Johnny sank to the asphalt, his back against the brick wall by the window, while the band worked its way through a number of marches. Mostly it was the bass drum that interested him. The drumsticks beat with precision and tenacity, keeping the others in rhythm, getting them back on track, so to speak, because it was undeniable they were playing too fast. With regular intervals they stopped, and there followed a sharp rapping sound — the conductor smacking his baton against his music stand. It meant that he wanted to make a change. When the band had played for an hour, it suddenly grew quiet in the gym. Johnny peered cautiously through the window, and he realised it was break time. They had put their instruments aside, and they were on the way up. The boys would probably smoke on the sly, and the girls would probably hop through the flyer and niner, maybe chew some gum while they had the chance. He scrambled from the asphalt and rushed behind the corner of the school building, where he watched them pile out. Else Meiner was wearing jeans and a light blue jacket, and she was wearing it backwards — the buttons, he noticed, were on her back. Miss Contrary, then. But he already knew that — that she was bold and different. She ganged up with two other girls; it looked as though they shared some sweets. The girls’ voices rose through the air, clear as a bell. He squeezed against the wall and kept them under surveillance, made a note of their gestures, the interaction between them. The Meiner girl was the leader, the one the others listened to.
The break lasted fifteen minutes. At once they ran back into the building, and the playground was empty. When he saw they had returned to their seats in the gymnasium, among the wall bars and gym mats, he slipped into the ground-floor corridor. He continued to hear Else Meiner’s trumpet. On the wall to the right was a noticeboard, and he walked over to see what it said. One notice told him, as he’d long known, that Hauger School Band practised every Thursday at six. But there were other activities during the week in the old, dilapidated school building. Aerobics for beginners and advanced, children’s playtime on Tuesdays, chess club each Wednesday at seven, football on Mondays, and a course on cooking and needlecraft. What a crazy lot of things people do, Johnny Beskow thought. For a few minutes he wandered the corridor. Slurped a little water from the fountain against the wall, looked at some pictures. Searched for Else Meiner, and finally found her in a photo from some kind of theatre production, The Living Forest. Dressed like a pine, she wore green flannel, but the pointy chin gave her away.
Suddenly a man in a green nylon jacket walked through a door.
‘Are you looking for someone?’
It was the caretaker. Johnny ran off without responding, shoved the doors open and scurried across the playground as fast as lightning. He got his moped from the bike shed, pushed it past the metal barrier and continued on to the paved path. He stopped to recover and catch his breath. The band would be practising until eight. They would chat for a bit when it was over, putting their instruments in their cases, walking upstairs and out of the building, getting on their bikes and riding away. A quarter past, he thought, that’s when she’ll come this way. On the blue bicycle. As he looked around for a good hiding place, he walked slowly along the Love Trail. There would have to be enough bushes to hide both him and his moped. And when the deed was carried out, he would have to find cover until she had gone. As he walked he was struck by a stupid thought which flushed his cheeks up to his hairline and down to his throat, made him so despondent he had to pause. He leaned over his moped, blushing from the heat and his embarrassment.
What were the chances that Else Meiner would actually take this path at all? She could easily choose the main road. There was more traffic, but it was shorter. And besides, what was the chance that she would be cycling all alone? Weren’t there at least thirty people in this bloody band? Maybe four or five of them would ride together. His doubts lasted more than a minute. He couldn’t move. What if people saw how miserable he was? Then he forced himself to snap out of it, straightened his shoulders and raised his head. I’m fast, he thought, they’ll probably be too surprised to move, the whole lot of them. They don’t know me, either. He pushed the moped further. After a while the path forked in two. An offshoot veered left and, he thought, south towards Kirkeby. Some of them will split off here, and only two or three will cycle on. And maybe there’s another fork. There was, a few minutes ahead. This offshoot went to the right, towards Sandberg. Here another will probably split off. So he imagined only two girls left. I can handle two girls. Soon he saw, to the left, a dense thicket. He pulled the moped off the path, hid it in the undergrowth and squatted down to wait for Else Meiner.
The undergrowth was full of nettles and bracken.
In his hand he held the army knife.
She chose the Love Trail.
She was alone.
She hummed and sang one of the songs playing constantly on the radio. He could never remember what it was called, but it irritated him. The blue bicycle sparkled. Her father had probably bought it, Johnny thought, and made sure she had new tyres. Someone who has a father has a place to go when things fall apart. Crawling slowly from the undergrowth, he slid on his belly along the hill, like a reptile. The plan was to rush forward, leap up and jump her from behind. Making use of the element of surprise was important, as was the shock he was sure would paralyse her with fear. And he was lucky. She rode slowly, rolling calmly on her soft rubber tyres. Singing and humming. He unsheathed his army knife and pulled out the longest blade, then began counting down. In his excitement he had also begun to tremble; the trembling made him angry, and his anger made him calm again.
Unable to wait any longer, he rose and, with great force, plunged forward. Leapt for the bicycle and clawed until he got hold of the bike rack and the trumpet case fell to the path with a crash. Confused, she set her feet on the ground, her small body twitching. Just as she tried to turn, startled, he wrapped an arm around her throat and yanked. Her neck was as slender as the stem of a cherry, the blue-green veins like fine threads. Then she sank backwards, and the bicycle fell to the ground. Johnny lost his balance and went down; blood pulsed through his body in hard spurts. They lay writhing on the hill, and in the heat of battle he was struck with wonder. She didn’t scream, and wasn’t paralysed with fear. She began to thrash around, and with such force that it sapped his strength. Only his left arm was free, for in his right he held the knife. She kicked like a donkey. She wriggled, twisting like a worm. Then, with powerful jaws, she sunk her teeth into his forearm. The pain brought tears to his eyes, and for a few seconds he nearly lost his grip. She took this moment to turn her head and look him in the eye. Through the holes in the gorilla mask he saw the little face and its scattered freckles. He couldn’t turn back now, couldn’t hesitate, because now, finally, he had to get Else Meiner, this nemesis who poisoned his existence, this troll who always crept from her cave when he rode past. Humiliate her once and for all.
So he clenched his teeth, pressed her down on the path, straddled her narrow back, grabbed hold of the fiery red hair and raised his knife. With one swift movement he sliced off her plait. Just as you cut a rope. He put the plait in his pocket and gasped for breath, but he maintained his grip — to make it known that, if he wanted to, he could also cut her throat if she didn’t behave. Finally she lay completely still. He drove his knee into her lower back, clutched her hair, tugged it forcefully more than once, and gave her a final warning shove before running back into the undergrowth. Ran in a zigzag into the woods and squatted down, hid in the bracken watching as she collected herself. She seemed a little off-kilter, stumbling a few steps to the side, her cheeks pale. But she managed to get her bicycle upright and her trumpet in place on the rack. Then she ran her hand across the back of her head, feeling for the plait. Lying in the bushes, Johnny hardly dared breathe. He had stung himself on some nettles, been scratched by some thistles and been bitten on his arm by Else Meiner. But he held his breath. This was just a warning, he thought. Next time, I’ll cut off your ears.