He waved the little microphone before her eyes.
And the figment of their imagination fell dead to the floor of Kvarnen.
10
THEY’RE LYING IN bed. The sunset is reflected on their young bodies, still damp with sweat. It’s the calm after the storm. The desire has subsided but it will wake again soon, it’s never far away. It will always be there. Not even death can keep them apart.
But it’s also the calm before the storm. That’s how the saying really goes. And now, for them, the storm really is approaching.
The hurricane.
That’s the insight that slowly begins to spread through them. The calm, the always temporary calm, gives way.
Trembles of unease ripple through their nakedness.
He sits up on the edge of the bed. He is pale, she is dark, and she can see, at that moment she can see where his mind has gone. Again. She leans over to him, her breasts softly grazing his back. Slowly and carefully, she pulls him back from the shadow of death. Like he has done so many times for her.
She knows that he can see the school playground. She knows that he has stepped out of himself. She knows that he can see a boy, a young, pale boy, lying on the desolate football field. She knows that he can hear ‘If you get up, we’ll hit you.’ One after another, they go forward. Stand there a moment. Peering down at him. Then they piss on him. One by one. Only the boys at first. The girls are in the background, giggling, thrilled. The brave ones leave, though none of them are brave enough to tell. It’ll just keep going on. And on. Still, no girl has done it yet. A comfort in his distress. Then the last floodgate opens. A girl comes forward. She is wearing a skirt. She has already taken her knickers off, she is holding them in her hand. She squats over him, carefully. Slowly pisses on his body. She is dark.
He feels something soft against his back, and it brings him to his senses. He lifts off, floats, soars ahead. He is sitting on the edge of a bed, flying. He puts his hand behind his head and reaches her. Lets his hand move through her dark hair.
And she can smile again.
‘I was hurt,’ she says, trying to stop herself from crying. ‘I was dead. You brought me back. You know that.’
They sit there, their limbs strangely twisted. They’re a sculpture. For ever united. By an eternal love.
‘What do you want?’ she asks.
It’s a ritual. Neither can depart from it. He smiles, and says: ‘I want to sit on a veranda, reading. It’ll be warm, but raining gently. The rain’ll be pattering nicely on the roof of the veranda, and when I look up from the book, I’ll see the steam rising between the raindrops.’
She smiles. She knows it so well. She says: ‘D’you know what I want?’
He laughs. ‘No idea.’
‘I want to hear the dolphins singing. I want to see the foam along the edge of the pale blue water. I want to see the dolphins playing in freedom. I want to hear them talk to one another when there’s no trainer there to drill them.’
He turns round and gives her one last big embrace, stands up, pulls on his clothes and walks over to the backpack lying on the floor. He looks down into it.
She stands up too, slowly pulling on her clothes, going over to him and wrapping her arms around him. She too looks down into the bag.
Inside, there are two black, knitted balaclavas and two black pistols.
He bends down and pulls the zip shut.
Then he takes the car key from the desk, throws it up into the air, catches it and looks into her eyes.
‘Let’s go and arrange that, then,’ he says.
11
THE MAN STANDS completely still. He has given up everything, and is standing completely still next to his car. In his hand he is holding a briefcase. It hangs, motionless, by his side.
It’s dark but warm. As though the summer day was lingering behind.
As though there was still light.
Summer has hardly begun but already the nights are growing longer. It’s Midsummer’s Eve, he thinks, it has been for a few hours. The week began with the summer solstice, and it’s ending with Midsummer’s Eve.
What a way to celebrate the longest days of the year.
No lilies or columbines, as the folk song goes; no roses or salvia, no sweet mint.
No heart’s delight.
All he really wants is to go to a place where the winters are shorter. That’s all he wants.
That’s what he is waiting for.
He stands completely still, looking out into the darkness.
It’s not quite pitch black, it never is at this time of year. Not really, really dark. He can make out the shapes of old sheds and rusty, wrecked cars as he gazes out along the road in the cluttered industrial estate.
And right then, that’s when he hears it.
At the same moment he hears the muffled explosion, he knows that it’s all gone to hell. Everything. His entire life has gone to hell.
He stands completely still.
So that’s how fragile it was.
The dividing line so thin.
The balance so delicate.
By the time he hears the third round of shots, he’s sitting in his car. He sighs and drives away.
It’s already too late.
Six men in a van. A metallic-green van parked up against an old industrial shed, windows glistening with condensation from their heavy breathing and involuntary perspiration.
It’s a wait like they’ve never known before.
The night drags on.
Five of the men are moving slightly. Moving nervously. One of them picks non-stop at his thumb, one licks his lips so often he’ll develop a cold sore; one pinches his nose, one bounces his knee up and down, one chews his thumbnail.
But one of the men is completely still. He is squatting down in the back of the van. It’s as difficult as stretching; after a few minutes, the thigh muscles normally begin to twitch. But not this man’s. He is completely still. In his left hand, his sub-machine gun is resting against his thigh, the barrel pointing up towards the roof of the van. In his right hand, he’s holding something that looks like a miniature calculator. Thin, black, and with a single, slightly raised button. A red one.
He looks at his watch and then surveys his men. He can see them sharply outlined in the faint darkness. Sweat is running from their thick, black winter hats, down over their faces. All are wearing these black hats apart from him; he is wearing a gold-coloured one. It sits, crown-like, on top of his head.
The sweat is flowing, but their faces are controlled. Tense, strained, concentrated. Everything as it should be.
‘Three out,’ he says.
The three men in the back of the van transform their black winter hats into balaclavas, pulling the thick material down over their faces. Their eyes shine bright against the black. They take their weapons off safety and climb out of the van. Pressing close to the wall of the shed, their sub-machine guns raised. Clouds of steam rise from their masks.
He watches the movement of the second hand. Its calm, unaffected leaps. Step by step by step. Minutes of constant watching.
The clock strikes two. One second past. Two, three.
There, he hears the first sound of the engine.
It grows louder. Eventually, he nods slightly and pulls the golden balaclava down over his face. The two men in the front do the same, though theirs are black.
Behind the shed, headlights appear, illuminating the road. Only faintly at first, then more and more brightly.
Just as the front of the black Mercedes appears from behind the shed, he presses the red button.
It’s not like an explosion, more like the car is lit up from within. An inward flash of light, strangely soundless.
The Mercedes rolls on for a few metres. Stops.
The three men by the shed are already on their way over to it.
The three still inside the van climb out. One of them is wearing a golden balaclava. He is the golden one and knows it.