‘Fucking idiot!’
Thea rounds the corner of the east wing to see the builder lying on the ground. David is bending over him; he’s grabbed the man’s jacket with one hand, while the other is raised in a fist.
‘David!’ she shouts.
He turns, his eyes black, his lips a thin line.
Emee starts barking, hurls herself in David’s direction, baring her teeth and snapping at thin air. Thea has to grasp the lead in both hands and dig her heels into the ground to hold her back.
David blinks a couple of times, becomes his normal self again. He lets go of the builder’s collar and straightens up. Emee stops barking but continues to growl, hackles raised. She doesn’t take her eyes off David.
‘Sorry,’ David mutters. Thea’s not sure who he’s apologising to. He turns on his heel, disappears through the kitchen entrance and slams the door behind him.
The builder scrambles to his feet.
‘I do apologise,’ Thea says. ‘David’s under a lot of stress. There’s so much . . .’
The man nods, brushing the dirt off his jacket.
‘He’s bloody lucky he’s Bertil Nordin’s boy,’ he mutters as he lumbers towards his van.
26
Walpurgis Night 1986
‘Love is hard, Elita.’ That’s what my grandmother used to say. The hardest thing in life.
I only met her a few times. Lola didn’t like going there. Grandma was always nice to me, but I understood that she hadn’t been that way with Lola. The few times they were together, there was something strange about Lola’s expression, as if she both adored and hated her mother.
Sometimes Lola gets the same look on her face when Lasse is around, but only when he has his back to her. The other day I saw her tuck a knife into her pocket.
Love and hatred are very close to each other, Grandma said.
I understand exactly what she meant.
Arne drove fast through the forest, ploughing through muddy puddles, ignoring the branches and undergrowth scraping against the wing mirrors and paintwork.
Elita had used him, just as her father had done. Treated him as a lackey, pretended to be his friend, toyed with his emotions. She’d borrowed his camera so that she could take a picture for her fucking boyfriend. She hadn’t even had the wit to hand it over secretly; instead she’d done it right in the middle of the yard where everyone could see them. Elita and that fucking mother-in-law’s dream Per Nyberg. The very thought made him feel sick.
Arne slammed on the brakes, leaped out of the car and grabbed the camera in its case. He didn’t want it anymore, didn’t want to be reminded of what it had been used for. He swung it back and forth by the strap a couple of times, intending to throw it as far as possible into the bog, deep into the mud where no one would ever find it, but the catch came undone and the camera fell to the ground.
‘Shitshitshit!’ He kicked at the camera, then saw that something else had fallen out. Another white rectangle, another photograph.
He picked it up, brushed off the dirt.
Elita, in a white dress with her hair loose. She was standing on a stone with her eyes closed, hands folded across her chest, holding two antlers. Long silk ribbons were attached to her wrists, and two small figures in animal masks stood on either side of the stone – four in total, clutching the ends of the ribbons. Arne was sure he’d seen a similar picture somewhere else, but where?
He stared at the photograph, held it close to his eyes so that he could pick out every tiny detail. Something about the image made him feel weird. Dizzy, feverish, sick, all at the same time.
Elita had written beneath the picture:
To Arne. Walpurgis Night 1986. Come to the stone circle at midnight.
Then three more words.
His heartbeat pulsated through his whole body. Reached his throat, his temples, his stomach, his crotch, repeating the words she’d written.
The spring sacrifice
The spring sacrifice
The spring sacrifice
27
‘They boarded up her house – can you imagine that, Margaux? Blocked up every opening and took away the access road. Why would anyone do that? What secrets were they trying to seal up inside?’
David is himself again by the evening. He cooks dinner, lights candles, opens a bottle of decent red wine. He doesn’t mention the altercation with the builder, and nor does Thea. The TV piece on the restaurant is due to be broadcast tonight. Thea is nervous, but tries not to show it.
‘How was work today? Are you starting to get to grips with everything?’ David asks.
‘Oh yes – I now know the history of Tornaby all the way back to pre-Christian times! Today Dr Andersson told me about the old count and the Bokelund Foundation. And about poor Hubert over in the west wing, who was robbed of his inheritance. By the way, I saw him the other night – I forgot to mention it.’
‘Hubert?’
She nods. ‘He was peeping out from behind a curtain when I was looking for Emee. Isn’t it a bit odd that he hasn’t called round to say hello? Shouldn’t we go and introduce ourselves?’
David pulls a face.
‘Hubert’s . . . different. I’ve only met him once since it was agreed that we were going to rent the castle. He’s something of a recluse, plus I think he’s away quite often.’
‘Can he afford that? According to the doctor the count only left him a pittance.’
‘I’ve no idea – you’d have to ask my mother. Madam Chairman can account for every krona that passes through the foundation. Nothing escapes her eagle eye, I can promise you that.’ He smiles, pours himself another glass of wine.
Thea leans back in her chair. She’s missed this David. He’s attractive too, especially when he relaxes. She tries to remember the last time they made love, and concludes that it was much too long ago.
Outside the window the moat is in darkness. Some of the lamps on the bridge have been fixed, but on the other side the night is impenetrable. She wants to bring the conversation back to Elita Svart. She wonders how to do it, then decides to come straight to the point.
‘I found something in the forest the other day.’
‘Oh?’
‘A photograph. I’ll show you.’
She fetches the Polaroid from her jacket pocket and places it on the table in front of him. ‘That’s you, isn’t it? You, Nettan, Sebastian and Jan-Olof.’
David stiffens. ‘Where did you find this?’
‘In an old paint tin inside the Gallows Oak,’ Thea says eagerly. ‘Someone must have pushed it through the hole in the face.’
David is ashen.
‘It’s exactly like the old pictures of the spring sacrifice in the Folk Museum,’ Thea goes on. ‘Was it Elita who persuaded you to dress up? Where did you get the masks from?’
She pushes the photograph closer to his plate. Only when she meets his eyes does she realise she’s gone too far.
‘Take it away,’ he hisses. ‘I don’t want to talk about Elita fucking Svart – haven’t you got that yet? I’ve got other things to think about, like how we’re going to bring this massive project in on budget and on time. Don’t you realise how much is down to me? How many people are monitoring every little thing I do?’
He shoves the picture away.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’
‘You saw what happened yesterday. How upset Dad got when you mentioned Elita. Mum too, although she didn’t show it.’