I Am Behind You (50 page)

When she comes round, she is jammed between the seat and the airbag, which is blocking her view. Her ears are buzzing as she opens the door and manages to get one leg out; she wriggles free and grabs
the edge of the roof to haul herself out. She rests her chin on the top of the door and looks at the front of the car.

Oh dear. How very unfortunate.

Donald is still bent over the bonnet, arms outstretched towards the windscreen. He is facing Majvor, but his eyes are blank. His mouth is twitching as if he is trying to say something. Perhaps he wants to ask a question? Or make a confession?

Majvor feels a presence behind her back, and turns her head. Jimmy Stewart is gazing at her, his eyes loving and pleading for her help. Then he looks at Donald.

‘I know,' Majvor says. ‘But it's difficult.'

Jimmy Stewart nods and gently caresses her cheek. Majvor closes her eyes, picturing what she must do. The only consolation is that there is a kind of logical consistency to it all; Donald has often said the same. Majvor leaves Jimmy Stewart and goes into the caravan. The tools Donald gathered together are still exactly where he left them. She picks up the axe, weighing it in her hand.

Fortunately Donald has not come to life by the time she emerges; that might have made things too difficult. She walks over to the car and weighs up his left arm, measuring the angle with the axe.

‘You said it yourself, Donald. Lots of times. That you wished it could have been you. So that…well. I guess this is how it's meant to be, somehow.'

Without waiting for a response, she brings down the axe. Blood pours from a deep gash just above Donald's wrist, and his hand starts flapping on the bonnet like a flounder on the shore, which makes it hard to aim. Majvor grabs hold of Donald's arm just below the elbow, carefully picks her spot, then brings down the axe once more.

When the hand has been chopped off and the flounder has stopped flapping, Majvor twists Donald's stump so that the blood runs down the side of the bonnet and onto the ground.

‘Come along,' she says. ‘Let's go, Jimmy.'

*

‘Hey hey…'

Stefan is half-humming, half-singing, but the sound emerging from between his lips isn't even a whisper, just a series of uneven breaths with neither notes nor words. He is standing on the stairs looking towards the kitchen, where Emil is balancing on Carina's feet as she walks around. The soft morning light on the wooden floor, the gleam of the toaster, the aroma of coffee and newly baked bread in that eternal moment.

‘Hey hey…'

Everything is falling apart.

The aroma of coffee metamorphoses into the metallic smell coming from Emil's mouth as he lies there on the sofa with his head resting on Stefan's knee, breathing in short, shallow gasps. His chest rasps and wheezes, and every breath could be his last, but Stefan can't allow himself to think that, because Emil is so
fragile
that even the thought that he could break might make it happen.

And yet Stefan cannot stop those four words whirling around and around in his head, like orbiting satellites falling towards a black hole.

Everything is falling apart everything is falling apart everything is falling apart

His damaged back is hunched as he strokes Emil's damaged body, which is flickering like a flame that cannot get enough oxygen. There is no room to think about Carina's story, but there it is again: damage. A damaged life where

everything is falling apart

as if normality, happiness, love were only temporary. Brief moments or short periods where chance weaves the threads together to form a whole, and it is possible to walk down the stairs humming ‘Hey Hey Monica' in spite of the fact that the damage is always waiting to tear apart everything you have taken for granted, and you find out that what you have always thought were eternity symbols actually meant
Heil Hitler
.

Emil's legs are twitching. Left, right, left, as if he is walking along
an invisible road. Stefan softly touches the cross imprinted over his heart.

My precious boy. Don't leave me. Don't leave…

Once again the picture fills his mind. Emil balancing on Carina's feet in the kitchen. His laughter when they move one step forward, then another, as he learns to walk. This is how you learn to walk.

Stefan stops on the stairs, his hand resting on the newel post as he takes in the moment. The dust motes dancing in the sunlight, a strand of Carina's hair that has fallen over her face, Emil's downy head that Carina will kiss in a moment. There is an unevenness beneath Stefan's fingers, a scratch in the newel post in the form of two crossed lines, and Stefan gasps as he realises that somehow he is actually
there
.

