Rites of Spring

87 18 May 1986

Kerstin and Bertil had just finished dinner. They were sitting on the sofa in front of the TV, her head resting on his shoulder, his arm around her.

On Wednesday and Sunday evenings Bertil said he had a lodge meeting in Lund, and his wife didn’t ask any questions. However, in recent months Kerstin had begun to see small signs that Ingrid knew what was going on. That she tolerated their relationship even if she didn’t approve of it. Ingrid was a strong woman. She loved Bertil just as much as Kerstin did, and was presumably prepared to sacrifice some of her pride in order to keep him.

That didn’t matter. On Wednesdays and Sundays he was hers, and hers alone. They could be happy out here, away from everyone else. He parked his car on one of the logging tracks, then walked or cycled through the forest. She was happy with that; half a life was better than none. She knew she would never love anyone as much as she loved Bertil; she would do almost anything for him.

The noise made them both jump – a loud, metallic crash. Kerstin leaped up and ran over to the window. The rain was lashing down. She thought she could see car headlights among the trees.

‘Someone’s coming,’ she said, which made Bertil get to his feet too.

But the lights were pointing in the wrong direction, down the slope towards the canal. An accident. Someone had come off the road.

‘I need to go and find out what’s happened.’

Bertil simply nodded; he knew he couldn’t let anyone see him.

Kerstin pulled on her raincoat and boots, got in her car and drove along slowly with the windscreen wipers going full speed.

It was as she’d thought: a car had ploughed down the slope, churning up deep ruts in the sodden ground until it came to a halt only a metre or so from the slow-moving water, its wheels buried in the mud.

The engine was running, but the driver was making no attempt to free the vehicle. She recognised it, and as always it made her feel uncomfortable. Lasse Svart’s red pick-up.

Kerstin briefly considered putting her car in reverse and going home. Cuddling up to Bertil and leaving Lasse to his own devices. But out here people helped their neighbours, even if they didn’t like them – besides which, Lola or Eva-Britt might be in the car. She liked both women. They were good friends, and on a couple of occasions she’d let them sleep over when Lasse had gone too far.

She despised Lasse Svart, despised all men who thought they had the right to beat their women. Her father had been one of them. He’d allowed her mother to go off to work and come up with excuses for her bruises, even though everyone knew where they came from. He’d destroyed her pride, her dignity, until she barely existed. She moved around at home like a silent shadow.

Kerstin left the engine running and made her way down the slope. She was careful where she placed her feet; she didn’t want to slip in the mud.

She shone the beam of her torch on the back window of the pick-up, but couldn’t see the outline of the driver or passengers. When she reached the driver’s door, she understood why. Lasse was slumped over the steering wheel, and beside him on the passenger seat lay a blue nylon bag with the words TORNABY SAVINGS BANK printed in white.

She knocked on the window, saw him stir. She knocked again, then opened the door.

Lasse looked up at her. He was as white as a sheet. His shirt was unbuttoned, and beneath it she could see a bandage that was dark red and shiny with blood. His boots and trousers were covered in mud.

Instinctively she took a step back.

‘Don’t move, Lasse. I’m going home to call an ambulance.’

She knew it was urgent. She would have to get Bertil to make the call while she hurried back with the first aid box to try and staunch the bleeding.

Lasse grinned at her.

‘They got what they deserved,’ he said in a thick voice, as if his throat was filled with blood.

‘Who?’

‘Those bitches. Those bitches who stabbed me and tried to steal my money.’

He pointed through the windscreen with a bloody finger. Kerstin adjusted the angle of the torch and saw something sticking up out of the water.

She froze. The torchlight was reflected in a bumper and a number plate, and she could see a half-open boot. She was looking at the back end of an old blue Ford. Eva-Britt’s car, its nose buried deep in the muddy canal.

‘Where are they?’ she gasped. ‘Where are Lola and Eva-Britt?’

Lasse pointed to the car again.

‘Down there with the Green Man. Where no one will miss them.’

‘What have you done, Lasse?’

Kerstin staggered backwards up the slope, slithering and sliding and landing on her bottom more than once, but keeping the beam of her torch on the Ford.

She didn’t let herself cry until she was in her car reversing away. The same tears as when she was a little girl. Tears of anger, of impotence.

When she was only a hundred metres away from the hunting lodge, she stopped. She applied the handbrake, switched off the engine and sat in silence with the rain hammering on the roof. She wondered how long it would take for someone of Lasse’s size to bleed to death. Ten minutes, maybe?

She checked her watch, closed her eyes and thought about her mother. She’d promised herself she would never be like that, never let anyone walk all over her as her mother had done. When twelve minutes had passed she started the car and slowly drove back to the lodge. Back to Bertil, to warmth and safety.