I Am Behind You (9 page)

The following day when Majvor was making chilli con carne for Donald's dinner, she finished it off with a spoonful of rat poison. She sat opposite her husband as he ate, grimacing at the strong chilli flavour; she had made the dish extra spicy to hide the taste of the poison.

Donald didn't even finish his meal before he was overcome by convulsions. He staggered into the bathroom and threw up, over and over again. When Majvor went in a few minutes later, he was lying on the floor, shaking. His lips were blue, his face bright red. Majvor held out a jug of cream.

‘Drink this. You've eaten rat poison.'

Donald stared at her, unable to speak, but he managed to pour most of the cream down his throat, apart from a small amount that trickled down his chest and stomach. A little while later he threw up again. Majvor left him in peace.

When he emerged from the bathroom an hour or so later after a cavalcade of vomiting and diarrhoea, he held up a shaky hand and announced that he was going to report Majvor to the police for attempted murder.

‘Fine,' she said. ‘As you wish. Our marriage will be over, of course. Or you could try listening to me when I really mean what I say. If you do that, then this kind of thing won't happen again.'

Donald chose the latter option, and Majvor never again felt the need to resort to such extreme measures. Albert was allowed to sleep in their bedroom for another year, and when he moved into
the other room, Donald didn't say a word if Majvor got up to comfort him.

Since then there had been only a few occasions when Majvor had got her own way by saying a very clear yes or no. Donald knew where the line was, and in return Majvor made sure that she didn't weaken her veto by overusing it. Peace reigned.

*

Without asking, Donald places two cans of beer on the table and waits until Peter has opened his and taken a swig. Then he says: ‘If anything is going to get done around here, then you and I are going to have to do it. Would I be right in saying that you realise that too?'

The look Peter gives Donald suggests that he isn't quite so sure, so Donald feels the need to expand on his original statement.

‘You're a
doer
, just like me. You don't sit around twiddling your thumbs and waiting for someone else to solve the problem.'

Peter shrugs, and Donald has to be satisfied with that for the moment. He leans forward and lowers his voice to indicate that this is just between the two of them. ‘You can tell me what you saw out there, for a start. So we know what we're dealing with.'

Peter takes a deep breath, then he puts down the can of beer, straightens up and says: ‘I saw my father.'

‘Your father?'

‘Yes. First of all I saw…something else. Something that was just my imagination. Then I saw my father. In the distance.'

‘Okay. But what would he be doing here?'

‘I've no idea. I didn't ask.'

Peter's voice and posture have regained most of their former confidence, but Donald can't make any sense of what he is saying. One thing in particular is bothering him.

‘Pardon me for asking what might seem like an odd question, but…is your father still
alive
?'

‘No,' Peter says. ‘No, he isn't. Fortunately.'

Donald has a battery of follow-up questions, but is forced to put them on hold when he sees Stefan approaching.

‘Here comes the shopkeeper. We'll talk more later.'

*

When Stefan reaches the entrance to the awning, he sees Peter and Donald sitting opposite one another at the teak table, each with a can of beer in front of them. Something about their posture makes Stefan hesitate for a second. They both have one arm resting on the table, the other on their thigh, as they turn to look at him.

This is men's talk.

Stefan cannot sit like that without looking ridiculous, and in spite of the fact that he is in charge of a fairly large store, he is always embarrassed when he has to drop off the car at the workshop and talk to the mechanics. There is a way of moving, a way of speaking that has never been accessible to him. That male thing.

‘Hi,' Peter says, nodding towards an empty chair. ‘How's it going?'

Stefan sits down. Peter seems to have recovered following his return, and that sense of disorientation is no longer in evidence. Perhaps Donald is a good psychologist, in spite of his bumptiousness.

‘Well…' Stefan says.

Donald leans over to the refrigerator. ‘Drink?'

The beer Stefan drank earlier is still swishing around inside his head like the prelude to intoxication, so he waves the offer away. Donald gets out a fresh can for himself, flips it open and says: ‘So?'

