I Am Behind You (53 page)

‘Would you look at that,' Olof said, nodding towards the mound of split wood.

‘Not bad,' Lennart said. ‘Not bad at all.'

They sat quietly, appreciating the pleasant aches and pains in their
bodies and the peace of the late afternoon. Something passed between them during those few moments. In spite of the fact that they spent a great deal of time together, both in their work and with their families, it was only then that a simple truth crystallised for the two of them. They were each other's best friends.

Either of them could have expressed what came next, but since Lennart was the more talkative of the two, he spoke first.

‘I've been thinking about something,' he said.

‘Oh yes?'

‘What I mean is, I just thought about it now.'

‘Go on?'

Lennart brushed the sawdust from the folds in his dungarees and looked around as if to check that no one was listening, then said: ‘What I thought was…couldn't we…you and me…couldn't we kind of promise one another that…'

Lennart was struggling to find the right words, and Olof helped him out: ‘That we'll look after one another? If things go wrong?'

Lennart nodded. ‘Yes. Something like that. Not that I have any reason to think things will go wrong, I'm not trying to set up some kind of insurance, but…'

‘I understand,' Olof said. ‘Sounds good to me. If things go wrong for you, then I'll help you, and if things go wrong for me, then you'll help me. Good.'

Lennart stared at the ground, wondering if there was anything to add, but decided that Olof's summary covered all the bases. When he looked up again he was met by Olof's outstretched hand.

‘Let's shake on it.'

They shook hands, and patted each other on the shoulder. And so the matter was decided.

As it turned out, neither of them benefited from the agreement alone. When things did go wrong, it affected both of them at the same time. Ingela and Agnetha went to the Canaries and never really came back. Lennart and Olof took care of each other, and gradually their relationship developed into something else.

*

Olof and Lennart stand side by side next to their caravan, watching Stefan's Volvo disappear into the distance. There are only the two of them left now. Everyone else has left the camp, except for Benny and Maud of course.

‘Do you remember that time with the logs?' Olof says. ‘Everyone dropped out, and there were just the two of us left?'

‘Yes,' Lennart says. ‘Ninety-eight.'

‘Or ninety-nine.'

‘Something like that, my friend.'

Lennart turns and holds out his arms. The two men embrace, then stand for a long time with their cheeks resting on each other's shoulders until Lennart whispers: ‘What are we going to do?' They move apart, arms hanging by their sides.

‘It will soon be over, won't it?' Olof says, carefully examining his hands.

‘Yes, I think so. One way or another.'

‘In which case we ought to…'

‘What?'

‘Try to…to work things out, somehow.'

‘You mean…?'

‘Yes. While there's still time.'

They stand there looking at the ground, at their feet, out across the field, fiddling with the straps of their dungarees.

‘I mean, it's nothing to be ashamed of,' Lennart says.

‘No. Those days are gone.'

Lennart scratches the back of his neck and looks shyly at Olof, contemplating his body as if he is trying to decide to what extent it is suitable for the intended purpose.

‘Of course I don't know if it's possible,' he says. ‘I don't know if I can do it.'

‘Me neither,' Olof says. ‘But we can try. At the eleventh hour, so to speak.'

Lennart smiles at the unusual expression, then he shrugs and says: ‘You're right. We can always try.'

*

By the time Majvor catches up with James Stewart, the darkness on the horizon has grown so tall and wide that it forms a wall which seems to be moving towards her under its own steam. The gun belt slaps against Jimmy's hip as he strides along; he doesn't turn around when Majvor calls out: ‘Jimmy, where are we going?'

He mutters something in response, and Majvor has to make a real effort to keep pace with him. She looks over at his dogged profile; the Jimmy she knew and loved has gone, leaving behind only the bitter Will Lockhart.

‘What did you say, Jimmy?'

‘Stop calling me that. And quit following me.'

‘What else can I do? I have nothing, I've left…'

‘That's not my problem. You know who I am. What I am.'

