I Am Behind You Read online

  Donald had eventually weaved his way home, with an ‘arrivederci, maestro’ flung over his shoulder, and Isabelle had called Peter the most pathetic human being she had ever met. She had then proceeded to remind him that he had wasted the majority of his Italian millions on a failed restaurant project. And so on, and so on. A perfectly normal evening.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  Donald steps down from the caravan, using the doorpost for support. Peter takes a step backwards to make room for the belly, and says: ‘Something’s happened. It’s hard to explain, it’s best if you take a look for yourself…’ Peter follows the American custom and adds: ‘…Donald.’

  Donald looks around. ‘What do you mean, Peter? What’s happened?’

  Peter backs out of the awning and makes a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘You need to see for yourself. Otherwise you won’t believe me.’

  As Peter heads for the last caravan where the occupants are still sleeping, he hears Donald gasp and mutter something that sounds like: ‘Holy shit.’

  *

  Emil has come down from his alcove and is kneeling between Stefan and Carina on the double bed, looking out of the window. He points at the horizon and turns to Stefan.

  ‘How far is that?’

  ‘The horizon, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘About five kilometres—that’s what they say, anyway.’

  Emil nods as if this is what he suspected all along, then says: ‘Maybe there’s nothing after that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you can’t see anything else.’

  Stefan glances at Carina, who has hardly said a word since she first looked out of the window, then went outside for a minute before going back to bed. Her gaze is lost in the distance, and Stefan cups her shoulder with his hand. ‘Are you okay, sweetheart?’ he asks.

  ‘This…’ she says, waving her hand at the window. ‘This is crazy. Have you tried the phone?’

  ‘Yes. No reception.’

  Carina’s eyes flicker back and forth across the field, but find nothing on which they can settle. She hides her face in her hands.

  ‘Don’t be sad, Mummy,’ Emil says, patting her back. ‘Everything will work out. Won’t it, Daddy?’

  Stefan nods. The promise does not involve any kind of commitment; things always work out. Sometimes for the best, sometimes for the worst. But they will work out, one way or another.

  Emil picks up a Donald Duck comic from the shelf above the bed and lies down on his stomach. He looks at the pictures, his lips moving as he spells out the words. He is old enough to realise that what has happened to them is very strange, incomprehensible in fact, but then a lot of things are like that in his world. Thunderstorms, elks, electricity and why eggs go hard when you boil them, while potatoes go soft. This is just something else to add to the list. He has an enormous amount of trust. Mummy and Daddy will fix this, somehow.

  Carina takes her hands away from her face, chewing on her lower lip as she asks: ‘Is this for real?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean…this just can’t be happening. Is it for real?’

  Stefan understands roughly what she means, but the thought hadn’t occurred to him. Could this just be in their heads, like a hallucination or a mass psychosis?

  ‘I think so,’ he says. ‘We’re here now. Somehow.’

  ‘Okay,’ Carina says, turning away from the window. She takes a deep breath and straightens up. ‘How are we for food? And water?’

  *

  There is a faint aroma of dung surrounding the dairy farmers’ old Polar caravan, hooked up to a white Volvo 740. A ginger cat is lying in the window, glaring at him. Peter stands there contemplating the whole set-up. There is something homely about it, as if the caravan, the car and the cat have always been here, exuding normality.

  The other evening Peter had passed by on his way to the laundry block. The two farmers had been sitting outside on deckchairs doing crosswords; from a CD player on the table came the sound of Abba’s ‘Dancing Queen’. They had got to their feet and introduced themselves: ‘Lennart and Olof. Just like the former leaders of the Centre Party.’

  Peter knocks on the door and hears movement from inside. Donald’s caravan had rocked; this one creaks and squeaks, the metal complaining beneath the weight of the person who after a couple of attempts manages to push open the refractory door.

  Peter has no idea whether the man in front of him is Lennart or Olof. They are so alike that he took them for brothers at first. The same round faces and deep-set, kindly brown eyes. The same age, just over fifty, and the same height. The same bodies marked by hard work, the same strong, callused hands.

  The man is wearing a pair of blue dungarees with only one shoulder strap fastened. He blinks at the light, at Peter.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I’ll just…’

  He concentrates on the other strap and Peter peers into the caravan. Then he takes a step back so that the angle is different. So that he can’t see.

  With the strap in place, the man looks back at Peter, surprised to find him in a slightly different spot.

  ‘Good morning?’ he says.

  Peter is still confused by what he saw inside the caravan. ‘Er…The thing is…It’s…’

  The view from the caravan is not obscured by an awning, so Peter contents himself with waving his hand at the surroundings. The man looks around, leans out so that he can see to the right and the left, then stares up at the sky as he murmurs: ‘Well I’ll be…’

  ‘I don’t know any more than you,’ Peter says. ‘Perhaps we ought to have a meeting, all of us who are here. Talk about what we’re going to do.’

