To my father, for everything you tried to teach me
I stood in the disenchanted field
Amid the stubble and the stones,
Amazed, while a small worm whispered to me
The song of my marrow bones.
Blue poured into summer blue,
A hawk broke from his cloudless tower,
The roof of the silo blazed, and I knew
That part of my life was over.
Already the iron door of the north
Clangs open: birds, leaves, snows
Order their populations forth,
And a cruel wind blows.
From ‘End of Summer’ by Stanley Kunitz
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Epilogue
About the Author
Extract from Dead of Winter
Copyright
Prologue
Summer 1983
T
he baby rabbit was crouching in the tall grass. Its coat was wet and shiny with the dew that had accompanied dusk into the garden.
He should really go in. His mum didn’t like him being out on his own, especially not when it was getting dark. But he was a big boy now, he would be five in a few weeks, and he liked dusk a lot. Soon all the night animals would start to appear. Hedgehogs would peer out cautiously from beneath the big bushes, then set off across the grass in funny, zigzag paths. Bats would start to swirl about between the tall trees, and from the avenue of chestnuts on the other side of the house he could already hear the first cries of the owls.
It was the rabbits he wanted to see most. Having one of his own was right at the top of his wish list. A fluffy baby rabbit, just like the one sitting over there in the grass. The little creature looked at him, twitching its nose as if it wasn’t sure about his smell. If he was dangerous or harmless. He took a couple of careful steps towards it. The rabbit stayed where it was, it didn’t seem to have made up its mind.
He had been looking forward to his birthday for a couple of months already. He was hoping to get a kite from Mattias. He had watched his big brother spend hours making kites out in Dad’s workshop. The way he carefully measured the canes for the frame, stretched twine between the ends and covered the whole thing with taut, shiny fabric that he had pinched from the boxes up in the attic. Clothes that had once belonged to their grandmother, that Mum hadn’t got round to getting rid of.
Several times this summer he had watched as Mattias and his friends held competitions with their homemade creations. Mattias’s kites always flew highest, every time. Hovering above the fields just like their feathered namesakes.
The rabbit in the grass was still looking at him, so he took a few more steps towards it. He stopped when the animal raised its head slightly. He felt like running straight at the rabbit to grab hold of it. But Uncle Harald always said that a good hunter didn’t rush things, so he waited, standing perfectly still and thinking about his wish list.
He was hoping to get a red car he had seen in the shop in the village from his big sister. It had big flames on its sides, and if you pulled it backwards and then let go, it would race off on its own. It was probably expensive, but Vera was bound to buy it for him anyway. Dad would give her the money. If she asked for it. He didn’t really know if she had forgiven him for the business with the hawk’s eggs, but he didn’t want to think about that. Mattias had forgiven him, but it was harder to tell with Vera.
The baby rabbit lowered its head again and started to nibble on a blade of grass. Its whiskers were twitching so cutely that he very nearly broke Uncle Harald’s rules. But he needed to wait a bit longer. Wait for the moment the rabbit relaxed and was no longer looking in his direction.
He had asked for a bicycle from Mum and Dad. He had already started practising on Mattias’s old one, even though he wasn’t actually supposed to do that on his own. The other day he fell off and grazed his knee. Not badly, but enough to draw blood. He had started to cry, and went and hid in the treehouse. Uncle Harald had found him and gave him a telling off. ‘What did your mum say? Don’t you understand that she gets worried?’
Yes, he understood. His mum worried about him pretty much the whole time. ‘Because you’re my little mouse,’ she always said. ‘Because I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to you.’ That was why he had hidden himself away and didn’t go back into the house. After telling him off, his uncle had put a plaster on his knee and told Mum that he had fallen over on the gravel path between the barn and the house. Easily done if you’re running in wooden-soled shoes. The lie was for his mother’s sake, not his. So she wouldn’t worry. Since then he hadn’t been allowed to wear wooden-soled shoes like Mattias and Vera. He thought that was unfair.
Suddenly the baby rabbit moved. It took a couple of short hops in his direction, in search of longer grass. Instead of running towards it he stood perfectly still. Waiting, just like Uncle Harald said.
Uncle Harald was the best hunter in the area, everyone knew that. There were almost always dead animals hanging from the roof of his boiler room. Pheasants, deer, hares, with empty eyes and stiff bodies. Uncle Harald had rough hands. He smelled of tobacco, oil, dogs and something he couldn’t identify. But he guessed it was something dangerous. A lot of people were scared of Uncle Harald. Vera and Mattias were, even if Vera pretended not to be. She sometimes contradicted him, but you could hear the wobble in her voice. Mattias, on the other hand, didn’t say anything, just stared down at the ground and did as he was told. Fetched Uncle Harald’s pipe or fed his dogs. They weren’t the sort of dogs you could play with. They lived outside in big pens and travelled on the back of the truck rather than inside it. Rough coats, anxious eyes that followed Uncle Harald’s every movement. The other week he went to the swimming pool with Dad and Mattias. He had sat in the sauna listening to the old men talk. When Uncle Harald came in everyone moved out of the way, even Dad. Clearing the best space for him, right in the middle. Looking at him the same way the dogs did.<
br />
The only person who wasn’t scared of Uncle Harald was Mum. Mum wasn’t scared of anyone, except maybe God. Sometimes she and Uncle Harald had arguments. He had heard them say things to each other. Harsh words that he didn’t really understand, but he knew they weren’t nice.