Yes
, Majvor thinks,
in spite of everything you're just another one of those guys who ruin a poor woman and then…

At the same time she knows this isn't true; that's what happens in the stories in her magazines. Jimmy has sprung from her own mind. He is her creation, her responsibility. You don't get that kind of thing in a women's magazine.

‘What are you actually doing here? You and…the others?'

‘We're walking,' Jimmy replies. ‘First we walk in one direction. Then we walk in the other direction.'

The darkness continues to grow ahead of her; Majvor stumbles along, still trying to keep up with the man she has conjured up from her dreams. Sweat is trickling from her armpits, and her body is giving off a sour smell.

‘Jimmy,' she says, tugging at his sleeve. ‘Please, Jimmy…'

She runs her hand over his chest, she caresses his cheek from his chin up to the brim of his hat, and she desperately wants him to take
her in his arms and hold her, nothing more, just like in the sweetest story. Just so that she can pretend for a little while that everything is as it should be.

‘For fuck's sake, Majvor,' he says, pushing her away. She stands in front of him, blocking his way. When he takes a step to the side, she does the same. Eventually he stops and stares at her. She tries to smile.

‘Majvor,' he says, his hand moving towards his hip. For a second she has the foolish idea that he is going to produce a wedding ring and go down on one knee. Then she sees the revolver in his hand, the barrel pointing at her belly. ‘I'm going to count to three. One…'

What happens if I die? Can I die here?

She stares at the piece of metal in Jimmy Stewart's hand. Is it real? Can it shoot? If it can shoot then surely it must contain dummy bullets, they wouldn't give an actor real ammunition…

They? Who are they?

‘Two.'

She daren't risk finding out, she doesn't want to risk a red-hot bullet drilling into her belly. Before Jimmy reaches ‘Three', she holds up her hands and backs away from him, then turns around. The darkness is only a few steps away from her now. She takes those steps.

*

Blood. Blood soon. Soon it will start to bleed.

The thing that used to be Molly is sitting motionless, contemplating the thing that is still Carina. The name Carina no longer has any meaning. The thing kneeling in front of Molly is merely a container filled with blood. Soon that blood will come out.

The thing that used to be Molly has always existed. It has been waiting. In mountains or in seas. Sometimes it has entered into a human being. Waited for the blood to come so that it can live again. ‘Live' is an unknown concept. Continue to walk. Continue the movement.

There are many of them. If one ceases to exist, the darkness creates
another so that the movement can continue. ‘Blood' is an unknown concept. Blood is life. And life is the movement.

When the thing that used to be Molly looks at Carina, it sees the opportunity for continued movement. Its task is to demonstrate. So that the blood can come. Soon it will come. First the liquid from the eyes, the scream from the mouth. Then the blood. Now. Carina is using her teeth. Biting her arms.

Then there is an interruption. Noise and movement. The movement becomes a car and out of the car steps a person. The person takes Carina before the blood has had time to come. They drive off.

The thing that used to be Molly gets up and continues to walk, continues the movement. There will be others. There are always others.

*

Majvor is so unhappy and disappointed that it is a relief to enter into the darkness. It enfolds her like the embrace she has longed for.

Out of the darkness we call unto you.

Majvor tips back her head, but there is nothing but darkness. She wouldn't call out or pray even if she thought there was someone who could hear her. It is too late.

What do you want, Majvor? What do you want from the darkness?

Buried deep within her there is a burning point, a feeling. When she glimpses just such a point in the darkness, she walks towards it. The glow fades, moves, grows brighter, then fades once more.

The third time the glow burns brighter she thinks it is illuminating a face; she can see the contours of a face shimmering, fiery red. Then it vanishes as the glow fades yet again, moving to the side. Majvor edges forward as the glow intensifies, moves higher; the face reappears. Suddenly she realises what she is looking at. A cigarette. Someone is sitting here smoking a cigarette. With each drag the glow lights up an emaciated face. Majvor stops a metre away as the face is once again plunged into darkness.

‘Hello?' she says, as if she were talking to someone far away.

The voice that responds is hoarse and croaky; she thinks she recognises it as it says: ‘Hi there.'

