I Am Behind You Read online

  ‘Cynthia fifteen is due to calve in a couple of days,’ Olof says.

  ‘Ante will be fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  They sit in silence for a while, with Olof’s pen doing the most scratching since Lennart is tackling the most difficult puzzle. After a few minutes Olof puts down his pen and says: ‘Do you think something might happen? Between them? During our absence, so to speak?’

  ‘Time will tell.’

  ‘Yes. It would be a great help, though.’

  ‘It would.’

  Lennart smiles and strokes the back of Olof’s hand. Then he taps his teeth with his pen as he stares at his crossword. His face clears as he suddenly sees the solution to one clue, which in turn unlocks a couple more, and he sets to work with renewed enthusiasm. Olof gazes out of the scratched plexiglas window, which distorts the view. Not that it matters, since all there is to see is the grass and the sky, the sky and the grass. He thinks about the other people who are seeing the same thing, and says: ‘Things could get a bit tricky before long.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I don’t know, but most people aren’t capable of dealing with a situation like this. And that could lead to…trouble.’

  ‘You’re probably right. The question is how much trouble.’

  Olof’s gaze is once again drawn to the window. The empty sky, the empty field that would make him feel utterly abandoned if Lennart wasn’t here beside him. He says: ‘Quite a lot, I should imagine. A hell of a lot, in fact. Trouble.’

  Lennart also looks out of the window. He nods. ‘You’re probably right. Unfortunately.’

  *

  Stefan connects the stove and heats up a pan of water so that he can make himself and Carina a cup of instant coffee. Fortunately the refrigerator also works on gas, and the milk carton is cold against his fingers. He pours a generous splash into his coffee and a dash into Carina’s, then carries the cups over to the table and sits down opposite his wife. He takes a sip, then says: ‘We have a bit of a problem.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I was going to ring the supplier today. They’ve been sending the same amount of herring since midsummer.’

  ‘Why is that a problem?’

  ‘Well, we’re going to be stuck with half a pallet that nobody wants to buy.’

  ‘If we get back.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m sure we will. Sooner or later.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘What’s the alternative?’

  Stefan knows what the alternative is, but has decided that it is pointless to acknowledge it until they know more, until Peter returns. It’s no good assuming the worst, nor brooding unnecessarily about what has happened; that can only lead to unpleasantness.

  If he avoids looking out of the window, there is nothing strange about the situation. Quite the reverse. He and Carina are sitting here with their hands around their coffee cups chatting about the minor problems of everyday life. Nothing could be more natural.

  ‘We’ll have to run some kind of campaign,’ Carina says.

  Stefan has been working so hard to imagine that everything is normal that he has lost the thread.

  ‘Sorry? Campaign?’

  ‘To get rid of the herring. A sales campaign.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Stefan says. ‘Good idea.’

  *

  Peter gets back in the car, starts the engine and gently depresses the accelerator. His perception of isolation is so complete that even his inner voice has fallen silent, and is no longer keeping him company. On the leather-upholstered seat is the shell of the man who was once Peter Sundberg, about to collapse in on himself and disintegrate into the empty field.

  The GPS screen flickers and turns blue. Peter taps it a couple of times, even though he knows there is no point. He stops the car, turns off the GPS, turns it back on again. Nothing. Only blue, as if he were out at sea.

  He randomly presses all the buttons, bringing up menus and settings, but no map or position indicators. Strangely enough this does not frighten him; it actually feels quite good, as if he has escaped.

  On a whim he puts the car in reverse. After thirty metres the map reappears. He brakes and something shifts inside his head. The playfulness is gone. He rests his chin on the steering wheel and stares out of the windscreen. There is some kind of border a few metres ahead of him. He opens the door and gets out, walks towards the point where the map disappears.

  Something happens, something striking. It reminds him of arriving in Thailand and walking out through the airport doors after spending many hours in an air-conditioned environment: the wave of heat and humidity that strikes him, the instant change. It is just as powerful here, but completely different in character.