It is as if he were watching an old family film, but he is there too, and the perspective shifts imperceptibly so that he is part of the film; he can see himself sitting on the sofa watching himself. Both versions are equally true.

Stefan runs his fingers over the two lines and the newel post is covered in Emil's skin and Emil's skin is made of wood.

‘Offee!'

Emil shouts from the kitchen as he continues to move around on Carina's feet, and a shudder runs through Stefan as he brushes against an understanding of the basic relativity of time and space, but it is whisked away as his fingers leave the two lines, and all that remains is:

Don't leave me. But walk. Walk, little man.

Stefan is back in the caravan. He blinks. The road home is endless, but at the same time it is only a heartbeat away.

*

Emil is back on his feet, taking baby steps along the track. He passes caravans where grown-ups are barbecuing, playing darts, or simply lying around in the sun. Older children are preoccupied with tablets or smart phones. No one looks in Emil's direction as he walks by. The only person who notices him is a little girl of about three. She is
wearing a bright red swimsuit and is not entirely steady on her feet as she toddles towards him with her finger in her mouth and says: ‘Hlm.'

Emil stops. ‘You're not supposed to suck your thumb.'

With a plop the girl extracts her saliva-covered finger and holds it up in the air. ‘Not thumb.'

‘No. But you shouldn't suck your finger either.'

The girl examines her finger, then asks: ‘What you doing?'

‘I'm walking,' Emil replies.

‘Why?'

Emil has been standing still for only about ten seconds, but the pain is already beginning to build. ‘Because I have to.'

‘Why?'

There is a boy at Emil's day care who does exactly the same thing. He keeps on asking
why, why
until someone says, ‘Just because,' but still Emil wishes he had an answer to the girl's question. For his own sake.

‘Because there's a track,' he says.

The girl looks at Emil, then to the right and the left. She wrinkles her nose and says: ‘Isn't.'

‘Yes there is.'

‘
Isn't
.'

A woman in a brightly coloured dress who is presumably the girl's mother comes rushing over and grabs the child's hand. She doesn't look at Emil, but merely says, ‘Come along, Elsa,' and drags the girl towards one of the caravans.

The heat in Emil's skin is now a burning pain, and he places one hand over his heart and closes his eyes. For a moment he has the feeling that the fingers stroking his chest are not his own. They feel more like a grown-up's fingers, like Daddy's fingers.

The feeling passes and he opens his eyes. It doesn't matter what Elsa said; the track is perfectly clear. It leads right through the middle of the campsite and out into an open field. Perhaps it ends in the distance, where Emil can see something glinting as it is caught by the rays of the setting sun. That's where he is going.

The pain fades as he begins to put one foot in front of the other again. It's nice to remember the sensation of Daddy's fingers touching his skin, and as he walks it seems to Emil that there is something different about his feet too. It is as if he is balancing on someone else's feet, a greater power that is helping him to make progress.

Walk, little man.

He walks.

*

Master and Mistress have gone off in the car without Benny. It doesn't matter, because Master and Mistress are no longer important. Cat is important. As long as Benny and Cat are together, everything is as it should be. But Benny is hungry. He hasn't had any food for a very long time, and his tummy is rumbling.

Benny and Cat walk around side by side, checking everything out. The firecreatures have gone away, and there is no longer anything that is actually dangerous. But there's not much else either. A lot of things have disappeared, and what is left doesn't smell too good.

Benny lets out a little whimper, which makes Cat prick up her ears and look at him. Benny whimpers again, his hungry whimper. Cat seems to understand. She does something with her tail and her head which Benny interprets as
follow me
. He has started to understand Cat a little better.

Cat trots over to her caravan and jumps inside. Benny hesitates, but Cat makes a noise that seems to mean he is allowed, so he follows her. Cat's masters are there, and they aren't cross with Benny for coming into their home. They pat both Benny and Cat, and say something that includes the word ‘Food', among other things.

