No miracle cloth in the world is going to be able to restore his car now. Most of the lacquer has disappeared, leaving only odd patches. The plastic housing over the indicators has melted away, leaving a yellowish gunge all over the hub caps.
But that’s not the worst of it. The metal bodywork has survived, but the sunroof has not. The plexiglas has dissolved, giving the rain free access to the interior. It has splattered all over the instrument panel, destroying buttons and display screens; it has shredded the leather covering on the steering wheel, and it has burnt big holes in the front seats. For a second Majvor thinks that Donald is going to burst into tears as he looks at the car.
But he opens the door, gets into the driver’s seat with some difficulty, then reaches for the key in the ignition. Majvor crosses her fingers behind his back. Don’t start, don’t start. It seems unlikely that the car will spring into action, given the way it looks.
Unfortunately it seems that the vital components must have escaped serious damage, because the engine immediately roars into life, and Donald beckons Majvor impatiently. She opens the passenger door and gets in, shifting her weight around on the craters in the seat until she finds an acceptable position, then she closes the door.
The gearstick has partly dissolved, and the gearbox screeches as Donald puts the car in first. But it begins to move forward, against all expectation. Donald follows a black skid mark on the grass, and when it disappears he continues along the same line.
‘Donald,’ Majvor says. ‘Is this a good idea? How are you doing?’
‘I’m fine. I just want somewhere to live.’
He definitely sounds saner than at any time since he returned to the camp—and before that, to tell the truth. Could it be that the experience of the rain has really made him see the situation more clearly?
‘What do you think about all this?’ Majvor says. ‘What can we do?’
Will Lockhart, the Man from Laramie, appears ahead of them on the field; he is staggering along and appears to be in an even worse state than he was in the film after he had been dragged through the camp fire and had his hand shot up. Donald’s eyes narrow as he spots Will, and he puts his foot down. Majvor doesn’t know what he’s thinking, but to be on the safe side she says: ‘You mustn’t run over him. We have no idea what might happen.’
Donald grunts, but turns the wheel so that the car is no longer on a collision course with the figure. As they drive past, Majvor glances out of the side window.
Will Lockhart looks as if he has been wandering through the desert for days without finding a watering hole. His eyes have sunk deep into his skull, his skin is lined and yellowing. He has lost so much weight that his gun belt is almost sliding off his hips. Overall, it seems that his only possible goal must be his own funeral. It is so upsetting that Majvor’s eyes fill with tears. Her dream, her hero, reduced to a wreck.
What is this place doing to us? What can we do with this place?
‘We’re doomed,’ Donald says. ‘We just have to accept it.’
‘Doomed? What do you mean, doomed? Why should we be doomed?’
Donald gives a wry smile. ‘Isn’t this your area of expertise? Guilt and sin and damnation? I think you should be able to explain why we’ve ended up here. Go on. What does the Bible say about this place? Eh?’
‘Stop it, Donald.’
‘Seriously, I’m interested. I mean, you usually come out with quotations from the Bible at the drop of a hat. Surely there must be something that fits the current situation?’
Of course Majvor has considered this. She has thought about Moses, wandering in the desert for forty years, and about the trials of Job. Gehenna. The truth is that there is far too much that fits, which makes any interpretation impossible. However, that isn’t the real problem.
‘It wouldn’t be appropriate,’ she replies.
Donald lets out a bark of laughter. ‘What do you mean, it wouldn’t be appropriate? At long last we’re in a place where all that crap might finally come in useful! Back home you start banging on about Jesus if I so much as think about fiddling a bill, but now, now it could really be…You’re so funny, Majvor.’
‘It has nothing to do with this place,’ she insists. ‘It wouldn’t be appropriate.’
Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t explain it to Donald, but she has realised that this place lies beyond normal concepts, both earthly and celestial. The usual rules do not apply here, and prayers will not help.
