I Am Behind You

by John Ajvide Lindqvist

  The cold forced the air out of Stefan’s lungs, and a stream of bubbles rose from his mouth to the surface high above. Stefan would later learn that the lake was actually only three metres deep at the point where he went in.

  He knew that he was in trouble, and yet it was the bike that preoccupied him the most. He mustn’t let go of the bike, so he clung on to the handlebars. He felt the saddle thud against his bum, and the pressure in his ears stopped getting worse. A cloud of mud swirled up around him. He had reached the bottom of the lake.

  A very simple thought came into his mind: I’m going to die. Stefan didn’t want to die, but he didn’t know what to do to avoid it. He looked at the bell, which had something of a dull shine now, and wondered what it would sound like if he rang it underwater. But he didn’t dare to let go of the handlebars.

  I’m going to die.

  In a way the thought didn’t frighten him; he just felt very, very sad. Mummy and Daddy, his sixth birthday. Drowned. It was so upsetting that he almost burst into tears, but it was impossible to cry underwater. His head throbbed as he screwed up his eyes and concentrated on not breathing.

  After a while he couldn’t do it any more. He raised his head, took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He hardly noticed the water rushing into his lungs, because something very strange had happened. He was no longer on the bottom of the lake; he was in a field. He was surrounded by light, by warm air. He was still clutching the handlebars, but something strange had happened to the bike. It was shimmering, as if it wasn’t really there.

  Stefan looked up and gasped. Coldness filled his chest once more. A figure was standing some twenty metres away, beckoning. A person, yet not a person. It wanted Stefan to join it, but Stefan had no intention of doing so. The non-person was horrible. It was completely white, and it lacked a number of things that would make it a person. If Stefan went over to it, he would end up like that. The icy cold in his chest banged and howled, and fear flooded his body as he tried to turn the bike that wasn’t real; he opened his mouth and screamed.

  Then he whirled around and the light changed and clouds flashed by and his stomach burned as he threw up onto the warm wood of the jetty and hands lifted him and it wasn’t until he was lying in his bed with Mummy and Daddy sitting next to him and hugging and kissing him that he understood that it had actually happened. He had been rescued.

  Stefan traces the rim of his coffee cup with his index finger and shakes his head. ‘The first thing I asked about was the bike. What had happened to the bike. It was pulled out later.’

  There is silence for a little while. Stefan is not only sparing with stories from his childhood; he rarely talks for long periods at a stretch. It’s as if he needs to recover from the effort.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Carina says. ‘That was a good story, if I can put it that way, but why are you telling me this now?’

  Stefan rests his chin on his hands, looking down and to the left. Carina has read something about the way the eyes move when we search our memory. Down and to the left. Was that an auditory memory? A visual memory?

  ‘I was allowed to sleep in my parents’ bed that night, although to be honest I hardly slept at all. As soon as I closed my eyes, that white figure appeared, and when I opened my eyes I was afraid it would be standing by the bed, beckoning to me. It was a long time before I could sleep in my own bed again. And I was always scared.’

  Stefan blinks and returns to the caravan. He looks into Carina’s eyes and says: ‘I saw it. Out on the field. Here. Before.’

  Stefan’s story has explained a few things to Carina. She can just about remember the quiet but inventive boy she used to play with when they were little. How he changed, became a timid, hopeless child she just didn’t want to hang out with.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she says. ‘Do you mean you think….we’re dead?’

  ‘I don’t mean anything. But that’s what I saw. And I didn’t want it anywhere near Emil.’

  ‘Did he see it too?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what’s so horrible.’

  *

  Freedom

  Peter is looking at the rounders pitch he has laid out. The bats, the tennis ball, the cones to mark the corners. What the hell was he thinking? The usual, probably. The desire to make sure people were enjoying themselves. Peter Sundberg, humanity’s tour guide.