All the same, Uncle Harald’s birthday present was the one he had the highest hopes of. A little rabbit that would be his alone, that’s what his uncle had promised. Maybe just like the one sitting a few metres away from him. If he could catch that one, he’d have two. And Uncle Harald would be proud of him. Proud of him for being a proper hunter.
He’d waited long enough now, so he took another careful step forward. The baby rabbit went on chewing the long grass, didn’t even notice him getting closer. He took another step and slowly reached out his hands. It might just work.
‘Billy, time to come in now!’
The rabbit raised its head, it seemed to be listening to the voice from the house. Then it turned and scampered away.
He felt disappointment tug at his chest. But then the rabbit stopped and looked back at him, as if it was wondering where he’d gone. He hesitated. Mum would be worried if he didn’t go in. The owls were hooting louder now, and the outside lights had come on, making the shadows in the garden deeper. The rabbit was still looking at him. It seemed to be saying: Are you coming?
He took a couple of steps, then a few more.
‘Billy!’ his mum called. ‘Billy, come inside now!’
The hunt was on. The rabbit scampered away from him, and if he was really lucky it would lead him to its burrow. Somewhere full of baby rabbits with big eyes and soft fur. Rabbits he could take home with him. Which could live in the cage Uncle Harald had promised him.
‘Billy!’ Mum’s cry disappeared in the distance. The baby rabbit was still running ahead of him, and even though he was wearing his best running shoes it could probably easily outpace him if it wanted to. Perhaps the rabbit wanted him to catch it? Hug it, make it his.
He followed it through the rows of gnarled old fruit trees. Then in amongst the overgrown bushes. He didn’t really like this furthest part of the garden. Earlier in the summer his friend Isak had found a jawbone on the ground under the dense branches, a white bone with four yellow molars attached. Uncle Harald had said that Grandfather used to bury things there. Things he wanted to get rid of for good. That the jawbone probably belonged to a pig, and that you had to bury some things very deep to stop the foxes finding them.
He had only ever seen one fox in his life. That was when Uncle Harald, Dad and the other men laid the results of their hunt out in the yard last autumn. Narrow eyes, a shimmering red coat, sharp teeth that stuck out beneath the bloodstained nose. The dogs kept their distance from it. They seemed unsettled, almost frightened. Uncle Harald had said that you always shot foxes if you got the chance. That it was the duty of every hunter, whenever the opportunity presented itself. Because foxes were cunning, just like in fairy tales. They knew how to move without leaving a trail.
‘They’ve got incredible noses,’ he said. ‘And foxes love the smell of rabbits and little boys. So make sure you stay inside the fence, Billy!’
Then Uncle Harald had laughed, that rumbling laugh that sounded jolly and dangerous at the same time, and after a while he had started to laugh too. But he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about foxes digging for skeletons in the garden. He even dreamed about them at night. Sharp teeth, paws digging in the soil, damp, shiny noses sniffing the air. Sniffing in the direction of the house for a little boy.
He had avoided that part of the garden since then, and hadn’t protested when Isak wanted to take the pig’s jawbone home with him, even though it should really have been his.
But right now neither skeletons nor foxes could stop him. The rabbit scampered round the dry bushes and he followed it deeper into the undergrowth. A low branch caught his sleeve and he had to stop for a couple of seconds. By the time he had pulled free the rabbit had disappeared.
He hesitated for a few moments, wondering if he should turn back and go up to the house. But he was still caught up in the thrill of the chase. That gave him the courage to go on. Further in amongst the bushes. Like a proper hunter.
More branches reached out towards him, feeling for his clothes with thorny fingers. Somewhere up ahead in the gloom he thought he could see a little white tail bobbing about. Perhaps he’d reached the burrow now? The thought made him speed up, and he almost ran straight into the tall fence that marked the end of the garden.
He stopped abruptly. Just a metre or so beyond the wire fence a dense crop of maize was growing. It wasn’t going to be harvested for a while yet. Not until it had dried and turned yellow, Dad said.
Crickets were chirruping among the leaves, weaving their song into a crisp carpet of sound that almost drowned out his thoughts. The rabbit was on the other side. It was sitting right beneath the green wall of maize plants, watching him. Waiting for him.