This realisation left her shocked at first, then empty. After a little while she began to get used to the idea, and surprisingly enough it happened quite quickly. There isn’t such a huge difference; this is merely the other side of the same coin. Her everyday world is populated by ethereal characters from the Bible, the air is filled with invisible angels, and no occurrence or action escapes the watchful eye of the Lord.
The total absence of all this brings its own fulfilment, in the same way that total darkness is to a certain extent the same as a blinding light. It is hard to grasp and even harder to explain. And besides, she has no desire to try.
Donald continues his harangue and Majvor continues to keep quiet. After a few minutes they can see their caravan on the horizon. Donald slaps his thigh and says: ‘There she is, Majvor! You’ll soon be able to start baking buns again!’
There is nothing pleasant about his tone of voice. Quite the reverse.
*
The mattress that was closest to the roof has been totally destroyed. When Peter tries to lift it down it disintegrates completely; he carries the pieces outside and dumps them behind the caravan. The second mattress is damaged, but he turns it over and concludes that it can be used.
By him and Molly. When it’s time for bed.
He stops what he is doing and looks at Molly, who has crawled up onto the kitchen worktop and is sitting watching him. He can only cope with contemplating the future in short segments. The last thing that came into his mind was: Turn over the mattress. Check the other side. Now he has done that, and for the moment the future is over. He sits down on the mattress.
Which can be used by him and Molly. When it’s time for bed.
Even such a simple thought seems unfathomable—the idea that a distant future when they might both go to bed should even exist. Bed. Molly.
‘Molly? Why didn’t the rain harm you?’
Molly touches her face, where the pink marks are still visible. ‘It did. It hurt.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Molly chews her lower lip and her eyes dart around the caravan; she glances through the door then meets Peter’s gaze for a second before eventually fixing on the perforated ceiling. Peter can’t remember ever seeing her so unsure of herself.
‘I don’t know what I am.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I don’t know what I am.’
‘Have you forgotten? You’re a fountain of blood in the form of a girl, aren’t you?’
Molly shakes her head. ‘Maybe not. I don’t know. It went wrong.’
‘I don’t understand. What were you supposed to be?’
There is a long pause before she answers. ‘Something else. It happened when I was little. Like those white creatures.’
‘What white creatures?’
‘The ones that were here. They were in the tunnel too. I became like them.’
‘What tunnel? Molly, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t seen any white creatures.’
For the first time since they started talking, Molly looks at him directly, her eyes full of sorrow. ‘I know what you see,’ she says. ‘But you don’t know what I see.’ The contact is broken as she looks out through the open door and nods towards the field. ‘Mummy is one of them now.’
A slimy worm of fear has begun to crawl through Peter’s guts, and he’s not sure if he wants to continue this conversation. He rubs his belly as if to massage away the fear, and pretends it’s just a touch of stomach ache.
‘What do you mean, one of them?
’
‘They eat creatures like me. I didn’t know they existed. It was horrible.’
Peter stands up, his hand still resting on his belly, which is grumbling and gurgling as if an angry little animal is trying to get out. He goes over to Molly and touches her foot.
‘Sweetheart. Darling Molly.’ Her lips twitch and she snorts as if he has made a bad joke. ‘I really don’t understand what you’re talking about. You say that you know what I see. What do you mean by that?’
Molly glances at Peter’s hand, which is resting on her foot. He moves it away and looks down at the top of her head, the spot where he once gently stroked her fontanelle, the thin layer of skin covering the brain that is now a mystery to him. It seems like a lifetime ago. The memory brings with it a wave of tenderness, then Molly lifts her head and looks up at him.
The animal in his belly unsheathes its claws and attacks. Molly’s face has changed. Behind it and through it, like a double exposure, he can see his father’s face. Her clear blue eyes are looking into his, but inside these eyes there is another pair, brown bordering on black, narrowing in uncontrollable rage. Molly opens her little mouth, which is simultaneously another mouth, and says: ‘Not even Jesus wants your fucking cunt.’
