‘Donald,’ she says eventually, ‘what are you doing?’
‘What am I doing?’
‘Yes.’
Donald has reached the tool drawer, and he places the hammer, the small axe, the drill and several screwdrivers in a basket, then adds rags, rust remover and glue. He puts the basket on the draining board and sits down opposite Majvor.
‘Surely it’s perfectly obvious,’ he says. ‘I’m gathering up things that might come in useful.’
‘What then?’
‘Then I intend to get out of here.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll drive until I get to the end. It must end somewhere.’
‘But don’t you think we ought to…’
‘Mmm-mm.’ Donald wags his index finger at Majvor. ‘Wrong. There’s no we. You’re staying here.’
Majvor looks around the devastated and now plundered caravan. ‘Here?’
Donald leans closer and lowers his voice, as if he is about to share a confidence with her. ‘Majvor, would you say you’ve been loyal to me?’ Majvor is about to protest, but Donald silences her with a gesture. ‘I’m talking now. You can’t gag me this time, you know.’
Donald summarises everything that has gone on during the course of the day, and from his point of view Majvor really does come across as the most perfidious of wives. Donald does not, however, include details of his own ridiculous behaviour. This is hardly the time to correct him, because he is gradually working himself up into another frenzy of rage. He snorts and shakes his head as if he cannot believe the words coming out of his mouth as he concludes: ‘…then you taped me up like some fucking parcel.’
There is a brief pause in the onslaught, and Majvor dares to speak: ‘You’re wrong, Donald.’
Donald nods thoughtfully. ‘That’s possible, Majvor. That is possible. But it really doesn’t matter. Do you know why?’
Majvor doesn’t really want to hear what is coming next, but nor does she know how to avoid it, so she says nothing.
‘Because, Majvor, I am sick to death of you anyway. I am tired of your saggy body and I am tired of your stupid face. I am tired of your cinnamon buns and the food you cook, and I am tired of bloody Jesus. Everything you say makes me tired, and everything I am not allowed to do makes me tired. I have been trying to work out how I can get rid of you so that I can spend a few years without you dragging me down with your rolls of fat and your pathetic personality. And now the chance has come, and I intend to take it.’
A hard lump has formed in Majvor’s throat during Donald’s monologue. Their life together over the past few years hasn’t exactly been hearts and flowers, but she thought they had a mutual understanding, an acknowledgement that they would stick together and make the best of it. The revulsion in Donald’s voice suggests that she was completely wrong.
The way he is looking at her, like a disgusting insect he has just squashed and can’t wait to wipe off his fingers, means that she can’t help letting out a sob as she gets up from the sofa. Donald gets up too, ignoring her as he goes over to the bedroom area and starts rummaging around for his reading glasses.
Tears blur Majvor’s vision as she walks towards the door, then stops and looks back at Donald who is now kneeling on the bed with his back to her. To think that she once wrapped her arms around that back, digging in her nails in a moment of pleasure.
She pulls herself together and opens a cupboard, takes out the spare car keys. Then she steps outside; behind her Donald is still muttering because he can’t find what he’s looking for.
Halfway to the car, she stops. Will Lockhart is leaning on the boot to stop himself from falling over. The cowboy shirt and jacket hang loose on his sloping shoulders, the gun belt is dragging him down, and his body seems ready to give up as he breathes heavily, his hands fumbling at the metal. The eyes that gaze into Majvor’s do not belong to the Man from Laramie, just a very old James Stewart.
Jimmy. Oh, Jimmy.
Because not even the wretched state he is in can extinguish the openness, the kindness deep down inside. Her Jimmy. She moves a little closer, and he holds out his hand.
‘Majvor,’ he whispers. ‘Help me.’
She takes his hand, brings it to her lips and kisses the wrinkled skin, marked with liver spots.
‘Of course, Jimmy,’ she says. ‘Whatever it takes.’