The fence was tall. Maybe even taller than Uncle Harald, and certainly too tall for him to be able to climb over. The hunt was over. He wasn’t going to see the rabbit’s burrow. Even so, he couldn’t help feeling a bit relieved. He had never been this far in the garden on his own before. There was only a thin streak of evening light left in the sky, and the shadows among the undergrowth had turned to dense darkness almost without him noticing.
He decided to go home, and was about to turn back when he caught sight of something. A small hollow had been dug out beneath the fence, just big enough for a small boy to crawl through. He looked over towards the rabbit. It was still sitting there.
A gust of wind blew through the field of maize, then the rusty links of the wire fence and the dark bushes behind him. He looked round, then got down on his knees, then his stomach. He wriggled carefully under the jagged wire fence, stood up and brushed the dirt from his hands and knees. He was tingling with excitement. He was out now, beyond the garden, for the first time on his own. He would tell Isak about it on Monday. Maybe Mattias and Vera too. Tell them how brave he was when he caught a rabbit of his very own, only they mustn’t say anything to Mum.
There was a rustling sound among the maize and at first he thought it was the wind again. Then he saw the white tail disappear among the tall plants. The rabbit wasn’t scampering anymore, it was running, fast. Its ears were tucked flat against its head and soil was flying up from its paws. It wasn’t until the rabbit had disappeared from view that he realised what had happened. That the animal’s sensitive nose had picked up a smell belonging to someone other than him. Someone who had burrowed under a fence. Someone with a red coat and sharp teeth who loved the smell of rabbits. And little boys . . .
His heart was beating fast, racing as if it belonged to a frightened little rabbit. The maize plants loomed above him like dark, swaying giants, pushing him back towards the fence. He felt a sob rise in his throat. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of something moving, something red. He turned round and realised at the same moment that the crickets had fallen silent.
Mum! he had time to think. Mum!
Darling,
This is the start of our story. Yours and mine. I’ve tried to resist, tried to keep you away from me and not let myself fall, but now I’m letting go, my darling, and I’m relying on you to catch me. Will you? Or are we both going to fall?
I hope not. I’d like to imagine that our story has a happy ending.
Chapter 1
S
he’s an autumn person, always has been. Or almost always. Once she wished that summer would never end. That the light, warmth and clear blue sky would last forever. But that’s a long time ago now. Another place, another life.
The clock on the wall says that there are eleven minutes to go before the start of the session. So far everything has gone well. She and Ruud have made sandwiches and filled the pump-action thermos flasks with coffee. They’ve arranged the chairs in a neat circle on the grey carpet. Twelve worn, folding metal ch
airs – probably more than they need, but not so many that there’ll be big empty gaps in the circle – with a couple of cheap paper napkins on each seat.
When everything is ready Ruud unlocks the double doors from the foyer, letting in two early arrivals who bring the smell of warm, rain-wet tarmac in with them. Of all the city’s smells, this is the one she likes most. Possibly because there’s something cleansing about it. A new beginning. Just like this day is supposed to be.
The first participant Ruud let in is a man in his thirties, like her. He has tattooed arms, crumpled clothes and a head that seems slightly too large for his body. Probably because of the beard. It’s bushy, unkempt, and he has a dull, bloodshot look in his eyes. He’s unlikely to be alone in that today.
The second participant is older, a grey-haired woman almost as old as Ruud. Her hair is gathered in a long plait down her back. The eyes behind her glasses are kinder than the tattooed bearded man’s, but there’s still something similar about them.
Ruud shepherds them gently towards the coffee, and she’s on the point of going over to introduce herself when it hits her. The feeling that she’s made a big mistake and that everything, all this, is going to go horribly wrong.
Shit!
She rushes out into the kitchen and reaches a chair just before her legs give way. Face in hands, head between her knees, deep, slow breaths.
In.
Out.
Iiiin.
Ouuut.
The sound of Ruud’s polite small talk filters through the swing-door. Curls round her heart, merging with the rhythm in her temples.
‘Did you get the bus here?’ Thud, thud. ‘Oh, the metro.’ Thud, thud. ‘And you drove as usual, Lars? Did you manage a parking space OK? Yes, you have to be careful round here, the traffic wardens are really aggressive.’ Thud, thud, thud.
She can hear other noises now, more participants dragging their feet across the worn carpet, stopping, squinting up at the fluorescent lights until Ruud notices them and brings them into the group using bait that very few people can refuse: ‘There’s coffee and sandwiches over here.’
Hesitant, shuffling steps, the click of plastic cups being pulled apart, followed by the wheeze of the flask. Her breathing gets easier, but she daren’t sit up just yet. She looks down at the tiled floor. Lets her eyes follow one of the cracks, which is beige-grey with grease and dirt. Everything in here is greasy, even the air. Thirty years of ingrained cooking smells, leaving a sticky, salty taste at the back of your throat.
End of Summer Page 1