They get out two bowls and open a tin that looks more or less the same as the tins of Benny's food, except that this one has a cat on it. It is cat food. Benny sniffs. No, it doesn't smell the way it's supposed to. He sneezes and Cat's masters laugh.

Cat looks up from her bowl and Benny shakes his head. His
tummy rumbles again. Oh well. He takes a mouthful; it doesn't taste particularly good, but it's edible. He really is very hungry; he gobbles up everything in the bowl, and when the masters give him some more, he gobbles that too.

When they have finished eating, Benny and Cat creep under the table. Benny curls up and Cat lies down beside him, with her back against Benny's tummy. After a while Cat begins to hum and vibrate. It is a soothing noise, and Benny wishes he could do the same.

The masters pat Benny and their voices are kind. Cat has nice masters. Benny wishes they were his masters too. Perhaps they are? Perhaps Master and Mistress won't come back?

That would be good. Really good.

*

‘Come back!'

Donald's despairing howl becomes more and more distant, grows fainter and fainter.

When he came round, he started off with a flood of curses so toxic that Majvor was amazed he even knew words like that. So many references to sexual organs, prostitution and figures from both heaven and hell—in the end she had covered her ears while James Stewart finished doing what he had to do.

It wasn't until Majvor and James Stewart started to walk away that the imprecations gave way to pleading. Donald invoked all the years they had spent together, all the good times they had had, everything he had done for her. She almost allowed herself to be persuaded, but then the Man from Laramie took her hand and said: ‘Let's go, honey.'

It was good that he said it in English. It made everything more real, so Majvor took his hand and went with him as Donald's begging came down to one simple plea—
Come back
—which is now growing ever more feeble as he loses blood.

Majvor would never have thought she was capable of what she has done, and she would never have done it if she hadn't come to realise
that God does not exist here. This place is silent and empty. Therefore, she had to make a choice: stay in this silent, empty reality, or for once follow what her fantasies and her body are telling her to do.

Will Lockhart's spurs jingle as he walks beside her, his warm hand holding hers, and she is aware of the manly smells of desert dust, sun and leather. Maybe a touch of horse as well. She glances sideways at him, and when his blue eyes meet hers, she makes up her mind.

Not Will Lockhart. She will stop thinking of him as Will Lockhart, a vengeful and not particularly nice man. He is James Stewart. James Stewart and no one else.

‘James?'

His hand squeezes hers. ‘Call me Jimmy. Everyone does.'

‘Yes, I know. Jimmy?'

‘Mmm, Majvor?'

‘Where are we going?'

‘Does it matter?

Majvor looks towards the horizon. They are heading away from the direction in which the camp lies, away from the rest of the group. She is alone with Jimmy Stewart in a place where no one else exists. Somewhere deep down she knows that this is not real, that she is making this happen.

But does it matter? If Donald believed the whole thing was a dream and therefore dismissed it, Majvor has decided to embrace the idea instead. Her dreams have come true, so she would be pretty stupid if she didn't choose to regard them as reality.

She stops. The jingle of the spurs falls silent as Jimmy stops too. They look at one another. Majvor decides to see how realistic this fantasy is. She takes a step towards him, lifts up her face to be kissed, and he kisses her. She just has time to think it's a good job the dream
isn't
realistic, because Jimmy Stewart would never…

Then she feels his hands on her body, and she stops thinking, gives herself up to the moment. They undress one another and she lies down on her back on the coarse grass. He kneels between her legs, and when she looks down at his stiff cock she catches sight of
her sagging breasts spilling to the sides, the pallid rolls of fat. Tears spring to her eyes.

This can't happen.

Has she ever even dreamt of this? No, this is not part of her fantasy. She might have thought it was—it felt that way when his hands were caressing her, undressing her—but when he parts her legs and she feels his manhood rubbing at her dry labia, seeking a way in, she knows that it was never about this. In fact it is about something completely different.