‘But don’t you understand?’ she says eventually. ‘It doesn’t matter what it means. The important thing is that it’s there for a reason. Someone has marked us, done this to us.’
‘But who?’ Carina says. ‘And how?’
‘I haven’t a clue,’ Majvor snaps, gesturing towards the endless expanse of grass. ‘But there’s someone…something out there that wants to do something to us.’
*
Peter stands with his hands in his pockets, watching the others as they speculate on Majvor’s discovery. He has nothing to add. His thoughts are not here, nor are they concerned with God’s absence. Or perhaps they are, when they zoom in on the penalty against Bulgaria in the World Cup qualifier in 2005, as so often in the past. He can never work out what actually happened.
The match was absolutely critical to Sweden’s participation in the World Cup. A win was vital. The score is 1–1 with a minute left to play. Sweden is awarded a penalty, and Peter is the one to take it.
He doesn’t know how often he has gone over that moment in his mind, how many times people have reminded him of it.
He rotates the ball in his fingers several times before placing it on the penalty spot and taking four steps backwards. The whole Swedish team is behind him, thirty-two thousand spectators in the stadium, and many hundreds of thousands, even millions, watching on TV, all of them following his every movement.
Peter now has tunnel vision. The ball, the goal. The ball has to go over the line. His foot is going to kick the ball and put it in the net. Nothing else exists. This is what his life is about right now. Running forward and kicking the ball so that it…
Something happens. The blinkers fall away and the situation becomes crystal clear to him. He realises that right now he is as far from freedom as it is possible for a human being to be. The hopes of millions of people depend on his ability to carry out a fixed number of mechanical movements in a certain sequence. This is his job, his fate, his allotted task.
That is when he decides to protest. He knows which direction the Bulgarian goalie usually favours; Peter takes a couple of steps forward, and it is as if something within him breaks free from its chains, and eternity is his as he fires a loose ball exactly where the goalie wants it.
He knows that he is letting down an entire nation with this action, and that he will be the target of much venom and derision, probably for years to come. But at that precise moment it feels as if it is worth it, simply to experience that intoxicating sense of freedom. He lets the goalkeeper know just where he intends to shoot, and taps away a ball that even a rank amateur could stop.
And the stupid bastard hurls himself as far as possible in the opposite direction. The shot is so weak that the goalie has time to get back on his feet and dive the other way, but he misses by an inch, and Peter has scored the coolest penalty in the history of Swedish football.
He takes his hands out of his pockets and steps in front of the group, who are studying the cross on Majvor’s caravan.
‘Listen to me,’ he says. ‘There is nothing out there. Nothing. Nix. Nada. Something fucks with your head and makes you start imagining things. That’s all. There might be a darker line on the horizon, and if you want to put a positive interpretation on that, then of course you can. But there’s nothing here except us and what we have now. That’s what we have to accept. If you want to speculate about other stuff, then carry on. But it’s a waste of time. There is nothing.’
Peter flings his arms wide in a final, definitive gesture, then he walks away, heading back to his caravan. Something is bubbling inside him; it could be panic or happiness, it’s hard to tell. But it’s to do with freedom, and it is fizzing as if he has carbon dioxide in his blood.
He has to do something. Play something.
*
This business of the cross is a miscalculation on Majvor’s part. She had thought that her discovery would have a particular effect on the group, and it hasn’t turned out the way she imagined at all.
In her day-to-day life, Majvor regards it as her role to unite and to gather people together. It doesn’t have to involve a big party, not at all; it could be something as simple as getting the whole family to settle down for an evening in front of the TV, or inviting friends along on a boat trip in the summer.
She hadn’t thought that the revelation of the crosses would create any kind of festive atmosphere, or would cheer people up, but she had believed it would lead to a sense of community. We have all been marked in the same way, we are all subject to the same conditions, so let us unite on that basis.