  The man looks back at Peter. There is something transparent about the deep-set eyes now, as if a fragment of the sky has settled there. He shakes his head and says: ‘Do?’

  ‘Yes. We have to…do something.’

  ‘What can we do?’

  Presumably the man is in shock, which is hardly surprising under the circumstances. Peter raises a clenched fist—the captain rallying the team before a match—and says: ‘We’ll have a meeting. Okay?’

  Without waiting for a response he turns and sets off towards his own caravan. Behind him he hears the man’s voice: ‘Olof, wake up. You have to see this.’

  So Peter must have been talking to Lennart. He rubs his scalp, hard. There is a lot to take in this morning, because through the open door he saw the farmers’ bed. A double bed with a substantial body under the covers on one side. The other side was empty.

  Peter isn’t particularly bigoted, as far as he knows. But the thought of those two old men…it’s hard to imagine. Really hard. Peter massages his scalp, trying to erase the picture. He has enough to think about without that.

  What can we do?

  That’s the question. Personally, he has no idea. He doesn’t know why he has taken it upon himself to go around and wake people, but he felt as if someone ought to do it. He can no longer remember why he felt that way. To avoid being alone, perhaps.

  *

  Five packets of instant noodles.

  Just over a kilo of rice.

  Half a box of macaroni.

  Two tins of chopped tomatoes.

  Two tins of sweetcorn.

  Two onions.

  A kilo of potatoes.

  Four large carrots.

  One pepper.

  Half-full bags of oats, flour and sugar.

  Lingonberry jam, apple sauce.

  One litre of milk, one litre of yoghurt.

  Four eggs.

  Half a packet of crispbread, three slices of white bread.

  Herbs and spices.

  No meat, no fish. They were supposed to be going shopping today.

  ‘At least the water tank is full,’ Stefan says.

  *

  The area between the caravans is not large. A hundred square metres perhaps—half a tennis court. The occupants have gathered in this space. They are dis
cussing what has happened as if it were some rare natural phenomenon—being transported to a different place, or the fact that their surroundings have disappeared.

  Carina is not alone in doubting the authenticity of what they are experiencing. Majvor, Donald’s wife, also thinks they are dealing with an altered reality rather than a geographical location. In the best-case scenario she thinks it is only temporary, like an optical illusion.

  The men are more inclined to regard the situation as a problem to be solved, a nut to be cracked. If they have been moved, how has this happened? If everything around them has been dismantled, how is that possible? And why? Why?

  Lennart and Olof follow the discussion, listening and nodding, but they say very little, offer no theories.

  Mobile phone histories are examined with the aim of working out exactly when contact with the outside world was lost. Isabelle is the person who received the latest text, from a friend on her way home from a party. The message arrived at 2.26 am. Since then, nothing.

  Molly woke up just before she roused Isabelle at about six-thirty.

  It happened at some point during those four hours. Whatever ‘it’ might be.

  *

  The people are busy, and Benny seizes the opportunity. A quick thirty-metre dash and he is standing below the window where Cat is lying, puffing herself up to twice her size.

  Cat is like Benny in some ways, and completely different in others. She is unpleasant and provocative, which is why Benny starts barking at her.

  Cat cannot bark—it’s just one of those things. Instead she gets to her feet and makes that noise that sounds like fast-flowing water. Cat makes her noise and Benny barks until he feels a hand seize him by the back of the neck, and hears his master’s voice.

  ‘Shut up, you stupid dog!’

  Benny whimpers and scrabbles helplessly in the air with his paws as he is carried back Home by the scruff of his neck. The last thing he sees is Cat lying down and beginning to wash herself. As if she is pleased. This is so annoying that he lets out another bark, then he goes flying several metres through the air and lands on his back in his basket. He yelps in pain and curls up, hiding his head under his blanket.

  *

  ‘What do you think you’re doing to that dog?’

  Isabelle has never been interested in animal rights’ issues, but there is something about the way Donald behaves that disgusts her. It is possible that the feeling is mutual, because Donald looks at her as if she were a slug in his garden. He smiles and says: ‘No need for you to bother your pretty little head about that, my dear.’

  Isabelle is not often lost for words. Donald is so lacking in self-awareness with his John Wayne–style machismo that it is almost frightening. She glances at Peter to see if there is any reaction to the way Donald has spoken to her, and indeed there is. He is staring down at the ground, unable to hide the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Right, listen up!’ Donald says to the group. ‘How about we give each other a little space to begin with—what do you think?’ He pushes outwards with his hands as if he is knocking down invisible walls. ‘I don’t see the point in treading on each other’s toes when we have all this room!’

  Donald is wearing an old pair of tracksuit bottoms. Isabelle studies the area around the crotch, where a number of dried urine stains can be seen. Three steps forward and one good kick, right there. It’s an option. For the time being she raises her voice and says: ‘We can talk as much as we like about how and when we got here and how to arrange our caravans, but surely we have to start by finding out what’s out there, for fuck’s sake. There might be a supermarket just a few kilometres away! How about that? Freshly baked bread and some porn mags for good old Donald!’