‘Well,' Stefan says again, trying to find a sensible sitting position that doesn't look as if he is trying to copy Peter and Donald, ‘I suppose we ought to try and find out what's out there. More systematically, I mean.'

Donald gulps his beer and belches. He almost seems to be imitating Stefan as he repeats: ‘Systematically.'

‘Yes—I don't know about you, but I want to get away from here as soon as possible. I don't want to be here. And our only chance is if
we find something beyond this.'

Peter seems interested. ‘What do you mean by systematically?'

‘We search the area bit by bit. We set out markers, or something. Then we drive off in four directions, setting out these markers at regular intervals. Then we'll know we've covered that particular direction. That will also work for those of us who don't have GPS, so we can find our way back.'

Donald and Peter look at one another. Donald pushes out his lower lip, nods and says: ‘You know what? Stefan, wasn't that your name? That's not a bad idea. Are you sure you won't have a beer?'

*

Four cars. Four directions. Five people. Donald, Peter, Stefan. And Lennart and Olof, who have decided to go together. All the men.

Majvor has handed over her stock of garden canes, the supporting posts from the awning have been taken apart, and Carina has dug out the croquet set and straightened out the hoops. Isabelle is not participating as she is suffering from a headache.

Something must be done. Something must be found. The fear has started to grow.

They had thought the sun would reappear, that it was lurking below the horizon, but the minutes and the hours pass, and there is no sun. It is an absence so great it is impossible to comprehend. The things we take for granted are the things we miss the most when they disappear.

Hence the fear. Because the sun, like the moon, provides us with company. In our deepest loneliness, night or day, we can always turn to them. We have given them faces, ascribed them qualities, called them gods. This is unnecessary. Their silent, impersonal presence is enough. They shine with a power beyond us, confirming that something else exists. That we are not alone.

So however much the people on the campsite are hoping that those who set off will find a store, a village, a means of communication,
they also have high hopes of the sun. That it is still there, in spite of everything. Beyond the horizon.

*

Benny looks over at the caravan where Cat is still lying in the window. He takes a couple of steps towards Cat, but stops, remembering the grip on the scruff of his neck, the flight through the air, the painful landing. He glances back at the awning; his master is sitting down, but that could change.

That feeling comes over Benny. The feeling that he has to catch something, chase something. There is nothing to chase, but that doesn't necessarily stop him trying. He sets off with a sudden jerk, speeding away from the camp in a straight line.

Running is good. The fear is washed away by the air flowing over his fur. Yes and No and Right and Wrong disappear in the drumming of his paws on the grass, the movement of his muscles.

There is nothing to obscure his view, no obstacles on the ground, so Benny can go at top speed. In less than a minute he has left the camp far behind him. He slows down a fraction, then he trots for a little while before sitting down with his tongue hanging out to help him cool down.

He sniffs the air. Now the smells of the camp are weaker, can he pick up anything else? Yes, he can. Fire. Benny spins around but can't locate the source of the smell. It is coming from several directions.

There is, however, something else that interests him. He puts his nose to the ground and sniffs, scampers a few metres. He recognises the smell, but can't understand how it has ended up here.

It smells of Grandchildren.

Sometimes different Hes come to visit his master and mistress. Two of them bring Grandchildren. There are big Grandchildren and there are small Grandchildren. The smell in the grass is the same as the small ones, the ones that aren't even as big as Benny. They lie on their backs waving their arms and legs in the air, making noises.

What are Grandchildren doing here?

Benny carries on sniffing, but cannot pick up the scent of a Him or Her. It is as if the Grandchildren are out and about on their own, even though they can't walk. It doesn't make any sense at all.

Benny is overcome by fear once more. He gives himself a shake and races back towards the camp, to his basket.

*

Peter is on his way out of the door when he hears Isabelle swearing behind him. She has opened the refrigerator and stuck her hand inside. She slams the door and demonstratively turns the knob on the stove.

‘The fucking things are broken. Both the refrigerator and the stove. That's just fucking
perfect
.'