But no. They’re talking about hidden treasure and equations instead of seriously considering the idea that the crosses have a meaning. That’s the way things are in society these days. A meaning isn’t on the agenda. She stares morosely at the group. The little boy is tugging at his father’s hand, ‘Tell them, Daddy. Tell them what we saw,’ but his father shushes him with a gesture.
Majvor notices that Isabelle has heard what the boy said; she crouches down and whispers something to her daughter, pointing at the boy.
Secrets. Secrets and nonsense, that’s what people are really interested in. Despite Majvor’s general goodwill, there is no denying it: sometimes she thinks everyone else is just a pile of shit.
Donald comes over to her. Majvor has hardly been able to get a word out of him since he came back. He grabs her hand and pulls her towards their caravan. Which is probably just as well, as Majvor is feeling increasingly bitter towards the group.
She’s not the kind of person who solicits admiration or praise, but just once in a while it would be nice to have a little appreciation. Without her they would still be ignorant of the meaning they are now refusing to accept. Whatever. Majvor offers no resistance; she follows Donald into the caravan, and he closes and double locks the door.
‘Sit down.’
Majvor does as Donald asks, or rather commands; she sits down on the sofa and watches as he walks around closing the blinds and making sure the windows are tightly shut.
‘Donald? What are you doing?’
It is gloomy with the blinds drawn. Majvor can only just make out the shape of her husband as he stands there with his hands by his sides, looking around. He nods to himself, then sits down at the other end of the sofa.
‘The thing is…’ he says, holding up his index finger.
Majvor leans back and prepares herself for a lecture. The tone of voice and the finger suggest that this is what is about to happen. Donald has used the gesture for as long as she can remember, and whenever she saw Göran Persson do exactly the same thing during his time as prime minister, she always thought: a damaged child who has acquired too much power.
‘The thing is,’ Donald repeats, before going on to say something completely unexpected, ‘I’ve realised that all this is just a dream. A nightmare inside my own head. I’ve had it before, but it’s never been as clear or as real as this. But it’s definitely a dream nevertheless, so all I have to do is wake up. So we’re going to sit here and not let any more crap happen; we’re just going to wait for it to end.’
Majvor has grown accustomed to the darkness, and she can see Donald’s eyes shining in the dim light. They are wide open, to an unnatural degree, as if he is making a concerted effort to wake up. Tentatively she says: ‘But what about me?’
‘What about you?’
‘Are you saying I’m having the same dream?’
Donald snorts. ‘You’re not here. I’m the only one who’s dreaming. I’m sitting here talking to myself—fuck knows why. That’s just the way it is in my dream.’
Donald folds his arms, rests his head on the back of the sofa and stares up at the ceiling. Majvor picks at one of the buttons on the seat; it is solid to the touch. She says: ‘But…I’ve been listening to some music while you were away. I wouldn’t be able to do that if…’
‘Stop right there. What I don’t understand is why I’ve made you exactly the way you are in my dream. I mean, I could be si
tting here with Elizabeth Taylor, but oh no, it has to be Majvor. Same silly prattle, same stupid face.’
‘Do you often dream about Elizabeth Taylor?’
‘No, that was just an example. Be quiet. I’ve decided you have to shut up now. This is my dream, and in my dream you’re not saying anything.’
Majvor can’t understand where Donald has got this ridiculous idea from. It’s not at all like him to come up with something so weird. But however crazy he is, she feels humiliated at the most basic level. He won’t even acknowledge her existence. Her mind, her very own and completely real mind, is working feverishly to find a way to put an end to this delusion.
‘Donald, listen to me…’ Donald folds his arms even more tightly and makes a point of sinking deeper into the sofa, but Majvor takes no notice. ‘While you were gone, Claes-Göran Hederström was on the radio—“It’s Beginning to Seem Like Love”. I wrote it down. How could I know that if…’
‘It’s part of my dream. You saying that, it’s part of my dream.’
