I Am Behind You

by John Ajvide Lindqvist

  He can’t see a thing; it is darker than when he closes his eyes. When he turns around he can see the doorway and the campsite a few hundred metres away, the lilac glow of twilight which doesn’t reach one single centimetre over the threshold.

  Then he hears the man’s voice. When Emil went in he was afraid of bumping into the man, who must be just in front of him. But the voice comes from far away, and Emil can’t even work out the direction as it says: ‘Could you close the door so that—’

  Emil doesn’t hear the rest of the sentence; it is drowned out by the noise of the door slamming shut, and now there is nothing but the darkness. His heart is pounding and he wishes he had Sabre Cat with him. But he is alone. Completely alone. He calls out, ‘Hello?’ but no one answers.

  The pounding fills his ears, and even if it isn’t a very nice sound, it is still a sound, something that means he is alive, he is here. Emil touches his face, sticks his finger up his nose, and it feels just the way it always does when he picks his nose, although of course he’s not supposed to do that.

  A lilac rectangle begins to appear before his eyes and Emil realises it’s the door. As his eyes grow accustomed to the gloom he can see the outline, but when darkness falls outside it will vanish.

  He takes a deep breath and turns away. Then he starts walking. He senses that he will not bump into a wall, and it turns out he’s right.

  *

  Stefan picks up Emil’s soft toys one by one, examining them carefully. Apart from the odd burn mark, they are all undamaged. He doesn’t know how many hours, days, weeks Emil has spent constructing imaginary worlds where these five animals have been his brothers in arms, his fellow travellers, his companions.

  Sometimes Stefan joins in the game, and over the years their characters have crystallised. Bengtson the bear is a little slow on the uptake, but he is totally reliable. Sabre Cat is the one who comes up with crazy plans. Sköldis the tortoise always thinks too highly of himself, and claims that he has been around for a thousand years. Hipphopp the rabbit is modelled on Little Hop from the Bamse the Bear cartoons, and he is always scared. Bunte, who doesn’t appear to be a specific animal, often tries to start a quarrel.

  Stefan carefully arranges the five animals around Emil in a protective circle, keeping vigil, and whispers: ‘Help him. Please help him.’

  The plastic eyes stare blankly into space, and as Stefan looks from one to the other he is struck by a realisation so painful that it stabs at his heart.

  The animals are going to die.

  He can’t bring himself to face the terrible possibility that Emil might die from his injuries, but the adjacent thought attacks him and the knife is twisted around and around.

  Without Emil the animals are nothing. Without Emil, these most loyal friends and most courageous adventurers are no more than five worthless objects made of fabric, stuffing and plastic. What would Stefan do if…He wouldn’t be able to throw them away. Put them in a box. Put the box in the shed. Try to forget about the box. Find the box after ten years. See Emil’s best friends ruined by damp and mildew. Dead.

  ‘Please…’ Stefan whispers to the animals, to Emil, to the universe. ‘Please don’t die…’

  Emil suddenly coughs and raises one hand. He gropes in the air and opens his eyes.

  ‘Daddy?’ he says in a voice thick with blood and phlegm. ‘Where are you?’

  Stefan takes Emil’s hand and leans over him. ‘I’m here, sweetheart. Daddy’s here.’

  He tries to catch Emil’s gaze, but there is nothing to catch. His son’s eyes are as empty as those of his animals, and his restless pupils are so dilated that they almost fill the iris. His other hand is now groping at the air as if he is feeling his way in a dark room, and he says: ‘Mummy?’

  ‘Mummy isn’t here, sweetheart.’

  Emil takes a few laborious breaths; it sounds as if his tongue is sticky as he asks with difficulty: ‘Where is…she?’

  ‘She left. She…’

  He breaks off as Emil’s head twitches from side to side. ‘Fetch… Mummy. Hurry. Go…’

  There is a rattling sound from Emil’s throat and he starts to cough; droplets of blood fly out of his mouth and land on the back of Stefan’s hand, which is still clutching Emil’s. There is a part of Stefan that can’t take any more. One version of Stefan goes crazy and starts screaming and lashing out inside the prison of his brain, while another version carries on holding Emil’s hand, pretending that he can cope.