Peter is bent double by a sudden cramp in his belly. He clenches his buttocks, steps to the side and yanks open the toilet door. He just manages to pull down his pants before whatever has been building up in his stomach comes gushing out. The cramped space is filled with the stench of diarrhoea, and he covers his mouth with his hand to stop himself from throwing up, on top of everything else.
Not even Jesus wants your fucking cunt.
The words have been etched on his mind in burning letters ever since the night his father almost killed his mother. He has never told Molly about it, of course; he hasn’t even told Isabelle. He has never told anyone.
He breathes rapidly through his nose, inhaling the terrible smell once more, which causes a fresh wave of nausea.
Not even Jesus.
There is a knock on the door, and the sickness is overlaid with fear. His father is standing out there right now. The hammer is in his hand, and this time there is no crucifix to hold him back. And if there was a crucifix it wouldn’t help because the field is endless.
Peter clutches his belly; the pain has eased now. He remembers a soft little body, a comforting bundle of warmth against his skin, he remembers Diego, taken from him by God, he remembers all the sorrow, all the fucking sorrow life has thrown at him, and of course he’s going to end up like this, nauseous and stinking in a disgusting toilet. There is another knock on the door, and he hears Molly’s voice.
‘Daddy?’
Peter swallows. Exhales. Molly’s voice sounds just the way it always does. No connotations of a violent father’s voice. Just a little girl who says: ‘It’s not my fault, Daddy. Mummy left me in the tunnel. Why did she do that? Daddy?’
Peter finds that he can breathe through his mouth without the risk of being sick. He takes a deep breath, then wipes his bottom. He gets to his feet, stands up and looks at the brown slop that has splattered all over the toilet bowl.
Water. Save water.
What’s the fucking point? He flushes. Nothing happens. The rain hadn’t penetrated the water tank, and yet nothing happens. There’s no water. Yet another thing to add to everything else. He closes the lid and opens the door.
Molly is standing outside; she wrinkles her nose as the smell hits her. Peter closes the door.
‘What tunnel?’ he asks.
‘Where we used to live. When I was little.’
‘The Brunkeberg tunnel?’
‘I don’t know what it’s called.’
‘Isabelle left you in the Brunkeberg tunnel?’
‘Yes. For a long time. It was dark. I don’t understand.’
Peter can only shake his head. ‘Me neither.’
Molly looks around the caravan, clamps her lips together resolutely, then nods to herself. ‘We need to get rid of Mummy’s things.’
Peter sees no reason to protest as Molly opens closets and drawers, gathers up Isabelle’s clothes and dumps them on the draining board. He flops down on the mattress and watches as she grabs tattered fashion magazines and Isabelle’s ruined laptop and throws them in the sink. There is a suppressed rage in everything she does, as if she were a landlady cleaning up after the departure of a particularly filthy tenant. When she has collected up everything she can find, she comes over to Peter.
‘Better now?’ he asks.
Molly shakes her head and points to the drawer on Isabelle’s side of what used to be their bed.
Peter opens the drawer, which had been protected by the mattresses and is undamaged by the rain. Molly tips the contents onto the bed. Mostly films with titles such as Macabre, Guinea Pig, A Serbian Film. More fashion magazines. Make-up, sweet wrappers, a brochure from a luxury hotel in Dubai. And a box.
Molly picks it up and turns it over. ‘What’s this?’
‘I’ve no idea. I’ve never seen it before.’
The box is about the same size as a Rubik’s cube, and is made of black wood, inlaid with complex patterns in gold or imitation gold. Peter can’t decide whether it’s a piece of tat or an antique, but the precision locking mechanism would suggest the latter. Molly runs her finger over the thin bolt securing two hasps, which in turn keep the lid closed, and her eyes are shining as she whispers: ‘It’s Mummy’s secret.’