The cigarette flares again, revealing sunken cheeks in a long, narrow face, grey hair in a pudding bowl cut. It is the unflattering hairstyle that gives it away.

‘Peter Himmelstrand,' she says. ‘It is you, isn't it?'

‘Too right,' he says after a brief coughing fit. ‘And who are you?'

‘My name is Majvor. Majvor Gustafsson.'

‘Majvor, Majvor…no, I've never written a song with a Majvor in it. But it's never too late.' Peter Himmelstrand laughs, and the laughter turns into another bout of coughing before he adds: ‘Not here, anyway.'

The cigarette is down to the filter and Peter Himmelstrand uses it to light another, takes a deep drag. Majvor's expectations of what she might find in the darkness were unclear, but one thing she does know: she
wasn't
expecting Peter Himmelstrand.

‘What are you doing here?' she asks.

‘I'm responsible for the songs. That's kind of my thing.'

‘But how did you get here?'

‘Fuck knows. I was offered the gig and the alternative was crap, so I went for it. What about you?'

‘Me?'

‘Yes—what are you doing here?'

If only she knew. There are so many questions Majvor would like to ask Peter Himmelstrand, mostly to do with the nature of this place, but there is plenty she would like to know about Peter himself. As a dedicated listener to the Swedish pop charts, Majvor knows lots of his songs by heart, and she thought it was really sad when she heard that smoking had killed him back in 1999. But here he is, puffing away as if nothing has happened.

What really went on between him and Mona Wessman? How much of that song about the priest is taken from their life together? How do you come up with a lyric like
hambostinta i kort-kort
? And
her favourite, the one that Björn and Agnetha from Abba sang, what was that called again?

But that's not the question right now. The question is what she is doing here, and
What do you want, Majvor?

‘I don't know,' she replies. ‘I have no idea. I thought…'

‘Yes?' There is a hint of impatience in Peter Himmelstrand's voice. ‘What did you think? Let's hear it. I'm pretty busy here, you know.'

Majvor doesn't understand how sitting in the dark smoking constitutes being pretty busy, but he is the first
celebrity
she has ever met, and it is not her place to doubt him. Besides, she has a feeling that this is real, in a different way from James Stewart.

‘I thought there would be something here. Something for me, something that…I don't know, and please don't take this the wrong way, but surely it can't be
you
?'

‘Nope,' Peter Himmelstrand says, taking an even deeper drag that highlights the crater-like shadows on his cheeks. ‘Seems unlikely. But hang on a minute, if you just chill, then…'

In the faint glow Majvor can see him fumbling around on the ground, until his fingers find what he is searching for. He picks it up and holds it out to Majvor. ‘Could it be this? Is this your thing?'

The object that is placed in Majvor's hands is a revolver, and as her fingers close around the grooved butt, she knows he is right. This is why she came here. This is what she was supposed to find. She spins the cylinder around and hears a series of clicks.

Peter Himmelstrand is in the middle of another coughing fit; he points at the revolver. When he has recovered, he says: ‘Two shots have been fired, so there are only four bullets left. Make sure…well, you know.'

‘No,' Majvor says. ‘What?'

Peter Himmelstrand sighs. ‘Well, I'm no expert, but if you're thinking of using it, make sure there isn't an empty chamber in front of the hammer. Got it?'

Yes, Majvor has got it. The gun is heavy, and in spite of the fact that she has never fired a pistol or a revolver, it feels completely
natural. You could say it fits her like a glove, as if it has been waiting for her fingers and hers alone.

‘Where has it come from?' she asks.

‘Haven't a clue. It was here when I arrived.'

Majvor raises the revolver, aims it into the darkness.

Two shots have been fired.

As Peter Himmelstrand sucks on his cigarette once more, Majvor takes the opportunity to read the inscription on the barrel.
Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum.

Just as few Americans can hear the date
9/11
without thinking about the Twin Towers, so there are few Swedes who can hear
.357 Magnum
without seeing the image of Hans Holmér, chief of the Swedish National Security Service, with two revolvers dangling from his forefingers. Not the actual gun, but the
type
of gun that killed Olof Palme. The actual gun has never been found.