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CHAPTER 1
Outside
'Mum, I need a pee.'
'Well, go to the toilet then.'
'It's not there.'
'Of course it is. It's where you went yesterday. The service block.'
'It's not there.'
'For goodness sake, can't you let me sleep just for once?'
'But I need a pee. I'm going to wet myself.'
'So go to the service block. It's only fifty metres away. Surely you can manage that?'
'It's not there.'
'It is. Go outside, turn left and go around this revolting caravan, then carry straight on. That's where it is.'
'Which is left?'
'Oh, pee on the grass for heaven's sake, and let me sleep. Wake your dad if you insist on playing up.'
'Nearly everything has gone.'
'What are you talking about?'
'Come and look.'
'Look where?'
'Out of the window. Nearly everything has gone.'
Isabelle Sundberg props herself up on her elbow. Her six-year-old daughter Molly is kneeling by the window. Isabelle pushes her out of the way and pulls back the curtain. She is just about to point in the direction of the service block, but her hand drops.
Her first thought is: scenery. Like the backdrop behind Mickey Mouse's caravan on TV on Christmas Eve. Something artificial, unreal. But the details are too sharp, the three dimensions clearly distinguishable. This is no backdrop.
'I need a pee I need a pee I need a pee!'
Her daughter's voice grates on her eardrums. Isabelle rubs her eyes. Tries to erase the incomprehensible sight. But it is still there, just like her daughter's monotonous whine. She turns over and drives her knee into her husband's back. Pulls back the other curtain.
She blinks, shakes her head. It makes no difference. She clenches her jaw, slaps her own face. Her daughter falls silent. Isabelle's cheek is burning, and nothing has changed. Everything has changed. She grabs hold of her husband's shoulder and shakes it hard.
'Peter, wake up for God's sake. Something's happened.'
* * *
Thirty seconds later, Stefan Larsson is woken by a door slamming somewhere. His pyjamas are sticking to his body; it is hot in the caravan, very hot. He has had enough. Everybody else has air con. Later on today, when they go shopping, he is going to buy a couple of decent electric fans to sit on the table, at the very least.
'Bim, bim, bim. Bom.'
Stefan's son Emil is humming quietly up in the alcove, caught up in some fantasy as usual. Stefan frowns. Something is wrong. He reaches for his glasses with their thick black frames, puts them on and looks around.
The faithful old caravan looks the same. When he and Carina bought it fifteen years ago, it had been around for at least that long already, but after countless holidays and birdwatching expeditions, it feels like a friend, and you don't sell a friend online for a few thousand kronor. The worn surfaces have a dull sheen in the light penetrating the thin curtains. Nothing unusual about that.
Carina is asleep, facing away from him. She has kicked off the sheet and the generous curve of her hip is like something from an old painting. Stefan leans over her and picks up the salty aroma of her body; he can see tiny beads of sweat at her hairline. Decent fans, that's what they need. His gaze fastens on the tattoo on her shoulder. Two eternity symbols. The yearning for a lasting love. She had them done when they were both young. He worships her. It is a strange word to use, but it is the only one that fits.
His eyes widen. Now he knows what it is. The silence. Apart from Carina's breathing and Emil's humming, there is total silence. He glances at the clock: quarter to seven. A campsite is never silent. There is always the hum of machinery on stand-by, air conditioning units. But not now. The site has stopped breathing.
Stefan gets out of bed and glances up at the alcove. 'Morning, kiddo.'
Emil is totally focused on his soft toys, moving them around as he whispers: 'But what about me? Can't I ...? No, Bengtson, you're in charge of the guns.'
Stefan goes over to the sink and is filling the coffeepot with water when movements and voices on the grass outside catch his attention. The footballer and his wife are also up and about. So is their daughter. The child is pressed against her mother's bare legs as the woman gestures angrily at her husband.
Stefan tilts his head on one side. In a parallel universe he would be obliged to lust after that woman. She is in nothing more than her bra and panties, and she looks as if she has stepped straight out of an ad campaign. She is the woman men are supposed to desire. But Stefan has chosen something different, and he is not to be moved. It is a question of dignity, among other things.
The coffeepot is full. Stefan turns off the tap, pours the water into the machine, spoons coffee into the filter, then switches it on. Nothing happens. He flicks the switch up and down a couple of times, checks that it is plugged in properly, then thinks:
power cut.
Which also explains the absence of an electrical hum. He tips the water into a pan and places it on the hotplate. Hello? He scratches his head. If there's a power cut, the electric stove won't work either, obviously.
As he leans across to switch on the gas instead, he glances out of the window, past the quarrelling couple, to see what the weather is like. The sky is clear and blue, so it should be a lovely ...
Stefan gasps and clutches the edge of the sink as he leans closer to the window. He doesn't understand what he is seeing. The stainless steel is warm to the touch; he feels dizzy and his stomach is churning. If he lets go of the sink he will plummet into emptiness.
* * *
Peter has found a sweet wrapper in the right-hand pocket of his shorts. There is a faint rustling noise as he scrunches the wrapper inside his clenched fist. Isabelle is yelling at him, and he stares at the exact spot on her cheek where the palm of his hand might land if it were not fully occupied with the sweet wrapper.
