I Am Behind You by John Ajvide Lindqvist, Marlaine Delargy Read Free Book Online

caravan’s supporting wheels so that the coupling fits over the tow bar. She doesn’t bother with the electricity or the safety cable as they will be driving such a short distance. She wipes her hands on her shorts and gives Stefan the thumbs up. He starts the car, puts his foot down, and the caravan jerks forward. He drives ten metres out onto the field.
    The two farmers have also moved their caravan. One of them is just getting out of the car, and raises his hand to Carina, who waves back.
    Why are we doing this? Why are we moving? Surely we ought to stick together. For protection.
    She glances over at the caravan into which Emil and Molly disappeared. There is something strange about that girl. It’s as if she is only pretending, but what is she pretending?
    ‘There we are,’ Stefan says as he comes up to her. ‘All done.’
    Carina turns to face him. The thinning hair, the stocky body, the short arms ending in hands that are far too small. The man she chose. She loops her arms around his neck, rests her head on his chest. She knows every nuance of his smell, and she closes her eyes as he strokes her hair.
    ‘Stefan,’ she says. ‘You have to promise me something.’
    ‘Anything.’
    ‘We don’t know what’s happened, or how long this is going to go on…’
    ‘Carina, of course…’
    ‘Wait. Listen to me.’ She pulls back, looks up and takes his face between her hands. ‘You have to promise me that we’ll stick together. That whatever this is, we’ll get through it together, not every man for himself. Do you understand?’
    Stefan opens his mouth to answer too quickly, but closes it before saying a word. He gazes out across the field, frowning. Perhaps he does understand. He probably does.
    ‘Yes,’ he says eventually. ‘I promise.’
    *
    Peter set off at fifty kilometres an hour, but now he is crawling forward. According to the GPS, the village of Västerljung lies a hundred metres ahead of him. Perhaps there would have been a small shop there, if only Västerljung itself had existed.
    He has stopped trying to drive on what the GPS claims are roads; he has crossed streams without bridges and passed straight through dense forest without getting a single scratch on his paintwork. Theonly thing he can see is grass and more grass, the wheels of the car quietly passing over the unvarying field.
    He looks in the rear-view mirror and is unsure whether the faint bumps on the horizon behind him really are the caravans, or merely an optical illusion. The sense of supremacy has left him, replaced by the loneliness of the penalty taker.
    Bulgaria 2005. Everything disappears around him as he spins the ball between his fingers before placing it on the penalty spot.
    He switches on the car radio to distract himself from the memories. As he presses the button he remembers that there is no reception. A second later it transpires that this is not in fact the case. He has been driving in silence, and the sudden onslaught of music is such a shock that he lets out a yell and slams on the brakes. The car shudders to a halt.
    Peter sits there open-mouthed, staring at the cartoon-blue of the sky. His mother always used to listen to this kind of music when he was a little boy, and he knows who is singing. Kerstin Aulén and Peter Himmelstrand. This is obviously the last chorus; he hears a few bars of the wedding march on the organ, then the song is over. He is still so stunned by the fact that the radio works that he doesn’t have time to wonder whether anyone is going to speak before Towa Carson kicks off with ‘Everyone Has Forgotten’.
    Peter switches off the radio and leans back in his seat, still gazing out across the field. Somewhere someone is sitting in a studio playing these records, broadcasting them into the ether. Who? Where? How? Why?
    One thing is clear from the choice of music: they are still in Sweden. The radio and the GPS are in agreement there. But where is there a place like this in Sweden?
    Peter