I Am Behind You (5 page)

Isabelle breaks away from the group and jogs over to the car. Peter opens the window; as usual he has no idea what to expect. It could be abuse, or an encouraging word.

‘If you find a shop, buy something,' she says. Peter stares out across the field. ‘Haven't we got anything?'

Isabelle shakes her head. ‘Get some potato chips, or some chocolate. Anything.'

‘We've got bananas.'

Isabelle sighs and raises a trembling hand. Her condition is called hyperthyroidism, apparently. A kind of excessive combustion. She can eat virtually anything without putting on weight. The price she pays is uncontrollable sweating and shaking when the engine no longer has anything to burn.

Peter looks at her hand and wonders what will happen if they can't get away, and run out of food. It's a terrible thought. And quite interesting.

‘Did you hear what I said?'

‘I heard,' Peter says, pressing the button to close the window. He puts his foot down, and a minute later he is surrounded by emptiness.

*

‘Out of the question!'

When Donald suggested that the caravans should be spread over a wider area, it was with the proviso that his own mobile home should remain in place and be the starting point for this redistribution. People are now saying that he ought to move as well.

He looks at Majvor and shakes his head at the stupidity of others. From a purely practical point of view it is difficult for him to move, because his caravan is the only one with a proper awning, which would have to be dismantled and rebuilt. However, that argument should be surplus to requirements.

Donald and Majvor are long-term residents. They have rented a place on the campsite at Saludden for five weeks every year for twelve years so far. This year, however, they had to move across to the day campers' section, because a tree had fallen on their usual spot. They have had to endure three weeks among people who come and go as
they please, just because the staff haven't pulled their finger out and chopped up that bloody tree. None of the others has been here for more than a week at the most. And now they're saying that Donald needs to move!

‘Out of the question,' he repeats, pointing to his awning. ‘It takes a whole day to put that up, besides which we've been here for three weeks already.'

The guy with the ugly glasses mumbles something. Donald stares at him and asks him to repeat whatever it was.

‘But are any of us where we were?' the man says. ‘From a purely technical point of view, I mean?'

Donald raises his voice and adopts the tone he uses when dealing with slippery suppliers. ‘
From a purely technical point of view
the issue is whether you can force me to move my caravan when I've explained how bloody difficult it is.'

The officious little prick backs down immediately; he holds up his hands and says: ‘It was just an idea.'

Donald spreads his arms wide, embracing the entire group: ‘You're all welcome to join me for a beer in our awning when you're done.' He indicates to Majvor that the conversation is over as far as he's concerned, and they head for home.

When they are out of earshot of the others, Majvor says: ‘Why do you always have to be so unreasonable?'

‘Unreasonable? You know how much bloody work it takes to get this thing set up!'

‘Yes, and everyone else would have understood if you'd just explained yourself calmly and sensibly. And please don't swear at me.'

They step into the awning. Donald grabs a chair and slumps down on it, folding his arms. ‘I'm not swearing at
you
, I just get so bloody… I'm telling you now, if anyone comes over here and starts messing with me, I'll…'

‘You'll what, Donald?'

Donald bends down, supporting himself with one hand on the floor, and manages to extract a can of beer from the refrigerator,
which runs on bottled gas. He cracks it open, takes a swig and wipes his forehead. ‘I'll fetch my gun.'

Majvor stares at her husband, who is contemplating the entrance to the awning with practised indifference, as if he is just waiting for someone to come along and start messing with him. Majvor waits until his eyes flicker in her direction.

‘You've brought the
gun
with you?'

Donald shrugs. ‘Of course. You never know what might happen on a campsite these days.' He takes another swig of beer. Majvor's gaze is still burning into him, and he adds: ‘Obviously I have no intention of
shooting
anyone. It's just a deterrent.'

‘I assume the gun and the ammunition are in different places?'

‘Yes. Yes of course.'

‘Are they?'

‘That's what I said.'

‘
Are
they?'

‘For pity's sake…'

Donald turns and rummages in the storage chest; he takes out the radio, which runs on batteries, and places it on the table. His only aim is to put an end to the uncomfortable conversation.