  The coughing fit subsides and Stefan asks: ‘Where? Where do you want me to go?’

  Emil takes the deepest breath he can manage with his broken ribcage. ‘The darkness. You. Me. Mummy. Hurry. Soon…dark.’

  ‘What do you mean, sweetheart? The darkness, soon dark, I don’t understand, what…’

  But Emil has closed his eyes, and his hand is limp. Stefan gently lays it down next to Emil’s chest, which continues to rise and fall with each shallow breath.

  Hurry. The darkness.

  There might be a darker line on the horizon—isn’t that what Peter said? Stefan had intended to ask him about that, but the opportunity never arose. He has thought about that darkness, wondered whether this world does have some kind of borderline after all, some kind of end.

  Hurry.

  It is doing nothing that has created the mad version of Stefan that is roaring inside his head. Anything is better than sitting here shaking with his hands clasped, terrified that the crazy Stefan will break out and take over.

  The skin on his back pulls and tears as Stefan crouches down and slides his arms under the sofa cushion on which Emil is lying. Sores that were starting to heal break open, and he has to clench his teeth to stop himself from screaming as he straightens up, carrying Emil and the cushion.

  He sidles out through the door and manages to get Emil on the back seat of the car. Sköldis and Hipphopp have fallen off en route; Stefan runs and picks them up, then places them next to Emil. He stands there irresolute, holding the seatbelt as he considers different ways of making his son secure.

  Hurry.

  The madman is waving his arms around in his prison, shouting: ‘What does it matter, for fuck’s sake! Put on a helmet when you’re drowning, don’t forget your lifejacket when the house is on fire, just go you fucking idiot!’

  Stefan lets go of the belt, kisses Emil on the forehead, slams the door and gets behind the wheel. He turns to look at Emil, but his eyes are still closed, so instead Stefan addresses the animals, using the phrase he has heard Emil utter so many times: ‘Are you with me?’

  Bengtson, who is usually Chewbacca and the co-pilot, nods in agreement.

  ‘Good. In that case, let’s go.’

  *

  Donald is slumped over the bonnet, his cheek resting on the still-warm metal. He has stopped calling out; he has neither the strength nor the desire left. He doesn’t actually want Majvor to come back, partly because he doesn’t want to see her ugly face, and partly because he would prefer not to know what state he is in.

  The intense pain from shattered bones in the pelvic area has turned into a constant burning that is slowly easing as the blood continues to flow from the stump of his arm.

  The loss of blood has made him dizzy and apathetic, and the way things are right now, this is a desirable state of affairs. If the car was moved away, allowing the weight of his body to come down on his midriff, the pain would explode again, to no purpose. He is finished. There is no redemption. Perhaps his condition is making him tractable, but through the mist in his mind he is still surprised at the readiness with which he accepts that fact.

  You’re going to die, Donald.

  Okay. If you say so.

  He has always thought, or rather hoped, that Death will be a figure that comes to him in extremis. Nothing to do with solace or comfort; he just wanted Death to appear in some concrete form so that he could punch it right on the nose. Go down with all guns blazing, as it were.

  Now the time has come, he doesn’t feel that
way. He just wants to dissolve, to fade away and disappear in the red mist that is filling more and more of his brain and obscuring his vision.

  He mumbles, ‘Buchanan, Lincoln, Johnson, Grant,’ as he returns in his mind to Graceland. It is a different Graceland from the one he visited. The other tourists are gone, Majvor is gone, and he is free to stroll through the empty rooms as he pleases.

  ‘Hayes, Garfield, Arthur…’

  He stops in the TV room. The yellow fitted carpet, the huge sofa, the three televisions set into the wall. This time he doesn’t have to stay behind the barriers, he can wander into the room, and he drifts towards the glass table and the white figure who is sitting there.