  Freedom

  He goes back to the moment when he took the penalty against Bulgaria, allows his eyes to rest on the empty horizon. The feeling he’d had at that moment corresponds to this place. The same infinite expanse filled his breast before that idiot goalie went the wrong way and Peter became the hero of the match.

  Freedom

  There is no God here. The idea ought to be terrifying, but it isn’t. Quite the reverse. The God who allowed Peter’s father to smash up the caravan before Uncle Joel arrived with the police has not provided a protective embrace, merely a watchful eye guiding Peter’s actions by the simple fact of His observation, whether Peter wanted it or not. Now that eye is gone. No one can see him.

  Freedom

  He can do whatever he wants, and the field is endless. So what does he do? Sets out plastic cones to mark the boundaries of a pitch so that he can run around and score points. He is creating an image of his life in miniature.

  Peter picks up the bat and the ball. With a perfect strike he sends the ball rocketing towards the field. He watches it soar in a wide arc, then bounce a couple of times before coming to rest. He could have hit it in any direction; every direction is equally empty. To understand that, to really understand it.

  *

  It is while Carina is on her way to fetch Emil that she makes her decision. It is not like her to sit around, passively waiting for things to sort themselves out. She is going to find out for herself what is out there. Get in the car, drive.

  She crouches down beside the caravan where the two children are lying close together, whispering. They look sweet. She is less impressed when she tentatively says, ‘Emil?’ and he turns his face towards her. He has tears in his eyes, and there is a cross drawn in soot on his forehead.

  Carina almost recoils, because she has her own idea about those crosses on the caravans. People put a cross through something to indicate that it should be removed. Cancelled. However, she pulls herself together and remains calm: ‘Come and have some breakfast, Emil. Or lunch.’

  Emil glances at Molly as if he is asking permission, and Molly nods. That is the final straw as far as Carina is concerned. Emil will not be spending any more time with Molly.

  When Emil has crawled out from under the caravan, Carina says: ‘You too, Molly. Come out here, please.’

  Emil tugs at her hand. ‘Let’s go, Mum.’

  ‘Just a minute, sweetheart. Molly, could you come out here, please?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to talk to you.’

  Molly lowers her face onto the grass, breathes in through her nose and says: ‘I’d rather stay here where it’s nice and peaceful, and I can smell the flowers.’

  Carina forces a smile. ‘Ferdinand the bull. Very amusing, Molly, but I’d like you to come out, please.’

  Emil tugs at Carina’s hand again. ‘There’s no point, Mum. Let’s go.’

  Carina shakes herself free. Emil gives up and walks off towards their caravan.

  Molly watches him go. ‘Is it urgent?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d like to be able to cook a meal, and I can’t do that if the stove isn’t working. So I’d like you to come out and give me back my gas hose.’

  ‘What’s a gas hose?’

  ‘You know perfectly well what it is, because you took it.’

  Molly frowns, thinking something over. Then she says: ‘You’ll get heavy if you eat.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You’ll get heavy if you eat. And you won’t be able to fly.’

  ‘I don’t want to fly.’

&
nbsp; Molly yawns. She looks Carina in the eye and says: ‘Yes, you do. Straight into the sun.’

  Molly crawls out on the far side of the caravan and disappears from view, leaving Carina crouching there. There is a funny feeling in Carina’s chest. As if a grubby little finger had been poking around inside.

  *

  Stefan slams his fist down on the kitchen table. Pain shoots up his forearm from his little finger. Would he be able to feel pain if he were dead? He straightens up. He’s not dead, for fuck’s sake, it’s a ridiculous idea. And if he is dead, if they’re all dead, then it’s very similar to the state they are in when they’re alive, and as long as you’re alive, you do stuff.

  He picks up the binoculars, goes outside and unfolds the roof ladder. Flakes of rust drift down onto his face as he climbs, but the ladder holds. When he gets up on the roof, he lets out a nervous laugh. The perspective is so weird. Now that he is able to take in all the caravans amid the vast expanse of grass, the little camp looks like an unnecessary anomaly, something that has dropped from the sky by mistake.