Majvor is not a good driver; she has been told this over and over again. She got her licence when she was thirty, mainly so that she could drive the children around, and she had to take her test five times before the examiner reluctantly signed her off. She hadn’t actually done anything wrong, but…she just wasn’t a very good driver.
Since the children have grown up Majvor has had no need to drive, and since the incident with the carport four years ago, which resulted in twenty thousand kronor’s worth of damage to the bodywork, she has put her licence on the shelf, quite literally. The shelf above the extractor fan in the kitchen.
As she settles down behind the wheel, she realises that she has never driven this car. She doesn’t know where the ignition is, and when she eventually finds it she fumbles with the key for some time before managing to insert it. She isn’t sure what to do, because she doesn’t really know where she’s up to. Everything Donald said, the way he looked at her, has changed the world, made it messy and confusing.
She starts the engine and studies the gearstick, trying to understand how it works. First, second, reverse.
A kindly word at the right time helps the world go round.
Whatever happened to that wall hanging? It could be anywhere. Many self-evident truths have been lost in this place. She will just have to find new ones.
Donald must have heard the sound of the engine; he emerges from the caravan with a plastic bag in each hand. It seems his intention was to transfer anything of value to the car, then leave Majvor here. That’s not very kind, is it?
A kindly word…
Majvor glances in the rear-view mirror. Jimmy Stewart is standing behind the car, staring at the horizon with eyes that have grown cloudy with age and weariness. What is more real: what we dream of, or what is right there before us?
First or reverse?
A kindly word…She will let kindness decide. Donald is standing in front of the car, looking straight at her. She smiles at him to give him a push in the right direction, but perhaps he interprets her smile as scornful, or else he just doesn’t care what she does, because he yells: ‘Get out of the car, you miserable fucking—’
That’s it. Not a hint of kindness. Majvor puts the car in first gear and accelerates. The wheels skid on the grass before they find their grip and hurl nine hundred kilos of metal straight at Donald, who only has time to drop the bags before the grille hits him in the stomach. He is pushed backwards three metres with his upper body draped over the bonnet, then the whole thing crashes into the caravan. Majvor is thrown forward, the world explodes in a burst of white, and she loses consciousness for a few seconds.
When she comes round, she is jammed between the seat and the airbag, which is blocking her view. Her ears are buzzing as she opens the door and manages to get one leg out; she wriggles free and grabs the edge of the roof to haul herself out. She rests her chin on the top of the door and looks at the front of the car.
Oh dear. How very unfortunate.
Donald is still bent over the bonnet, arms outstretched towards the windscreen. He is facing Majvor, but his eyes are blank. His mouth is twitching as if he is trying to say something. Perhaps he wants to ask a question? Or make a confession?
Majvor feels a presence behind her back, and turns her head. Jimmy Stewart is gazing at her, his eyes loving and pleading for her help. Then he looks at Donald.
‘I know,’ Majvor says. ‘But it’s difficult.’
Jimmy Stewart nods and gently caresses her cheek. Majvor closes her eyes, picturing what she must do. The only consolation is that there is a kind of logical consistency to it all; Donald has often said the same. Maj
vor leaves Jimmy Stewart and goes into the caravan. The tools Donald gathered together are still exactly where he left them. She picks up the axe, weighing it in her hand.
Fortunately Donald has not come to life by the time she emerges; that might have made things too difficult. She walks over to the car and weighs up his left arm, measuring the angle with the axe.
‘You said it yourself, Donald. Lots of times. That you wished it could have been you. So that…well. I guess this is how it’s meant to be, somehow.’
Without waiting for a response, she brings down the axe. Blood pours from a deep gash just above Donald’s wrist, and his hand starts flapping on the bonnet like a flounder on the shore, which makes it hard to aim. Majvor grabs hold of Donald’s arm just below the elbow, carefully picks her spot, then brings down the axe once more.
When the hand has been chopped off and the flounder has stopped flapping, Majvor twists Donald’s stump so that the blood runs down the side of the bonnet and onto the ground.
‘Come along,’ she says. ‘Let’s go, Jimmy.’
