The pale bark is coarse and rough, full of nooks and crannies that she can use. It doesn’t take her long to reach the creepy face. She stares into its dead eyes and suddenly feels ridiculous. This is something Margaux would do. Thea’s forte is being sensible and logical, focusing on things that can be measured and organised. She loves jigsaws, always knows where the emergency exits are, keeps a rucksack packed with the essentials just in case the worst happens. Used to keep, she corrects herself. Until the worst actually happened.
Thea takes the wood anemones out of her pocket and pushes them into the Green Man’s mouth. The hole is bigger than it looked from the ground, and her fist easily fits inside. She feels an edge, as if the thick trunk is partly hollow. She extends her arm as far as she can, closes her eyes and thinks of Margaux. Tries to summon up every detail of her face. Her dark fringe, her eyes, the tiny freckles on her nose. Her smile.
Then she drops the flowers.
To the return of life.
A gust of wind passes by, bending the treetops and sending up swirls of dry leaves from the ground. It carries with it the smell of electricity, of a storm. Thea shivers.
Somewhere deep in the forest, Emee begins to bark.
3
Walpurgis Night 1986
Dear readers!
Every narrative must have a beginning, a middle and an end. This is my beginning.
My name is Elita Svart. I am sixteen years old. I live deep in the forest outside Tornaby.
By the time you read this, I will already be dead. But let’s take it from the start, shall we?
Arne Backe realised almost straightaway that the garage foreman was messing with him. The fat bastard leaned across the counter speaking loudly enough for his two colleagues, who were doing an oil change on a Volvo 245, to hear every world.
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Police Constable 2971 Backe, Ljungslöv police. I’ve come to pick up a radio car.’
Arne stroked his moustache in a way that he imagined made him look older and more experienced.
‘Have you indeed.’ The foreman ran a fleshy finger down the page of his ledger. ‘A radio car for the Ljungslöv police. Do you really need one? I thought you mostly drove tractors out there in the sticks.’
Arne could hear the two grease monkeys laughing behind him, but he didn’t bother turning around. Instead he rapped on the counter with his knuckles.
‘Keys. I’m in a hurry.’
‘In a hurry! Why would you be in a hurry? Do you have to get home to do the milking? Or are you helping Hans Holmér to solve the murder of Olof Palme?’
More laughter, louder this time. The foreman straightened up and produced a bunch of keys, which he dramatically placed on the counter in front of him. He obviously intended to draw this out for as long as possible.
Arne was used to people trying to wind him up. He was twenty-two years old, the youngest officer at the station in Ljungslöv. A newly qualified kid, wet behind the ears, who was only allowed to make the coffee, man the reception desk and run errands. Lennartson, the chief of police, had very reluctantly organised a lift to Helsingborg in the mail van so that Arne could pick up the new radio car. Lennartson always adopted a particular expression when their eyes met, a mixture of irritation and distaste that Arne had seen way too often. It seemed to be something he evoked in others, something he couldn’t do anything about.
He gritted his teeth. In the summer a fresh batch of newly qualified officers would arrive at the station, and he would move up a notch. Get out on the streets like a real cop. Until then he just had to put up with Lennartson’s grimaces and his colleagues’ teasing. However, this guy and his two stooges were fucking civilians, and had no right to speak to a representative of the law like this.
The foreman scrawled something down in his stained ledger.
‘Backe, you said.’ He was grinning now.
‘Mm . . .’ Arne knew what was coming.
‘Backe, that means hill. Uphill or downhill?’
The mechanics guffawed, and Arne dug his front teeth into his lower lip. Arne Nedförsbacke – Downhill Arne – that had been his nickname at school. He’d been a figure of fun because of his grades, because he was useless at football, because his parents had had him when they were older. Sometimes there had been a suggestion that his sister was actually his mother, even though Ingrid was only twelve when he was born.
Regardless of how many times he fought, how many times he got beaten up or went on the offensive himself, the laughter had continued. It hadn’t stopped when he’d grown up either. He was a target because he hadn’t been accepted for military service, because he couldn’t hold down a job, because he would never have got into the police if his brother-in-law Bertil hadn’t played bridge with Lennartson.
Downhill Arne.
‘Sign here.’
The foreman turned the ledger around and winked at him as if Arne were an errand boy rather than a policeman in full uniform.
‘It’s the Saab over there in the corner. And don’t go trying to plough any fields on your way back.’
Arne scribbled his name and grabbed the keys.
The mechanics were pouring fresh oil into the Volvo. The tray containing the old oil was still on a small trolley on the floor. One of the mechanics had blond streaks in his mullet, the other wore an earring. Arne had no doubt they were both closet gays. They weren’t much older than him, but they still thought they had the right to laugh at him.
They straightened up and grinned at him as he passed by; no doubt they were trying to think of a suitable parting shot.
‘You need to clean the floor,’ Arne said before they had time to open their mouths. He kicked the trolley as hard as he could, sending a wave of black, sticky oil all over their feet. Then he walked over to the police car, jumped in and drove away.
The radio car was a Saab 900 Turbo. The mileage was low, and it still smelled new. He could feel its power.
On the E21 heading east, Arne switched on the sirens and blue lights and managed to push the speedometer over one hundred and eighty. He loved seeing the other drivers move aside to let him pass. He could still see the mechanics, slithering around with their shoes full of oil while the foreman roared like a constipated walrus.
For the first time in ages, Arne was in a good mood. He felt as if something within him had eased. He could drive this car wherever and however he wanted. Lennartson moonlighted as a farmer, and had spent all week worrying about a sow that was due to farrow. He’d probably already left for the day, and wouldn’t have a clue where Arne was. As long as he stayed away from Ljungslöv, nobody would know what he was up to. He just had to make sure the car was at the station before eight o’clock tomorrow morning.
He passed the sign for Tornaby, and slowed down. It was high time people saw the new Arne Backe.
4
‘You’re wondering if I still have the same nightmare. I’d really like to say no, because I don’t want you to worry about me. I’m fine, Margaux. We won’t talk about it anymore, OK?’
The deafening noise reverberates inside Thea’s head. She throws herself out of bed, drops to the floor and covers her head with her arms.
The field hospital in Idlib. The explosions from the barrel bombs that tear apart the buildings and the people inside them, burying everything and everyone beneath the rubble. The concrete dust is choking her. She has to get up, put on her helmet. She has to find Margaux, get out of here . . .
David is standing in the doorway. His lips are moving, but she can’t hear what he’s saying. Her brain is still in the flattened hospital. She staggers through the devastation, tripping over the dead bodies . . .