‘I doubt if you'll be able to pick anything up,' Majvor says. ‘Under the circumstances.'

But Donald has already switched on, and it transpires that Majvor is wrong. Music comes pouring out of the little red box. To be precise: ‘Everyone Has Forgotten', by Towa Carson.

Donald and Majvor freeze and look at one another. Switching on the radio was an impulsive act. They had been told at the meeting that neither mobile phones nor computers were working, that there was no reception. They remain motionless, listening to the song as if it might contain some hidden message, something that could give them an answer. Neither of them liked Towa Carson back in the sixties, but now they sit there like lit candles, taking in every last syllable, as she sings of lonely nights spent with her memories.

The song fades away; the tension is unbearable. Will there be a voice, will someone say something? But no. After a brief silence they hear the opening chords of ‘Your Own Melody' by Sylvia Vrethammar. And then Sylvia herself.

*

Molly and Emil are pretending to be dogs. For a long time they have been puppies, rolling around on the floor, yapping and scrabbling at each other with their paws. Molly has one of her sandals between her teeth. She jerks her head and tosses it into the darkness under the sofa.

Emil wriggles over and peers into the gloom, whimpering. He is a little dog who doesn't like dark corners.

‘Fetch,' Molly says.

Emil whimpers again and shakes his head. Molly sits back on her hind legs and becomes slightly more human as she says: ‘Fetch the shoe, or you're a stupid puppy!'

‘Don't want to,' Emil says, still half-using his doggy voice.

‘You
have
to!'

‘Don't want to!'

‘Why not?'

‘Because…because…' Emil looks around for inspiration and catches sight of a roll of toilet paper. ‘Because it's a horrible shoe and it stinks of
shit
!'

Molly stares at him for a moment, then she keels over backwards, giggling hysterically. It is a musical sound, nothing like the yelping of a puppy, and it makes Emil's little doggy heart swell slightly.

Molly carries on giggling and clutching her stomach as Emil sniffs the floor around her and pretends to pee up one of the kitchen cupboards. Molly stops laughing and gets on all fours. She straightens up as much as possible and says: ‘Now we're a mummy dog and a daddy dog meeting one another.'

Emil abandons his loose puppy paws for stiffer legs and a more menacing expression. He lets out a low growl.

‘No,' Molly says. ‘You're a daddy dog who is in love with me.'

Emil blinks and widens his eyes the way the characters on
Bolibompa
do when they're in love, imagining a stream of pink hearts emerging from the top of his head.

‘Good,' Molly says. ‘And now you have to sniff my bottom.'

‘Nooo!'

‘Dogs
always
do that when they're in love!'

‘Why?'

‘Doesn't matter. That's what they do, so that's what you have to do.'

Emil crawls behind her and tentatively sniffs at Molly's bottom. He picks up the faint smell of pee before Molly whirls around, showing her teeth and letting out such a deep, aggressive growl that Emil is frightened. He shuffles backwards, waving his paws in front of him.

‘What's the matter with you?' Molly says. ‘Have you got cerebral palsy, or something?'

‘No, I have not!'

‘Well, you look like a dog with cerebral palsy.'

For a moment Emil feels as if he might burst into tears, but then he pictures a dog with cerebral palsy and starts giggling instead. Molly shakes her head. ‘You try to sniff my bottom, I get cross, you try again, I get cross again, and
then
I let you sniff my bottom. That's what dogs do. Don't you know anything?'

‘I don't want to,' Emil says. ‘I'm a dog with cerebral palsy.'

Molly glares at him, but within a fraction of a second her face clears and she smiles at him. ‘In that case you can lick my fur instead.'

Emil licks Molly's T-shirt until she nods and says: ‘Time for a rest.'

They lie down on their stomachs side by side and pretend to sleep for a little while. Suddenly Molly gives a start; she raises her head, sniffs the air and whispers: ‘Something dangerous is approaching. An enemy.'

Emil sniffs, but he picks up only dust from the carpet and a faint hint of perfume. ‘There's no enemy,' he says.