  Peter sits down on the grass five metres from the car, his knees drawn up and his hands loosely linked over his shins. Total silence surrounds him. He is at rest. No Isabelle with her capricious demands and constant air of discontent. No Molly, hiding her nastiness beneath the guise of a princess. No one pulling him this way and that, wanting something from him.

  Nothing. Just nothing. The perfect stillness when the free kick from thirty metres curves over the wall, half a second away from landing in the goal. When everyone knows. In half a second the opposing team’s shoulders will slump as they accept the inevitable, his own team will raise their arms in celebration, but it hasn’t happened yet. Right now the ball is hanging in the air, the whole stadium holds its breath, in awe. That moment.

  Here he sits, Peter Sundberg. Over the years he has made hundreds of women feel better. And a few men, to be honest. But mostly women. They are sent to him if they are undecided. Is joining the gym, taking up aerobics really for them? After fifteen minutes with Peter, they usually sign up for annual membership. He does his best to meet their expectations. He remembers their names, always has a few encouraging words for them.

  ‘How’s it going, Sally? Looking good!’ ‘How’s your foot, Ebba? I’m impressed to see you back so soon!’ ‘You can do it, Margareta, I know you can!’

  They often fall for him. When he can’t make their dreams come true in that respect, many want him to be their confidant instead, particularly those who have him as their personal trainer.

  When they are relaxing after a training session, sitting together and assessing the client’s progress, a sense of closeness can often arise, a bubble that forms around the two of them. Sometimes they want to tell him who they are, what their lives are like.

  Peter is no psychologist; he rarely has any advice to offer beyond nutrition and stretching. But he knows how to listen. He can nod, he can shake his head, he can say ‘mmm’. And that seems to be enough. He has received many bunches of flowers during the four years he has worked at the gym.

  But that’s not the most important thing. What gives him real satisfaction is to see a woman in her forties or fifties turn up at the gym looking like a sack of potatoes, an unhappy sack of potatoes, and then to watch the same woman walk in a year later looking like a different person. Not perfect, not necessarily happy, but with the strength to live, both physical and mental. A straighter back, a glint in the eye. That’s what makes his job worthwhile.

  Peter nods to himself and looks at his forearms, sinewy and muscular, covered in fine blond hairs. He feels a kind of vibration inside. And not only inside; as he gazes at his arms the hairs stand up, and he can feel his scalp crawling.

  He gets to his feet, pictures the empty field before him filled with women. His women. The women he has steered out of incapability and apathy. He feels their gratitude pouring towards him, their love.

  Eva, Aline, Beatrice, Katarina, Karin, Lena, Ida, Ingela, Helena, Margareta, Sofia, Sissela, Anna-Karin…

  They are all wearing identical work-out clothes. Black tights, black tank tops. Their faces are radiant, and he feels a shudder of sensual pleasure. The vibration increases in strength; it has to find an outlet. He jumps up and down on the spot, shouting ‘Yes! Yes!’ />
  He rushes back to the car and switches on the radio. Mona Wessman’s voice emerges from the speakers and he turns up the volume until the bass rattles. He doesn’t lose heart, but shouts ‘Okay!’ and dashes back to his starting point.

  Right leg lift, bam-bam-bam, other leg, bam-bam-bam, arms up, bam-bam, and again, bam-bam.

  Everyone follows him, keeping to the beat, copying his movements; the group grows bigger and bigger until it fills the entire field. All the women in the world are obeying the smallest gesture, working with him. Their pulse is his pulse, the sweat running down his back is their sweat.

  ‘Come on, ladies! Terrific!’

  He increases the tempo, working twice as fast, and no one drops out, everyone is keeping up. This is the class he has dreamed of, but never achieved. The synchronised dance, the total unity. When the chorus comes along he just has to join in.

  He has never been happier.