Majvor is getting frustrated. It’s like talking to a wall. She slaps her hands on her thighs and gets to her feet. ‘Okay, well in that case let’s ask some of the others. Perhaps someone had the car radio on, and heard it too.’
As Majvor heads for the door she hears Donald behind her: ‘You’re just as stupid as you are in real life. The others are part of my dream too. It doesn’t matter what they say. And come away from the door. I’ve locked it.’
Majvor pushes down the handle, but the deadlock requires a key.
‘Give me the key, Donald.’
‘No chance. No more running around outside. Sit down and shut the fuck up. I’m determined to wait this out.’ Donald sneezes and shakes his head, mutters to himself: ‘“It’s Beginning to Seem Like Love”, for fuck’s sake.’
Majvor goes and stands directly in front of her husband, who is now almost curled up on the sofa. ‘Donald! Tell me what you really saw out there!’
For the first time since Donald got back, there is some contact. He looks away and says: ‘Nothing. I saw nothing. Now shut up and sit down. I’ve never hit you, you know that. Not in real life. In my dream it could be different. So sit down.’
Majvor sits back down, her hands resting on her thighs. The air stands still inside the caravan. She looks at her husband, who is frowning, his lips moving as if he is silently trying to solve a difficult problem.
She isn’t sure, but she thinks she might know what this is about. The Bloodman. If that is the case, there is a risk that they could be sitting here for a long time. A very long time.
*
There is a war going on inside Emil. He wants to be with Molly, and he definitely doesn’t want to be with Molly. He is drawn to her, and he is afraid of her. The war makes him feel tired and apathetic. More than anything, he would just like to go to sleep.
As Molly walks towards him he doesn’t know whether to go and meet her, or run away. His mother is kneeling in front of the cross on their caravan, running her fingers over its surface, so he can’t hide behind her.
‘Come on,’ Molly says.
‘I don’t want to.’
‘You have to. Otherwise I’ll tell.’
Emil looks around to see if he can spot his father, but there is no sign of him. He shrugs with as much nonchalance as he can muster, and follows Molly. She leads him to her caravan, crawls underneath it and beckons him to join her.
They lie on their stomachs on the grass between the wheels, listening to Molly’s father pacing back and forth above their heads. Emil whispers: ‘I’ll tell on you if you tell on me.’
‘You don’t get it, do you?’
‘Get what?’
‘The way things are.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There you go: you don’t get it. You’re the one who’s going to be in trouble. You and your mum and dad. If you tell. Now do you get it?’
‘No.’
‘Well, that’s the way it is. What did you say?’
‘When?’
Molly rolls over onto her back, sighing as she contemplates the underside of the caravan, crisscrossed by a tangle of dirty pipes and cables. She sticks her finger in her mouth, then runs it over a pipe that is black with soot. She draws four lines on her cheeks, runs her finger over the pipe again and holds it out to Emil.
‘Come here.’
‘What for?’
‘You’re going to be an Indian.’
Emil thinks for a moment. He can’t see anything dangerous or forbidden about that, so he pushes his face closer to Molly, who draws on his forehead.
‘There you go,’ she says, wiping her finger on the grass. ‘You’re an Indian brave and I’m your chief.’
‘Girls can’t be Indian chiefs.’
‘I’m not a girl.’
‘Yes you are.’
‘No I’m not.’
‘So what are you then?’
Molly places her hand on his, looks into his eyes and says: ‘If I told you, you’d die of fear. Shall I tell you?’
Emil shakes his head. He doesn’t want the game to turn nasty again. When Molly says once again that she is his chief, he gratefully accepts.
‘Good,’ Molly says. ‘You’ve been checking out the area. What did you see?’
Emil thinks as he picks at some bits of gravel stuck in the tyre next to him. ‘I saw…I saw ten cowboys with guns.’
‘No, no, no! You have to tell me what you really saw! When you were out there.’
‘My dad said it was nothing.’