'How could you be so fucking stupid? Leaving the keys in the car when you were so fucking drunk that some idiot was able to drive off and dump us in this ... this ...'
He mustn't hit her. If he does, the balance of power will shift, temporary peace agreements will be torn up and everything will be sucked down into chaos. He did hit her once. The satisfaction was enormous, the aftermath unbearable. Both aspects scared him: the pleasure he took from inflicting physical damage on her, and her ability to inflict mental damage on him.
He thinks: Ten thousand. No. Twenty thousand. That's what he would be willing to pay for five minutes' silence. The chance to think, to come up with an explanation. But Isabelle's words hammer down on him and the taut strings of his self-control vibrate. He is capable of only one thing: smoothing out and screwing up the sweet wrapper.
Molly is clutching her mother's legs, playing the role of the frightened child. She does it well, exaggerating only slightly, but Peter sees through her. She is not afraid at all. In some way that Peter cannot understand, she is enjoying this.
He hears a discreet cough. The man with the thick glasses from the caravan next door, tedium personified, is coming towards them. Right now he is a welcome sight. Isabelle's torrent of words dries up, and Molly stares at the new arrival.
'Excuse me,' the man says. 'Do you have any idea what's happened?'
'No,' Isabelle replies. 'Do tell.'
'I don't know any more than you. Everything has disappeared.'
Isabelle jerks her head and snaps: 'You as well? You think someone's come along and taken away the other caravans, the kiosk, the service block, the whole fucking lot? Does that sound reasonable? We've been moved, you idiot.'
The man with the glasses looks at the caravans, all that remains of Saludden campsite, and says: 'In that case it looks as if they've moved several of us.'
Molly tugs at Isabelle's panties. 'Who are they, Mummy? Who did this?'
* * *
Four caravans. Four cars.
The caravans are different ages, different sizes, different models, but they are all white. The cars have less in common, but two of them are Volvos. They all have a tow bar, of course. Two have roof racks.
Besides that: nothing apart from people. Three adults and a child, wandering among the caravans and the cars, the other occupants still sleeping, perhaps dreaming, unaware.
Beyond the little circle lies only grass. A vast expanse of grass, each blade just over three centimetres long, stretching as far as the eye can see in all directions.
It is an empty space.
It is impossible to know what lies beyond the horizon, under the ground, above the sky, but at the moment it is an empty space. Nothing. Apart from the people. And each person is a world within himself.
* * *
Molly insists that Isabelle accompany her when she goes behind their caravan for a pee. Peter crouches down and runs a hand through his hair, sighing heavily.
'Where the hell are we?' Stefan asks no one in particular. 'I've never seen anything like it.'
The corners of Peter's mouth twitch. 'I have. I've spent half my life on grass like this. First football, then golf. But how can it be so ... neat?'
The grass has the appearance of a well-tended garden or a golf course. Stefan pulls up a small clump and rubs it between his fingers. It is real grass; there is soil attached to the thin roots. It would take an army of lawnmowers to keep it this short. Is there a variety of grass that only grows to a certain length?
Isabelle and Molly return. Isabelle is stunning, her daughter cute as a button. Long, wavy hair frames the girl's little round face and big blue eyes. She is wearing a pink nightdress with a picture of a fairy princess not unlike Molly herself. And then there is Peter: cropped blond hair and a strong jaw-line. Narrow hips, broad chest, biceps clearly defined beneath the skin.
Three people so close to perfection that they would be less than credible in an IKEA catalogue, let alone on a scruffy campsite. The change of environment has made their presence less unnatural; the endless field is a more appropriate setting for Isabelle than a run-down mini-golf course. And yet she is the one who is most agitated.
'This is absolutely fucking ridiculous,' she says. 'Where the hell are we?'
Stefan looks around at the grass, the caravans, the cars. He spots the black SUV parked next to the perfect family's caravan.
'Have you got GPS?' he asks.
Peter slaps his forehead and runs to the car. The others follow him, with Molly looking up at Stefan as they hurry along. He smiles at her. She doesn't smile back.
Peter opens the car door and slides in behind the gleaming dashboard. 'Hang on, I just need to check.'
He presses a button and the engine starts up with a low purr. Peter's posture changes. His shoulders were hunched; he straightens up, lifts his head. He is in the driving seat now.
The GPS screen turns purple, then a map appears.
Something is tugging at Stefan's trousers. When he glances down, his gaze meets Molly's. Her clear, unblinking blue eyes stare into his as she asks: 'Why don't you look at my mum?'
* * *
Benny has been awake for a while. He is lying in his basket in the awning, trying to understand.
The light is wrong. The smells are wrong.
His ears twitch as he hears human voices. His nose quivers, trying to pick up familiar scents from outside. They are not there.
Benny is seven years old, and he knows quite a lot. He is familiar with the concept of mechanised relocation. You get into Car or Caravan, there is a lot of rumbling and shaking, and rapid movement. Then you find yourself in a different place. New smells, new sounds, new light.