*
‘Hey hey…’
Stefan is half-humming, half-singing, but the sound emerging from between his lips isn’t even a whisper, just a series of uneven breaths with neither notes nor words. He is standing on the stairs looking towards the kitchen, where Emil is balancing on Carina’s feet as she walks around. The soft morning light on the wooden floor, the gleam of the toaster, the aroma of coffee and newly baked bread in that eternal moment.
‘Hey hey…’
Everything is falling apart.
The aroma of coffee metamorphoses into the metallic smell coming from Emil’s mouth as he lies there on the sofa with his head resting on Stefan’s knee, breathing in short, shallow gasps. His chest rasps and wheezes, and every breath could be his last, but Stefan can’t allow himself to think that, because Emil is so fragile that even the thought that he could break might make it happen.
And yet Stefan cannot stop those four words whirling around and around in his head, like orbiting satellites falling towards a black hole.
Everything is falling apart everything is falling apart everything is falling apart
His damaged back is hunched as he strokes Emil’s damaged body, which is flickering like a flame that cannot get enough oxygen. There is no room to think about Carina’s story, but there it is again: damage. A damaged life where
everything is falling apart
as if normality, happiness, love were only temporary. Brief moments or short periods where chance weaves the threads together to form a whole, and it is possible to walk down the stairs humming ‘Hey Hey Monica’ in spite of the fact that the damage is always waiting to tear apart everything you have taken for granted, and you find out that what you have always thought were eternity symbols actually meant Heil Hitler.
Emil’s legs are twitching. Left, right, left, as if he is walking along an invisible road. Stefan softly touches the cross imprinted over his heart.
My precious boy. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave…
Once again the picture fills his mind. Emil balancing on Carina’s feet in the kitchen. His laughter when they move one step forward, then another, as he learns to walk. This is how you learn to walk.
Stefan stops on the stairs, his hand resting on the newel post as he takes in the moment. The dust motes dancing in the sunlight, a strand of Carina’s hair that has fallen over her face, Emil’s downy head that Carina will kiss in a moment. There is an unevenness beneath Stefan’s fingers, a scratch in the newel post in the form of two crossed lines, and Stefan gasps as he realises that somehow he is actually there.
It is as if he were watching an old family film, but he is there too, and the perspective shifts imperceptibly so that he is part of the film; he can see himself sitting on the sofa watching himself. Both versions are equally true.
Stefan runs his fingers over the two lines and the newel post is covered in Emil’s skin and Emil’s skin is made of wood.
‘Offee!’
Emil shouts from the kitchen as he continues to move around on Carina’s feet, and a shudder runs through Stefan as he brushes against an understanding of the basic relativity of time and space, but it is whisked away as his fingers leave the two lines, and all that remains is:
Don’t leave me. But walk. Walk, little man.
Stefan is back in the caravan. He blinks. The road home is endless, but at the same time it is only a heartbeat away.
*
Emil is back on his feet, taking baby steps along the track. He passes caravans where grown-ups are barbecuing, playing darts, or simply lying around in the sun. Older children are preoccupied with tablets or smart phones. No one looks in Emil’s direction as he walks by. The only person who notices him is a little girl of about three. She is wearing a bright red swimsuit and is not entirely steady on her feet as she toddles towards him with her finger in her mouth and says: ‘Hlm.’
Emil stops. ‘You’re not supposed to suck your thumb.’
With a plop the girl extracts her saliva-covered finger and holds it up in the air. ‘Not thumb.’
‘No. But you shouldn’t suck your finger either.’
The girl examines her finger, then asks: ‘What you doing?’
‘I’m walking,’ Emil replies.
‘Why?’
Emil has been standing still for only about ten seconds, but the pain is already beginning to build. ‘Because I have to.’
‘Why?’
There is a boy at Emil’s day care who does exactly the same thing. He keeps on asking why, why until someone says, ‘Just because,’ but still Emil wishes he had an answer to the girl’s question. For his own sake.
