Donald is going to burst into tears as he looks at the car.

But he opens the door, gets into the driver's seat with some difficulty, then reaches for the key in the ignition. Majvor crosses her fingers behind his back.
Don't start, don't start.
It seems unlikely that the car will spring into action, given the way it looks.

Unfortunately it seems that the vital components must have escaped serious damage, because the engine immediately roars into life, and Donald beckons Majvor impatiently. She opens the passenger door and gets in, shifting her weight around on the craters in the seat until she finds an acceptable position, then she closes the door.

The gearstick has partly dissolved, and the gearbox screeches as Donald puts the car in first. But it begins to move forward, against all expectation. Donald follows a black skid mark on the grass, and when it disappears he continues along the same line.

‘Donald,' Majvor says. ‘Is this a good idea? How are you doing?'

‘I'm fine. I just want somewhere to live.'

He definitely sounds saner than at any time since he returned to the camp—and before that, to tell the truth. Could it be that the experience of the rain has really made him see the situation more clearly?

‘What do you think about all this?' Majvor says. ‘What can we do?'

Will Lockhart, the Man from Laramie, appears ahead of them on the field; he is staggering along and appears to be in an even worse state than he was in the film after he had been dragged through the camp fire and had his hand shot up. Donald's eyes narrow as he spots Will, and he puts his foot down. Majvor doesn't know what he's thinking, but to be on the safe side she says: ‘You mustn't run over him. We have no idea what might happen.'

Donald grunts, but turns the wheel so that the car is no longer on a collision course with the figure. As they drive past, Majvor glances out of the side window.

Will Lockhart looks as if he has been wandering through the desert for days without finding a watering hole. His eyes have sunk deep into his skull, his skin is lined and yellowing. He has lost so much weight that his gun belt is almost sliding off his hips. Overall, it seems that his only possible goal must be his own funeral. It is so upsetting that Majvor's eyes fill with tears. Her dream, her hero, reduced to a wreck.

What is this place doing to us? What can we do with this place?

‘We're doomed,' Donald says. ‘We just have to accept it.'

‘Doomed? What do you mean, doomed? Why should we be doomed?'

Donald gives a wry smile. ‘Isn't this your area of expertise? Guilt and sin and damnation? I think
you
should be able to explain why we've ended up here. Go on. What does the Bible say about this place? Eh?'

‘Stop it, Donald.'

‘Seriously, I'm interested. I mean, you usually come out with quotations from the Bible at the drop of a hat. Surely there must be something that fits the current situation?'

Of course Majvor has considered this. She has thought about Moses, wandering in the desert for forty years, and about the trials of Job. Gehenna. The truth is that there is far too much that fits, which makes any interpretation impossible. However, that isn't the real problem.

‘It wouldn't be appropriate,' she replies.

Donald lets out a bark of laughter. ‘What do you mean,
it wouldn't be appropriate
? At long last we're in a place where all that crap might finally come in useful! Back home you start banging on about Jesus if I so much as think about fiddling a bill, but now, now it could really be…You're so funny, Majvor.'

‘It has nothing to do with this place,' she insists. ‘It wouldn't be appropriate.'

Even if she wanted to, she couldn't explain it to Donald, but she has realised that this place lies beyond normal concepts, both earthly and celestial. The usual rules do not apply here, and prayers will not help.

This realisation left her shocked at first, then empty. After a little while she began to get used to the idea, and surprisingly enough it happened quite quickly. There isn't such a huge difference; this is merely the other side of the same coin. Her everyday world is populated by ethereal characters from the Bible, the air is filled with invisible angels, and no occurrence or action escapes the watchful eye of the Lord.

The total
absence
of all this brings its own fulfilment, in the same way that total darkness is to a certain extent the same as a blinding light. It is hard to grasp and even harder to explain. And besides, she has no desire to try.

Donald continues his harangue and Majvor continues to keep quiet. After a few minutes they can see their caravan on the horizon. Donald slaps his thigh and says: ‘There she is, Majvor! You'll soon be able to start baking buns again!'

There is nothing pleasant about his tone of voice. Quite the reverse.

*

The mattress that was closest to the roof has been totally destroyed. When Peter tries to lift it down it disintegrates completely; he carries
the pieces outside and dumps them behind the caravan. The second mattress is damaged, but he turns it over and concludes that it can be used.