Benny knows that no such relocation has occurred. And yet he is not where he was when he went to sleep. This makes him feel insecure, and he decides to stay in his basket. For the time being.
* * *
'For God's sake, Peter, there must be something wrong with the bloody thing.'
'There's never been anything wrong with it before.'
'No, but now there is. I mean, does it look as if we're where it says we are? Does it?'
'All I'm saying is that ...'
'Where are we, Mummy?'
'That's what Daddy's trying to find out with his little machine that doesn't work.'
'It does work! Look at the position indicator ...'
'Peter, I couldn't give a damn about the position indicator. It's broken, just accept it! Oh yes, that's a good idea. Just give it a little tap, I'm sure it'll work. Know any magic spells while you're at it?'
'Okay, Isabelle. Give it a rest.'
'Mummy, why is Daddy cross?'
'Because his masculinity is threatened, and because he can't get it into his thick skull that we have been moved. He thinks we're exactly where we were yesterday.'
'But we're not.'
'No. You know that and I know that, but Daddy doesn't know that, which makes him feel stupid, and that's why he's cross.'
* * *
'Bom.'
A laser beam strikes one wing of the spaceship.
'Bim, bim, bim.'
Meteors, lots and lots of meteors crash into the windows.
'Bam!'
Magnetic shock! The meteors break up, but ...
'Bom, bom.'
More lasers, warning, warning. There's nothing we can do. We've had it. The spaceship tumbles towards the sun.
'Heeeelp!'
It is warm in the alcove, very warm. Emil is so thirsty that his tongue is sticking to the top of his mouth, and yet he doesn't climb down to get a drink of water. Something isn't right. Mummy is snoring quietly below him and Daddy has gone outside. Emil can hear the faint sound of adult voices through the wall. He can't make out what they're saying, but he can tell they're worried.
He doesn't want to know why they're worried; he would rather wait until the problem has been solved. He arranges his cuddly toys around his head with Bengtson, his teddy bear, right at the top. Sköldis, Bunte, Hipphopp and Sabre Cat down the sides. Emil's eyes dart from side to side, meeting theirs.
We are here. We like you.
He licks the sweat off his upper lip and nods.
'I know. I like you too.'
Where shall we go?
'To Mercury — are you with me?'
We are with you.
'Good. Bengtson, you can be Chewbacca. Let's go.'
* * *
Peter has opted for a time-out.
The car doors are locked, and he sinks back in his seat. Isabelle is staring at him through the tinted side windows. He stares out through the windscreen.
An empty field is spread before him. It stretches as far as the eye can see, the horizon a curved incision between the shades of green and the shades of blue. That's right, curved. The world has not become flat. Something to hold on to.
He turns to the GPS screen once more. According to the data displayed there, everything is as it should be. The map shows the track leading to the campsite, the markers indicating that the car is exactly where it is supposed to be, fifty metres from the lake, which is also there. Peter looks out of the window. There is no track, no lake. Only the field, the field, and the field.
'Of course. Idiot,' he tells himself. It's so easy to check the GPS.
Peter releases the handbrake and applies gentle pressure to the accelerator. The car begins to move forward. He hears the sound of banging on the window; Isabelle is running alongside the car, yelling: 'You fucking lunatic! What the hell are you doing?'
Peter can't help smiling. She thinks he's going to drive off and leave her. And who knows, perhaps he'll do just that. He's fantasised about this moment often enough; maybe he should actually do it?
He glances at Isabelle, still dressed in nothing but her underwear, and feels his penis begin to harden. During the week they have been staying in the caravan he hasn't been allowed anywhere near her, and it was at least two weeks before that. His sexual sorrow is so obtrusive that it borders on hatred, and when Isabelle trips and falls, letting out a scream, he almost comes.
He blinks and concentrates on the screen.
The cursor is definitely moving, so the fault doesn't lie with the GPS. It moves smoothly towards the lake, closer and closer. Peter pulls up when he reaches the shore, in spite of the fact that there is no shore in sight. He sits there for a few moments, looking from his foot on the brake to the screen and back again. He just can't make himself drive out into the invisible lake.
More banging on the window, and this time he opens it. Isabelle leans in, demanding to know what the hell he's doing. He explains.
'And?'
'I just wanted to check.'
Isabelle catches sight of his erection and smiles scornfully. 'So what have you got there, then?'
'Nothing that would interest you.'
'Too right.'
Molly comes running, and in a voice much smaller than her six years says: 'Mummy? Is Daddy leaving us?'
'No, sweetheart, he isn't. He had a silly idea and he wanted to try it out right away, that's all.' Isabelle reaches into the car and takes the iPhone out of the glove compartment. 'I don't suppose it occurred to you to try this?'
Peter shakes his head and gets out of the car. He is fairly sure of how this is going to go, and he is right, as it turns out. He can hear Isabelle cursing behind him: 'What the fuck? No fucking ... What kind of place is this?'
No connection. No signal. No contact. Peter's eyes sweep across the empty horizon, the clear blue summer sky. Then he brings his hands up to his mouth and whispers: 'The sun. Where the hell is the sun?'
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "I Am Behind You"
by .
Copyright © 2014 John Ajvide Lindqvist.
Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