‘Because there’s a track,’ he says.
The girl looks at Emil, then to the right and the left. She wrinkles her nose and says: ‘Isn’t.’
‘Yes there is.’
‘Isn’t.’
A woman in a brightly coloured dress who is presumably the girl’s mother comes rushing over and grabs the child’s hand. She doesn’t look at Emil, but merely says, ‘Come along, Elsa,’ and drags the girl towards one of the caravans.
The heat in Emil’s skin is now a burning pain, and he places one hand over his heart and closes his eyes. For a moment he has the feeling that the fingers stroking his chest are not his own. They feel more like a grown-up’s fingers, like Daddy’s fingers.
The feeling passes and he opens his eyes. It doesn’t matter what Elsa said; the track is perfectly clear. It leads right through the middle of the campsite and out into an open field. Perhaps it ends in the distance, where Emil can see something glinting as it is caught by the rays of the setting sun. That’s where he is going.
The pain fades as he begins to put one foot in front of the other again. It’s nice to remember the sensation of Daddy’s fingers touching his skin, and as he walks it seems to Emil that there is something different about his feet too. It is as if he is balancing on someone else’s feet, a greater power that is helping him to make progress.
Walk, little man.
He walks.
*
Master and Mistress have gone off in the car without Benny. It doesn’t matter, because Master and Mistress are no longer important. Cat is important. As long as Benny and Cat are together, everything is as it should be. But Benny is hungry. He hasn’t had any food for a very long time, and his tummy is rumbling.
Benny and Cat walk around side by side, checking everything out. The firecreatures have gone away, and there is no longer anything that is actually dangerous. But there’s not much else either. A lot of things have disappeared, and what is left doesn’t smell too good.
Benny lets out a little whimper, which makes Cat prick up her ears and look at him. Benny whimpers again, his hungry whimper. Cat seems to understand. She does something with her tail and her head which Benny interprets as follow me. He has started to understand Cat a little better.
Cat trots over to her caravan and jumps inside
. Benny hesitates, but Cat makes a noise that seems to mean he is allowed, so he follows her. Cat’s masters are there, and they aren’t cross with Benny for coming into their home. They pat both Benny and Cat, and say something that includes the word ‘Food’, among other things.
They get out two bowls and open a tin that looks more or less the same as the tins of Benny’s food, except that this one has a cat on it. It is cat food. Benny sniffs. No, it doesn’t smell the way it’s supposed to. He sneezes and Cat’s masters laugh.
Cat looks up from her bowl and Benny shakes his head. His tummy rumbles again. Oh well. He takes a mouthful; it doesn’t taste particularly good, but it’s edible. He really is very hungry; he gobbles up everything in the bowl, and when the masters give him some more, he gobbles that too.
When they have finished eating, Benny and Cat creep under the table. Benny curls up and Cat lies down beside him, with her back against Benny’s tummy. After a while Cat begins to hum and vibrate. It is a soothing noise, and Benny wishes he could do the same.
The masters pat Benny and their voices are kind. Cat has nice masters. Benny wishes they were his masters too. Perhaps they are? Perhaps Master and Mistress won’t come back?
That would be good. Really good.
*
‘Come back!’
Donald’s despairing howl becomes more and more distant, grows fainter and fainter.
When he came round, he started off with a flood of curses so toxic that Majvor was amazed he even knew words like that. So many references to sexual organs, prostitution and figures from both heaven and hell—in the end she had covered her ears while James Stewart finished doing what he had to do.
It wasn’t until Majvor and James Stewart started to walk away that the imprecations gave way to pleading. Donald invoked all the years they had spent together, all the good times they had had, everything he had done for her. She almost allowed herself to be persuaded, but then the Man from Laramie took her hand and said: ‘Let’s go, honey.’
It was good that he said it in English. It made everything more real, so Majvor took his hand and went with him as Donald’s begging came down to one simple plea—Come back—which is now growing ever more feeble as he loses blood.
I Am Behind You Page 38