Rites of Spring

9 Walpurgis Night 1986

‘Your mother is so beautiful, Elita.’ I’ve heard that ever since I was a child. Lola is beautiful, but also delicate. She believes in fairies and the creatures of the forest. Spends most of her time talking to her little porcelain figurines.

Father broke one of them once, a white baby rabbit she’d bought at a flea market. Eva-Britt spent hours at the kitchen table with toothpicks and glue until every single fragment was in the right place, and my mother stopped crying. Lola is just like that rabbit – whole on the outside, but still broken. Eva-Britt is the glue. It’s thanks to her that everything sticks together.

Arne arrived at Svartgården just before five. He’d driven carefully, trying to avoid the biggest muddy puddles. He should have carried on to Ljungslöv. Put the vehicle away, hung the keys on the hook behind the desk. But he wanted Elita to see him in the police car. Plus he had important news.

He parked in the middle of the yard, got out and adjusted his belt, handcuffs, radio, and white gun holster. Pulled his peaked cap well down over his forehead.

A shower of dogs came rushing at him, bad-tempered little terriers that always barked at him and nipped at his heels. Arne kicked out at the first one, then stared out the others until they slunk away, tails between their legs. He hadn’t been here for a couple of years at least, and the place looked worse than he remembered. Slates were missing from several roofs, and the top of the barn was covered with a tarpaulin. There was a general smell of dampness and decay that Arne had barely registered before, but today it made him wrinkle his nose.

A homemade sign stood beside the steps leading up to the house; it wasn’t even straight.

Underneath, in different handwriting:

The front door opened and Eva-Britt appeared, wiping her hands on a dirty rag. She stared at the police car, then at Arne.

Eva-Britt and Ingrid were about the same age, with the same hard expression, the same sharp tongue. But Eva-Britt looked at least ten years older than Ingrid. Her hair was already turning grey, her mouth permanently locked in a bitter grimace.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she muttered.

Arne glared at her as he mounted the steps. ‘Aren’t you going to offer me a coffee?’

Normally Eva-Britt would have stood her ground in the doorway, blocked his path and told him to go to hell, but today she stepped aside. She seemed to realise that he was no longer Downhill Arne, Lasse’s little errand boy, but a person to be respected.

The kitchen was a mess, as usual. Bottles, cups, containers, little bowls everywhere, and there was an unpleasant, acrid smell.

Elita’s mother Lola was heating some concoction on the stove. She didn’t respond to Arne’s greeting. Lola had always been beautiful: almond-shaped eyes, long dark hair, white alabaster skin. Once upon a time Arne had only dared to gaze at her in secret, but on closer inspection he could see that she was no longer quite as lovely as he recalled. Or maybe the past few years had taken their toll. Her hands were callused, her back was bent, and her expression was guarded. For a moment Arne was filled with an unexpected feeling of tenderness.

‘So what are you two girls up to?’ he asked in his smoothest voice.

Lola quickly looked away, which bothered him. He hadn’t meant to scare her.

‘Nothing,’ Eva-Britt snapped, planting herself in front of him with her arms folded, as if she regained something of her old, vicious self. ‘And you’ve got no right to come marching in here, Arne.’

The way she said his name had always annoyed him. She kind of spat it out, as if the letters had a nasty taste.

‘No right?’ He walked around Eva-Britt to the kitchen table, picked up one of the plastic containers and sniffed the contents. Acted as if he hadn’t seen similar containers hundreds of times before. ‘This smells like moonshine. As you know, it’s illegal to produce or sell alcohol at home. You could end up in jail . . .’

Eva-Britt shrank a little. ‘Lasse’s down in the paddock,’ she said, slightly too loudly.

‘And?’

‘Elita’s there too.’

Arne slowly replaced the stopper and put down the container. Nodded as reassuringly as he could to Lola, then turned and left the kitchen.