  As the song fades away he releases his stiff cock from his shorts; it only takes a couple of tugs before he is overcome by an orgasm so powerful that his legs give way as his semen spurts across the grass.

  Peace. He feels peace.

  *

  Benny raises his head, cocks one ear. He can hear a new sound, coming from far away. He glances at his master and mistress, who are sitting at the table, but they don’t appear to have noticed anything. Benny edges along to the opening and looks out.

  Several Hes and Shes are approaching. Benny turns his head and sees his master open the cold box next to his basket and take out a few cans. Benny has experienced this kind of thing before. There will be loud voices and lots of people trying to pat him, which he doesn’t like. He screws up his courage and slips out, in the direction of the noise.

  All the Hes and Shes go inside the awning, while Benny stares into the emptiness. It is impossible to see where the noise is coming from, but he recognises it. It is the same as the sound that comes from his master’s box, the one on the table. Benny is satisfied, and decides to inspect the area while all the Hes and Shes are safely inside.

  The absence of smells from other animals is distressing. There doesn’t seem to be much point in marking his territory when there is nothing against which to defend it, but he goes through the motions anyway. You never know. A Fox or Dog could just turn up and get the idea that this is their place. Or Cat might start taking liberties.

  Benny glances at Cat’s caravan, wondering whether to go over and show himself so that Cat won’t forget about him, when a squeaking noise catches his attention. He heads towards it and spots the small He and She.

  Benny is wary of small people. They sometimes pull his tail and behave unpleasantly in all kinds of ways. He stops at a safe distance and tilts his head on one side, trying to see what they are up to.

  They have opened a flap and Benny senses that they are doing something that isn’t right. She looks fine, but He doesn’t. Benny is exactly the same when he has stolen a sausage. Benny knows all about Right and Wrong, and the small He is clearly doing something that is Wrong.

  Benny cannot work out what this might be, but one thing he does know: the small He is going to get a good smack on the nose. Sooner or later. End up with no dinner. That kind of thing.

  *

  Majvor has been married to Donald for forty-six years. He proposed on his twenty-fifth birthday, and she said yes straight away. She saw no reason to give him a different answer. In those days Donald was just an ordinary employee at the sawmill, but Majvor knew that he would soon make progress. She was right.

  She has given him four sons, and they are all decent men. She has run a large household, cooked, cleaned, shopped, done the laundry. She has had her hands full for almost thirty years, and has never felt the need to complain.

  He has never hit her, and is not a big drinker. She is pretty sure he has been unfaithful, but this hasn’t particularly bothered her. Men are men, and although she might have shed a few tears over a shirt carrying the scent of an unfamiliar perfume, she has quickly put the matter behind her and has never plagued him with questions.

  He has accompanied her to church on high days and holidays even though he does not share her faith, which is kind of him. In return she has never tried to convert him or force him into a piety that is not in his nature.

  They have been lucky, all in all. She’d grown up poor, with no special talents, and so had Donald, but together they have raised four fine sons, and can rest on their laurels in a large house by the sea, with two cars and a boat. The Lord has indeed smiled down upon them. To think anything else would be the height of arrogance.

  Majvor doesn’t know what to make of the situation in which they now find themselves. The Lord may or may not be involved, as is so often the case. When she has a moment to herself, she will ask Him for advice. He probably won’t answer, and as usual she will be left to her own devices. That’s how it should be.

  But it looks as if it will be a while before that moment comes. The people from the other caravans are arriving, one by one or two by two, at Donald’s invitation. Majvor gets up to welcome them. She is a good hostess, as she has been told so many times.

  She intends to carry on being herself, a person who is basically kind. Whatever happens.

  *

  ‘Why are we doing this?’

  ‘Because it’s fun, of course.’

  ‘How is it fun?’

  ‘You’ll see, you stupid dog.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a dog any more. Tell me.’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘About the monster and so on.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘But you promised! You said that if I—’

  ‘First of all I have to be sure you won’t say anything.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘You swear?’