  ‘Cleveland, Harrison, Cleve…Cleve…land…’

  Almost there.

  The white figure is a monkey. A monkey made of porcelain, with one arm looped around its knees. Its eyes are round and black. Donald is drawn towards those eyes. The red mist turns dark red as the black sphere that is the monkey’s eye comes closer.

  Donald reclaims his awareness for one last look at the world before he goes to the monkey. His vision is blurred and he is incapable of focusing on the figure walking towards him across the field.

  For a moment he thinks it really is the monkey, and he tries to clench his remaining hand into a fist so that he can deliver that final blow in spite of everything, but discovers that he cannot even bend his fingers towards his palm.

  The figure stops beside him.

  ‘Hi there,’ it says. ‘I have a suggestion.’

  *

  Neither Lennart nor Olof is completely sure of the year, but it could have been the spring of ’98. Olof maintains it was the year Olof Johansson stepped down as party leader, while Lennart tends to think it was around the time that Holmberg’s dog was killed by the wolf, which was ’99. Or it might have been ’97.

  Some of the neighbours used to gather towards the end of April for a logging weekend. They had been collecting logs all winter and piling them up on Lennart’s land. They would spend the weekend turning the pile into firewood, which was then divided up between all those involved.

  At their disposal they had a combined saw and splitter hooked up to a tractor. After the logs had been split, the wood was carried along on a conveyor belt from which it fell onto a growing heap. Everyone could help themselves, take the wood home and stack it safely so that it would be lovely and dry for the following winter.

  It was both pleasanter and more efficient to work together. It was the custom to switch between tasks, so that everyone had the chance to bring the logs, chop them, split them and carry them away. The women and children also joined in if they felt like it.

  That particular spring, people kept dropping out, one after the other, for various reasons: an illness here, an injury there, visiting relatives, an unexpected calving. As a result, Lennart and Olof ended up standing there at midday all on their own. It wasn’t really a problem, the machinery could be handled by two people, but obviously it would take longer.

  Lennart and Olof set to work. After half an hour they had found a good rhythm, and the woodpile was growing so fast that you would have thought three people were doing the job. If not four.

  The blade of the saw whined and sliced through log after log, then each section was split into four pieces which travelled along the conveyor belt. Lennart and Olof worked as if they were in a trance, caught inside a bubble where nothing else existed apart from the two of them, the machinery and the growing pile of wood.

  At two-thirty they took a fifteen-minute break; they simply sat in silence contemplating the fruit of their labours, smiling and nodding to one another. Then they set to work again. By the time they called it a day at five o’clock, they had managed to get through half the logs all on their own.

  Olof switched off the tractor which was driving the machinery. The hydraulic compressor fell silent, and the whine of the saw died away. The low sun made the new buds on the birch trees glow, and the air was filled with the fresh smell of sawdust as Lennart and Olof settled down side by side on a log that had rolled away from the rest. No doubt Ingela and Agnetha would have dinner ready back home, but the two men wanted to enjoy the satisfaction of a job well done for a little longer.

  ‘Would you look at that,’ Olof said, nodding towards the mound of split wood.

  ‘Not bad,’ Lennart said. ‘Not bad at all.’

  They sat quietly, appreciating the pleasant aches and pains in their bodies and the peace of the late afternoon. Something passed between them during those few moments. In spite of the fact that they spent a great deal of time together, both in their work and with their families, it was only then that a simple truth crystallised for the two of them. They were each other’s best friends.

  Either of them could have expressed what came next, but since Lennart was the more talkative of the two, he spoke first.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about something,’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘What I mean is, I just thought about it now.’

  ‘Go on?’

  Lennart brushed the sawdust from the folds in his dungarees and looked around as if to check that no one was listening, then said: ‘What I thought was…couldn’t we…you and me…couldn’t we kind of promise one another that…’

  Lennart was struggling to find the right words, and Olof helped him out: ‘That we’ll look after one another? If things go wrong?’