  Carina is crouched down next to Peter’s caravan; the two farmers are also crouched down next to their caravan, busy with something on the ground; Isabelle is pacing about with her arms wrapped around her body as if she is freezing; and Peter is standing motionless a short distance away.

  Stefan puts the binoculars to his eyes and focuses on Carina, who is leaning in under the caravan with Emil standing beside her, tugging at her hand. Stefan moves on to Peter, who is now holding a bat.

  Finally he does what he came up on the roof to do. He examines the horizon, methodically, bit by bit. He gasps when he sees something different, but realises that it is merely one of the canes that he and Emil set out. One hundred and eighty degrees further around, he spots a couple of the farmers’ canes.

  Nothing else. He lowers the binoculars and is overcome by dizziness once again. It is easier when this world is divided into sections, or when you have a task to perform. Naked and without purpose, the emptiness surrounding him is dreadful. He swallows down the feeling.

  Below his feet, Carina is on her knees with her hands resting on Emil’s shoulders, talking to him. Stefan is about to climb down and join them when he is struck by a thought. He is two and a half metres above ground. It’s worth a try.

  He digs out his mobile phone, a seven-year-old Nokia with a screen the size of half a brick. He switches it on and hears the cheerful introductory notes; the image of hands reaching out suddenly appears. Stefan glances down and sees Emil frantically shaking his head.

  When he looks back at the screen, he has one bar on his reception signal. It flashes and disappears, flashes again. Stefan holds the phone above his head, and the bar stabilises. He presses the button and hears the hum of the dialling tone.

  ‘Listen!’ he shouts to Emil and Carina.

  *

  ‘Can you do this, sweetheart?’

  Carina mimes licking her fingers then rubbing her forehead. Emil looks at her with scepticism. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because…because you’ve got a dirty mark there. You don’t want me to do it, do you?’

  Emil shakes his head firmly, then sticks his fingers in his mouth and scrubs at his forehead. The cross is erased, leaving only grubby marks that can be washed off later. It looks a bit of a mess, but it’s better. Much better.

  ‘What would you like to eat?’

  ‘Pancakes.’

  Carina kneels down and places her hands on Emil’s shoulders.

  ‘Okay, sweetheart. If I’m going to make pancakes, then I need to use the stove. And if I’m going to use the stove, I need that hose.’

  Emil’s eyes dart from side to side, and he says: ‘I’ll just have a sandwich then.’

  ‘But I need the hose. Where is it?’

  Emil clamps his lips together and shakes his head. Carina feels sorry for him. He’s a really bad liar, and she feels ashamed that she has forced him into it. Emil’s body is tense beneath her hands as she goes on. ‘You’re not in trouble, chicken. Just tell me where it is. Do you…’

  Two things happen at almost the same time. Stefan shouts ‘Listen!’ from the roof of the caravan, and a fraction of a second later Emil clamps both hands over his ears and starts screaming. He stares at Carina as a single howl of despair comes out of his mouth and slices into her heart.

  *

  A child is screaming, and Isabelle realises that it must be Emil, since it can’t be Molly. Her daughter neither screams nor cries, not ever. It is as if she used up her entire stock during the first two years of her life.

  Isabelle was very obedient as a child. A good girl, her mother liked to say. An amenable soul who knew how to behave at a dinner party.

  Right now she has wrapped her arms around herself so that she won’t fall apart. Her body is screaming at her to find something sweet immediately, to stuff it in her mouth and swallow it, otherwise… She has broken out in a cold sweat, and doubles over as her stomach cramps. It will be over in a little while, then there will be a fresh attack in just over an hour, worse than this one. After that there will be a shorter interval, then she will be really ill.

  Isabelle moves among the caravans, convinced that she is picking up the aroma of sweet things everywhere. It’s as if the others are sitting inside their caravans, sneakily guarding mountains of sweets and chocolate.

