Rites of Spring

13 Walpurgis Night 1986

Men are so easy to manipulate. They lie at home in their beds, fantasising about me. What they want to do to me. Elita Svart is the kind of girl you screw, not the kind you marry. A gypsy, a slut, a little whore.

Which is why I behave exactly as everyone expects. I tease and tempt them. I’m good at it, I’ve had plenty of practice, but deep down I’m tired of this role.

One final performance remains. And then, dear reader, it will all be over.

You haven’t forgotten that I’m going to die, have you?

‘Fucking hell!’ Arne swore out loud as he loaded the white plastic containers of moonshine into the boot of the police car. Lasse’s ‘distillery’ was a shed mounted on blocks of concrete out in the marsh, hidden by brambles and undergrowth. Only the muddy tyre tracks on the ground outside revealed the presence of the low wooden building.

Inside it stank of damp and mould. Arne’s uniform shirt had sweat patches under the arms, and his shoes were covered in mud. He should never have come here, he should have stayed far away from this fucking swamp, far away from Svartgården. Instead he’d allowed himself to be dragged back, down into the morass.

He’d been seventeen when the incident happened. It had all started on the school bus, coming home from Ljungslöv. He’d been secretly in love with Ida Axelsson for years, and she was sitting just a few rows in front of him. She’d always been pretty, but that particular evening there was a kind of glow about her. All their contemporaries on the bus had flocked around her, and when they reached their destination, Arne wanted to see more. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye just yet. And so he’d followed Ida at a distance. He hadn’t meant any harm.

Without knowing exactly how it had happened, he found himself standing in the darkness outside her window. He didn’t remember how long he was there. Five minutes maybe, or ten. He watched Ida as she moved from room to room. She played a record, sang along, danced.

For a few short, wonderful moments it was as if he was sharing it all with her. As if he was inside in the warmth. Until her mother arrived home, and he was caught in the car headlights. He’d fled, ran home, jumped on his moped and got as far away as he could. He went to Svartgården. Lasse was one of the few in the area who didn’t look down on him or call him Downhill Arne. Lasse had even given him work, made him feel important.

When the police started asking questions, Lasse had provided him with an alibi, and since neither Ida nor her mother could be absolutely certain that it was Arne they’d seen in the garden, the matter was soon forgotten.

Stupidly, Arne had assumed that all the favours he’d done for Lasse over the years would have evened things out, but he should have realised that a debt to Lasse Svart could never be paid off. Then again, maybe there was hope? He hadn’t said anything to Lasse about what he’d heard at the bank, but it sounded as if the count and Erik Nyberg were going to solve the problem for him. Make sure Lasse disappeared for good.

‘Hi, Arne.’

He gave a start; Elita was standing right behind him, carrying a little case with a strap.

‘Nice car.’

She took a step closer and slowly adjusted his tie.

‘You look good in uniform.’

‘Thanks!’ Arne didn’t know what to do with himself. She was standing so close that he was all too aware of her smell: sweat, horse and something else, something incredibly appealing. In some ways Elita reminded him of Ida Axelsson; she was a dark-haired, much prettier version of Ida. She was still fiddling with his tie, her hip brushing against his. Arne swallowed hard.

‘There you go.’ Elita stepped back, dangling the case in front of him. ‘Thanks for the loan.’

Only now did Arne recognise the case; it contained the Polaroid camera Ingrid and Bertil had given him when he graduated from high school.

‘No problem. Can I see the pictures?’

‘Maybe. If you’re nice to me.’ Elita winked at him, just as she’d done in the paddock.

Arne chewed his moustache. ‘And the ghetto blaster?’

‘I need that a while longer, if that’s OK.’

‘No problem,’ he said again. He turned and closed the boot of the car so that she wouldn’t see the containers.

‘Are you going into the village?’

‘Yes!’ His hands were wet with perspiration; he wiped them on his trousers.

‘Can you give me a lift to the castle forest?’

‘And why do you want to go there?’

She shrugged. ‘I’ve got to get something ready for tonight.’

‘Tonight? Don’t do anything silly now, will you?’ Arne swore silently to himself. Why did he suddenly sound like such an old killjoy?

‘We’ll see,’ she said with a smile. ‘We’re meeting up at the stone circle. Why don’t you come? I think you’ll enjoy it.’

Her voice was inviting. Arne realised he was staring at her lips. They were so perfect, so soft, so . . .

‘Who knows – maybe the Green Man will turn up,’ she added.

Arne tried to speak, but his mouth refused to co-operate. The sound of a car engine made Elita spin around.

‘Leo!’ she shouted, and began to run. Something in her voice made Arne feel as if a rusty knife had just been plunged into his heart.