In spite of the fact that Peter has no emotional reserves which would enable him to engage fully with the issue, he does feel a pang of simple human curiosity—What will happen if I press the button? What’s in the box?—as Molly slides back the bolt and flips back the hasps.
She opens the lid and Peter doesn’t know what she sees when she looks inside, but normal, childish tears pour down her cheeks as she contemplates Isabelle’s secret. When Peter leans forward, Molly slams the lid shut, dashes the tears from her eyes and glares at him.
She makes a noise that is almost a bark and hurls the box at Peter, then runs out of the caravan. Peter is about to get up and go after her, but realises that he has neither the strength nor the inclination. Instead he lies back on the mattress and opens the box.
It is empty.
He settles down and closes his eyes.
*
‘Stefan, we need to rinse your back.’
‘Yes, but the water…’
‘We’ve got water.’
‘Not an unlimited amount.’
‘Come over here.’
Stefan begins to undo the buttons, and although the least touch on his back is painful, at least it is a relief to find that the fabric isn’t stuck to the skin as he cautiously removes his shirt.
‘Daddy, no!’
Emil covers his eyes with his hands and shakes his head. So it must look really bad. Stefan sits down on the kitchen stool and lets out a groan as pain sears through his buttocks and thighs. He gets up again.
‘Take everything off,’ Carina says. ‘We need to wash your whole body.’
She turns on the tap, fills a jug. When Stefan starts to undo his belt, it’s all too much for Emil. He grabs Sabre Cat and heads for the door.
‘Don’t go wandering off,’ Carina stays. ‘Stay close by.’
‘Mmm. Thank you for saving my animals, Daddy.’
Emil jumps down the step and Carina gasps when she looks at Stefan’s back.
‘How bad is it?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know anything about this kind of thing, but…it must be incredibly painful. I hope this will help a bit.’
The finer sensory nerves in his back must have been damaged, because Stefan experiences nothing more than a slight change in temperature; he isn’t even sure Carina has started pouring until the water splashes around his feet. When she asks how it feels, he tells her it feels good.
‘I think we need to do a lot of rinsing,’ Carina says, filling another jug. ‘The tank holds two hundred litres, doesn’t it?�
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‘What did you see?’
‘Sorry?’
‘When you looked at those four figures. You said it was a long story—I want to hear it.’
Carina carries the jug over to Stefan and slowly pours the contents over his back, bottom and thighs. ‘It was another life. Nothing to do with what we have now.’
Stefan waits until she has finished. As she heads back to the sink, he grabs her arm and turns her to face him.
‘Carina, if there’s one thing I think I’ve learned about this place, it’s that not knowing each other is dangerous. Not knowing what the other person is thinking, what burdens they might be carrying.’
Carina extricates herself and leans over to refill the jug, but Stefan can see that his words have made an impression, which encourages him to go on.
‘I know virtually nothing about what happened to you between that evening at the dance and the night you came back. That’s eight years, Carina. Eight years of your life that I know nothing about. Now Emil isn’t here, I can say what we’re both thinking: we might never get out of this. And I think the risk is greater if we don’t know each other. Isn’t it time?’
Carina has been listening so intently that the jug is overflowing. The lines of her body suddenly soften.
‘Do you remember?’ she says. ‘That night at the dance?’
‘Of course I do. Why would I forget the night my dreams came true?’
It was called a disco. It used to be called a barn dance, but nowadays it was a disco, held in the pavilion next to the old steamboat jetty. First of all there was a local folk group, the Salty Sailors, playing evergreens and classics from the archipelago, then a disco.
Carina and her friends uttered the word with studied irony—‘Shall we go to the disco tonight?’—but they went because there was nowhere else to go.
Carina’s mother had died six months earlier and her father had sunk into a deep depression, which among many other things meant he had forgotten to give notice on the holiday cottage, and by the time summer came it was too late. Since he was going to have to pay anyway, they decided they might as well go.
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