‘So what was it?’
Emil peers towards the field as if he might catch a glimpse of what he saw, what he knows he saw. ‘An old man. Or something.’
‘What kind of old man?’
‘He was white. And thin. And it was as if…he wasn’t really walking. Although he was moving.’
‘You mean he was flying?’
‘No…I don’t know. It was weird. And he looked like a person, but somehow he didn’t.’
Molly’s brow is furrowed as she digests this information. Emil glances at her and thinks that she looks more like a little girl than an Indian chief or something that might make him die of fear. He prods her shoulder.
‘You were wrong,’ he says. ‘It wasn’t a monster with big teeth.’
Molly smiles and wriggles over to him, whispers in his ear: ‘How do you know?’
*
Carina runs her finger over the cross. A few flakes of the pigment loosen; she rubs them with her thumb and sees them disintegrate. It’s blood—it can’t be anything else. Someone has drawn a cross in blood on their caravan. It is difficult to put a positive interpretation on something like that.
She looks up and sees Emil and Molly crawling under Molly’s caravan. She is concerned about the fact that they have started hanging out; she is all too well aware of what keeping the wrong company can do to a person. She touches her tattoo. She needs to talk to Stefan, but he has been avoiding her since he got back, even though they promised one another they would get through this together. It is up to her to bring him back home.
She doesn’t normally hesitate to tackle things, but the emptiness all around is sapping her strength, and something within her just wants to run away, to take off in any direction.
Inside the caravan she is relieved to see that Stefan has boiled a pan of water on the camping stove and has made two cups of coffee, which he places on the table as a prelude to a conversation. Carina gestures towards the gas stove.
‘I’m almost certain it was Molly who took the hose.’
Stefan nods, but the information doesn’t seem to bother him at the moment. He asks Carina to sit down. They both take a sip of their coffee. Stefan stares out of the window for a long time, then says: ‘When I was six years old I got a bike. With training wheels.’
He is sparing when it comes to stories from his childhood; he says he can hardly remember a thing. When Carina brings up some episode from the summers they shared
as children, he rarely has anything to add. Carina is surprised by his opening remark, but merely says: ‘Oh yes?’
Stefan’s expression grows distant as he looks back. ‘And then… something happened.’
His story is long and includes a certain amount of repetition, but it is the most cohesive account he has ever given from his early childhood, and Carina listens patiently.
Stefan had wanted a bike of his own for a very long time, and he finally got it on his sixth birthday. It had training wheels, because he hadn’t quite mastered the technique yet. It was a great bike, and it had a shiny bell with a loud, clear ping, not like the grating noise the rusty bell on the bike he had borrowed used to make.
Stefan spent a considerable portion of his birthday riding around Mörtsjön on his new bike, around and around the lake. He pretended he was an astronaut, Lucky Luke, King of the Forest.
By the seventh or eighth circuit, the novelty had begun to wear off. New challenges were required. Stefan sat on his bike at the top of the hill leading down to the jetty. Now he was a secret agent. In the trees at the edge of the forest on the other side of the lake he could see a VW Beetle hooked up to a small, egg-shaped caravan. That was where the evil Doctor X had his headquarters! Soon Doctor X would escape in the motor launch that was moored at the jetty. He must be stopped! Stefan stamped on the pedals and zoomed down the hill.
For three more seconds he was a secret agent. Then he turned into a terrified six-year-old who was flying down a hill. He didn’t dare brake because he was afraid of falling over, so he kept on going, out onto the jetty, where his pumped-up tyres clattered over the planks of wood.
He couldn’t swim, so there was just one word flashing in his brain as a warning signal: Armbands! Armbands! Armbands! Then he shot over the edge.
‘It’s strange what you remember,’ Stefan says. ‘So much is gone, but I do remember that the surface of the water was black, and that the sun was so high in the sky that…for a fraction of a second I was dazzled by its reflection before I plunged into it.’
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