  She takes a couple of deep breaths through her mouth to avoid the sugary smells. She feels a little less anxious. By the time she passes the farmers’ caravan, she is able to stand up straight and walk more or less normally.

  The two men are on their knees, digging with a trowel. They are completely absorbed in what they are doing, and don’t notice Isabelle until she coughs discreetly. They both look up at the same time, and it isn’t difficult for Isabelle to produce her best smile, because they look really funny.

  ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘What are you up to?’

  Lennart and Olof glance at one another as if they were engaged in some secret activity, and have to reach a mutual agreement before they can reveal it.

  Olof points to a potted plant on the ground beside them. ‘We thought we’d try putting something in the ground. See what happens.’

  Isabelle is still smiling. ‘So we’ll have more flowers.’

  Olof laughs. ‘We’ve got a few other things too.’

  Isabelle is standing in that way. She is doing that thing with her eyes as she continues to smile. But she is getting nothing back. She knows when she has hit the mark, when a man would be ready to drop everything just to touch her. She scores that direct hit reasonably often, and she almost always lands somewhere on her target. But not this time. Which could mean one of two things.

  There is no lack of gay men in Isabelle’s industry: camp designers, photographers with a fetish for leather and the entire spectrum in between. She’s seen most types, but picturing Olof and Lennart as a gay couple is beyond the reach of her imagination. Therefore she decides they must be asexual, that they have stopped having those feelings.

  ‘Have you got any sweets?’ she asks.

  Once again the two men look at one another. Can’t they say anything without a consultation?

  ‘No,’ Lennart says. ‘Not exactly.’

  It is clear that Olof is not entirely comfortable with this response. He looks down at the ground and busies himself with the plant. Isabelle holds Lennart’s gaze for a few seconds. He doesn’t even blink, but simply contemplates Isabelle as if she were a moderately interesting detail in his surroundings. This annoys her so much that she is on the verge of saying, ‘Hand over the sweets, bum boy,’ or something along those lines, but manages to resist. Instead she pulls a face and leaves the farmers to whatever it is they are doing. She can hear them murmuring to each other behind her back.

  Only then does it strike her: the bastards are planting stuff. Which means they must think they’re going to be here long enough for it to grow.

  That can’t happen. Rodebjer were supposed to
be getting in touch with the agency today; Isabelle is in the running as a catalogue model for the new collection. The shoot has been delayed, and the decision must be made quickly. If Isabelle doesn’t answer, the job could go to someone else. Rodebjer would be perfect; she can’t lose it.

  ‘Fuck,’ she mutters. ‘Fucking hell!’

  She looks around and sees Peter, fifty metres away on the grass. He is standing absolutely still with a bat in his hand, like a statue proclaiming the glory of idiocy. Isabelle’s hands begin to shake once more as she moves towards him.

  *

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  Peter hears Isabelle’s voice behind him and slowly turns around. Her lovely mouth is contorted in a sneer as she contemplates the rounders pitch. Peter weighs the bat in his hands. Isabelle has probably failed to grasp that the field is endless. What that means. ‘Isabelle,’ he says, ‘I want a divorce.’

  Isabelle screws up her eyes as if she is having difficulty seeing him. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said I want a divorce. I don’t want to be married to you any more.’

  ‘And you think this is the right time to mention that?’

  ‘I do, actually. That’s exactly what I think.’

  Isabelle’s eyes scan the horizon, back and forth, until they eventually come to a stop somewhere near where the ball landed. Then she sighs and says: ‘I need something to eat.’

  ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘Yes, I heard what you said. And? I need something to eat. You’re friends with those weirdo farmers. They’ve got something.’

  ‘We’re never going to get away from here.’

  Isabelle rolls her eyes. ‘What is it you want? A blow job, maybe?’

  ‘Some chance.’

  ‘Can you sort it out? Please.’

  Peter stares at Isabelle for a few seconds. She is so beautiful and so repulsive. He drops the bat and heads for the camp. He’s said it. He thought he would feel better than he does, but he’s said it. The words have been spoken.