  ‘I swear!’

  ‘Do you swear on your mummy’s life? If you say anything, she’ll die?’

  ‘…’

  ‘There you go. You will say something.’

  ‘I won’t! I swear!’

  ‘On your mummy’s life?’

  ‘…’

  ‘On your mummy’s life?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Repeat after me: If I say anything, my mummy will die.’

  ‘If I say anything, my…I don’t want to.’

  ‘In that case the monster can have you.’

  *

  Seven people are gathered around the teak table in Donald and Majvor’s awning, three along each side, Donald at the head. Only Stefan and Donald have a can of beer in front of them; the others have soft drinks, or nothing. After all, it’s only morning. Presumably.

  Donald has told them that the radio is working, and together they have listened to Mona Wessman singing about the hambo, but there is no presenter.

  If this was a meeting, it would have been abandoned by now. The atmosphere is oppressive, and no one is saying anything. From time to time someone turns to the opening in the canvas awning, looking for those who are not here. Everyone must be present. Perhaps that is why nothing is happening, nothing is being said.

  Donald takes a swig of his beer and leans back, placing his hands on his belly. ‘So…’ One or two people nod as if to confirm he is correct. Stefan even goes so far as to say ‘Right’, mainly to thank Donald for the beer.

  Majvor notices that Isabelle’s hands are shaking. She reaches across the table and pats her arm. ‘My dear, are you ill?’

  Isabelle swallows audibly. ‘Have you got any sweets? A Mars bar or a Dime, anything?’

  Donald snorts. ‘Are you a sugar addict? Oh well, sweets to the sweet, as they say.’

  He looks around, but no one even smiles at his joke. He is about to try again, but catches Majvor’s steady gaze and takes another swig from his can instead.

  ‘We’ve got homemade buns,’ Majvor says.

  Isabelle rubs her arm and nods. ‘That’ll do, thanks.’

  Majvor gets to her feet and waddles over to the door of the caravan
, mounting the step with a groan. Donald watches her with displeasure and turns to Stefan. He looks as if he is about to say something, but changes his mind. Silence reigns once more.

  Donald contemplates the assembled company, searching for an opening. He settles on Lennart and Olof, who are sitting opposite one another at the far end of the table. ‘So what about you two?’ he says. ‘Tell me about yourselves.’

  The two men shuffle uncomfortably.

  ‘Lennart.’

  ‘Olof. Think of the former Centre Party leaders.’

  ‘I don’t know any of their names. Apart from Fälldin. But I do know the name of every single American president.’

  ‘Impressive,’ Lennart says.

  ‘Very,’ Olof adds.

  Donald narrows his eyes as he tries to work out whether they are making fun of him, but there is nothing to indicate that this is the case. Their expressions are open and interested, so he holds up his hands and begins to count on his fingers.

  ‘Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison.’

  Out of the corner of his eye he sees Majvor thud down the step with a plate of buns in her hand. He is well aware of her views on demonstrating his little party trick, but he doesn’t care.

  ‘Monroe, Adams, Jackson, Van Buren, Harrison.’

  Majvor has barely put down the plate before Isabelle grabs two buns, one in each hand; it almost seems as if she can’t chew fast enough to get them down. Majvor smiles and nods. It’s nice when people eat what you’re offering.

  ‘Tyler, Polk, Taylor.’

  Stefan glances towards the opening and sighs. He can’t stop thinking about that bloody herring. Three hundred tins will be on their way to the warehouse. If only he could make a phone call. Why isn’t that possible? There might be pockets in the depths of Norrland that have no reception these days, but this is not the depths of Norrland. Not by a long way.

  ‘Fillmore, Pierce, Buchanan, Lincoln!’

  Lennart and Olof are frozen, like two small animals caught in the headlights of Donald’s gaze; his eyes are fixed on them as the names come pouring out. There is something vaguely frightening and possibly aggressive about the performance. They would like to hold hands, but of course they don’t.