  She looks Donald straight in the eye as she says this. His cheeks flush, and Isabelle feels that the kick is no longer necessary. Peter steps between them and gives Isabelle a dirty look before he speaks: ‘I’ll go. My wife’s choice of words may not always be…but I’m happy to go.’

  Isabelle is about to say something suitably devastating to Peter, but Molly tugs at her hand.

  ‘Mummy? I want something.’

  *

  Emil doesn’t like it when there are lots of grown-ups around. Their voices and movements turn funny, as if they were on TV. Emil stays close to his mummy, Carina. Fortunately she doesn’t say anything to the other grown-ups, just keeps her arm around his shoulders and lets him rest his head on her thigh.

  The grown-ups are talking in loud voices, and Emil can tell they are frightened. He would like to drive away from here right now with Mummy and Daddy, but he realises this is impossible. There is nowhere to go. Not yet, anyway.

  The lady that looks like a model is shouting horrible things, and Emil shakes his head. Somebody really ought to tell her off, but not Mummy or Daddy, because she might start yelling at them too. The model-lady’s husband says he is happy to go.

  Emil gazes out across the field. He has the distinct feeling that there is something horrible in the distance, beyond the point where they can see, and he thinks it is silly for the model-lady’s husband to go. He seems nice, the kind of person who knows what to do.

  Emil closes his eyes, screwing them up as he tries to push away the idea that there is something nasty out there. He pictures a great big broom, no, a vacuum cleaner that comes along and sucks up all his stupid ideas, down into the bag, then he removes the bag and throws it in the garbage. Then he takes the garbage bag out to the bin. And then a truck comes along and empties the bin and…he doesn’t know what happens next.

  Emil opens his eyes and is just about to ask his mother where the rubbish goes after it has been collected, but there is a girl standing in front of him. She is the same height as him, and she looks a little bit like the model-lady. There is at least one very similar girl at Emil’s day care; she is nice but she shouts and screams quite a lot.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the girl asks.

  ‘Emil,’ he says, pressing closer to his mother.

  ‘I’m Molly,’ the girl says. ‘Let’s go and play.’

  Emil looks up at his mother. She doesn’t look very pleased, but she removes her arm from his shoulders. Molly takes his hand and drags him away. Mummy is smiling and nodding now. Emil allows himself to be led to a strange caravan. He’s not very keen, but he doesn’t know how to say no.

  *

  Peter watches Molly and the boy disappear into the caravan as he heads for the car. His daughter always makes new friends. If that’s the right expression. She creates a court around herself. Collects other children and tells them what to do. He knows that she had already noticed the boy, but had dismissed him as too pathetic to bother with. Instead she focused her attention on slightly older children, but not so much older that they were immune to her charm. Now they are gone, it seems that the boy will have to do.

  Gone?

  Peter leans against the car door and takes a deep breath. It is so quiet here. There is nothing but the sound of voices as the others continue to discuss the idea of rearranging the caravans. It is up to him now. He will find the way out and save them from emptiness.

  A childhood memory pops into his mind. Peter is nine years old. It is November, and he is standing outside the door of the apartment where he and his mother are living temporarily. He fishes out his key, which is on a chain pinned to the inside of his pocket. As he is about to put the key in the lock, he hears a sound from the basement. He jumps and drops the key, which dangles on the end of its chain, tapping against his knee. He gasps and reaches for it, then suddenly freezes. And straightens up.

  For a few seconds he sees himself from the outside. The secondhand padded jacket that is far too thin, the frayed jeans. Standing outside the door of a sparsely furnished apartment that he hates. He sees how grey and boring his childhood has been, always on the run. And during those few seconds, as the fear subsides, he also sees what he really wants: to get away from here.

  Peter clutches the car
key in his pocket. Back then, when he was nine years old, he felt a vague desire to become an adult, to be able to make his own decisions about his life. Adulthood was the place where he longed to be, shimmering before him like a mirage. One day he would get there. But now? What if it is actually impossible to get away?

  Peter shakes his head. People are relying on him. Obviously they are somewhere, and from somewhere it must be possible to get to somewhere else. Simple.

  He slips in behind the wheel and closes the door with a soft click. The sound of a new car. When he starts the engine he glances in the rear-view mirror and sees that the group’s attention is focused on him. He makes a slow U-turn and plasters on the smile he uses as an aerobics instructor, that’s terrific, you’re all doing really well, and raises his hand in a greeting as he drives past.

  They wave back and he is struck by how alone they are. Cast out into emptiness by an unknown hand, for an unknown reason, with not even a tree for company. Paradoxically, Peter feels less alone in the car. The smell of the leather seats, the purr of the engine, the lights and diodes on the dashboard, the fact that he is moving forward creates a perception of self-sufficiency. A universe all of his own. He is leaving them, not vice versa.

  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.