  Lennart nodded. ‘Yes. Something like that. Not that I have any reason to think things will go wrong, I’m not trying to set up some kind of insurance, but…’

  ‘I understand,’ Olof said. ‘Sounds good to me. If things go wrong for you, then I’ll help you, and if things go wrong for me, then you’ll help me. Good.’

  Lennart stared at the ground, wondering if there was anything to add, but decided that Olof’s summary covered all the bases. When he looked up again he was met by Olof’s outstretched hand.

  ‘Let’s shake on it.’

  They shook hands, and patted each other on the shoulder. And so the matter was decided.

  As it turned out, neither of them benefited from the agreement alone. When things did go wrong, it affected both of them at the same time. Ingela and Agnetha went to the Canaries and never really came back. Lennart and Olof took care of each other, and gradually their relationship developed into something else.

  *

  Olof and Lennart stand side by side next to their caravan, watching Stefan’s Volvo disappear into the distance. There are only the two of them left now. Everyone else has left the camp, except for Benny and Maud of course.

  ‘Do you remember that time with the logs?’ Olof says. ‘Everyone dropped out, and there were just the two of us left?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lennart says. ‘Ninety-eight.’

  ‘Or ninety-nine.’

  ‘Something like that, my friend.’

  Lennart turns and holds out his arms. The two men embrace, then stand for a long time with their cheeks resting on each other’s shoulders until Lennart whispers: ‘What are we going to do?’ They move apart, arms hanging by their sides.

  ‘It will soon be over, won’t it?’ Olof says, carefully examining his hands.

  ‘Yes, I think so. One way or another.’

  ‘In which case we ought to…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Try to…to work things out, somehow.’

  ‘You mean…?’

  ‘Yes. While there’s still time.’

  They stand there looking at the ground, at their feet, out across the field, fiddling with the straps of their dungarees.

  ‘I mean, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ Lennart says.

  ‘No. Those days are gone.’

  Lennart scratches the back of his neck and looks shyly at Olof, contemplating his body as if he is trying to decide to what extent it is suitable for the intended purpose.

  ‘Of course I don’t know if it’s possible,’ he says. ‘I don’t know if I can do it.’


  ‘Me neither,’ Olof says. ‘But we can try. At the eleventh hour, so to speak.’

  Lennart smiles at the unusual expression, then he shrugs and says: ‘You’re right. We can always try.’

  *

  By the time Majvor catches up with James Stewart, the darkness on the horizon has grown so tall and wide that it forms a wall which seems to be moving towards her under its own steam. The gun belt slaps against Jimmy’s hip as he strides along; he doesn’t turn around when Majvor calls out: ‘Jimmy, where are we going?’

  He mutters something in response, and Majvor has to make a real effort to keep pace with him. She looks over at his dogged profile; the Jimmy she knew and loved has gone, leaving behind only the bitter Will Lockhart.

  ‘What did you say, Jimmy?’

  ‘Stop calling me that. And quit following me.’

  ‘What else can I do? I have nothing, I’ve left…’

  ‘That’s not my problem. You know who I am. What I am.’

  Yes, Majvor thinks, in spite of everything you’re just another one of those guys who ruin a poor woman and then…

  At the same time she knows this isn’t true; that’s what happens in the stories in her magazines. Jimmy has sprung from her own mind. He is her creation, her responsibility. You don’t get that kind of thing in a women’s magazine.

  ‘What are you actually doing here? You and…the others?’

  ‘We’re walking,’ Jimmy replies. ‘First we walk in one direction. Then we walk in the other direction.’

  The darkness continues to grow ahead of her; Majvor stumbles along, still trying to keep up with the man she has conjured up from her dreams. Sweat is trickling from her armpits, and her body is giving off a sour smell.

  ‘Jimmy,’ she says, tugging at his sleeve. ‘Please, Jimmy…’

  She runs her hand over his chest, she caresses his cheek from his chin up to the brim of his hat, and she desperately wants him to take her in his arms and hold her, nothing more, just like in the sweetest story. Just so that she can pretend for a little while that everything is as it should be.