‘Yes, there is,' Molly insists, curling up. ‘Something big and dangerous. The dogs don't know what it is, but it wants to eat them up.'

‘No!'

‘The dogs are scared. The enemy is like an elephant, but it's black, with a huge head and lots of sharp teeth. It's going to bite the dogs until it's got blood all around its mouth…'

‘No!' There is a lump in Emil's throat, and his eyes are prickling.

‘It's going to chew up the dogs, munching and crunching and breaking every bone in their body…'

Emil clamps his hands over his ears and shakes his head. He doesn't want to hear any more, because he can see it. The enemy. It is big and black and it has long, sharp teeth; it is surrounded by smoke as it moves along, and it is coming closer and closer because it wants to eat him up.

Molly pulls one hand away from his ear and whispers: ‘But I know how we can protect ourselves. I'll protect you.'

Emil swallows the lump in his throat as best he can and looks at Molly, who is now wearing an expression of great determination. He knows that she is telling the truth about both the monster and her ability to save him, so he asks: ‘How?'

‘I'll tell you,' Molly says, glancing around. ‘But first you have to do something.'

*

Carina lowers the caravan's supporting wheels so that the coupling fits over the tow bar. She doesn't bother with the electricity or the safety cable as they will be driving such a short distance. She wipes her hands on her shorts and gives Stefan the thumbs up. He starts the car, puts his foot down, and the caravan jerks forward. He drives ten metres out onto the field.

The two farmers have also moved their caravan. One of them is just getting out of the car, and raises his hand to Carina, who waves back.

Why are we doing this? Why are we moving? Surely we ought to stick together. For protection.

She glances over at the caravan into which Emil and Molly disappeared. There is something strange about that girl. It's as if she is only pretending, but what is she pretending?

‘There we are,' Stefan says as he comes up to her. ‘All done.'

Carina turns to face him. The thinning hair, the stocky body, the short arms ending in hands that are far too small. The man she chose. She loops her arms around his neck, rests her head on his chest. She knows every nuance of his smell, and she closes her eyes as he strokes her hair.

‘Stefan,' she says. ‘You have to promise me something.'

‘Anything.'

‘We don't know what's happened, or how long this is going to go on…'

‘Carina, of course…'

‘Wait. Listen to me.' She pulls back, looks up and takes his face between her hands. ‘You have to promise me that we'll stick together. That whatever this is, we'll get through it together, not every man for himself. Do you understand?'

Stefan opens his mouth to answer too quickly, but closes it before saying a word. He gazes out across the field, frowning. Perhaps he does understand. He probably does.

‘Yes,' he says eventually. ‘I promise.'

*

Peter set off at fifty kilometres an hour, but now he is crawling forward. According to the GPS, the village of Västerljung lies a hundred metres ahead of him. Perhaps there would have been a small shop there, if only Västerljung itself had existed.

He has stopped trying to drive on what the GPS claims are roads; he has crossed streams without bridges and passed straight through dense forest without getting a single scratch on his paintwork. The
only thing he can see is grass and more grass, the wheels of the car quietly passing over the unvarying field.

He looks in the rear-view mirror and is unsure whether the faint bumps on the horizon behind him really are the caravans, or merely an optical illusion. The sense of supremacy has left him, replaced by the loneliness of the penalty taker.

Bulgaria 2005. Everything disappears around him as he spins the ball between his fingers before placing it on the penalty spot.

He switches on the car radio to distract himself from the memories. As he presses the button he remembers that there is no reception. A second later it transpires that this is not in fact the case. He has been driving in silence, and the sudden onslaught of music is such a shock that he lets out a yell and slams on the brakes. The car shudders to a halt.

Peter sits there open-mouthed, staring at the cartoon-blue of the sky. His mother always used to listen to this kind of music when he was a little boy, and he knows who is singing. Kerstin Aulén and Peter Himmelstrand. This is obviously the last chorus; he hears a few bars of the wedding march on the organ, then the song is over. He is still so stunned by the fact that the radio works that he doesn't have time to wonder whether anyone is going to
speak
before Towa Carson kicks off with ‘Everyone Has Forgotten'.