Peter leans over the sink and tries the controls on the stove. Nothing happens. He checks the connections, which look fine.

‘There's something wrong with the bloody thing,' Isabelle goes on. ‘This whole fucking caravan is one big…'

‘I'll sort it out later,' Peter says. ‘I have to go.'

‘Oh yes? And what if you don't come back? Do you expect me and your daughter to sit here and rot with no stove, no refrigerator, no power? Do you?'

Molly is sitting at the table, drawing. She appears to be ignoring Isabelle's gloomy predictions, and calmly chooses a new felt-tip. Peter walks over to her.

‘I'm off, sweetheart. Is that okay?'

‘That's fine, Daddy. Look.'

Molly holds out her picture. It shows four caravans and four cars on the same level, with no perspective. Standing in a row in front of the caravans are eight adults and a child, a little girl. They are all smiling. Slightly to one side are figures that are presumably meant to be a dog and cat. They too are smiling broadly.

Peter points to the drawing. ‘What about your friend? The little boy? Shouldn't he be there?'

Molly shakes her head. ‘We don't need him.' She starts to draw a cheerful yellow sun in the sky, and Peter refrains from further comment. There is something about the picture that makes him feel uncomfortable, but he doesn't know what it is.

A few weeks earlier Molly had happened to see a news report from Iraq. A car bomb. Peter didn't manage to switch off the TV before the image changed to people weeping and screaming as injured friends and relatives were carried away on stretchers. The following day Molly had done a drawing. A jolly-looking man driving a burning car, surrounded by equally jolly men and women being blown to pieces. And up in the sky, that same beaming sun.

‘Bye, Daddy,' Molly says as she begins to fill in the sun with a thick yellow felt-tip.

Peter turns away and is met by a searching look from Isabelle. He moves quickly towards the door, but she steps sideways and positions herself in front of him.

‘Why are you so bloody keen to get away?'

‘The others are about to leave.'

‘You still haven't told me what happened.'

‘Happened? Nothing happened.'

‘You're lying. And I'm wondering why.'

Peter's cheeks flush red. He is neither willing nor able to explain to Isabelle. He just wants to get away, but she is blocking his escape, and the idea of moving her by force is unthinkable.

He is saved by Molly, who looks up and wags her finger at him. ‘Lying is naughty, Daddy. Very naughty indeed.'

The tension is broken and Peter seizes the opportunity. ‘See you later.' He slinks past Isabelle without meeting her eye.

*

GRAND CHEROKEE OVERLAND, 2012 MODEL. Donald can't imagine driving anything other than an American car. They produce decent vehicles with no frills. Admittedly this particular model has far
too much unnecessary frippery on the instrument panel—Bluetooth and hands-free and MP3 and God knows what else—but the wheel is sturdy and the pedals a good size. You can tell you're driving a car. Four-wheel drive and the six-cylinder engine mean you can get just about anywhere. Donald likes to know that he can tackle rough terrain off-road, even if he never actually does. It's just the feeling that the car is built for it.

His gun is lying on the back seat, and the only thing missing is his hat. Donald revs the engine and grinds his teeth. Sitting here in his car, his chest expanding in time with the roar of the cylinders, he can't understand why he gave in to Majvor. He loved his stetson, his cowboy hat, but he had hung it up on the wall after Majvor said it made him look ridiculous.

That hat would have been perfect right now. Donald stares out across the endless field. He is going to explore the unknown, venture out into the unmarked areas on the map.
How the west was won.
He takes his foot off the gas a fraction, puts the car in gear and skids away.

VOLVO 740, 1990 MODEL. The good thing about a Volvo is that you can always get hold of spare parts. Olof has driven over four hundred thousand kilometres in his good and faithful servant, and has replaced this and that along the way. The external details, so to speak. There has never been a problem with the engine itself. The doors are warped, the seats lumpy, the gears are stiff and the boot is fastened with a hasp that Olof fitted himself, but she still goes.