Rites of Spring, Anders Motte [reading diary .TXT] 📗

keeping her there on the stone. She is very beautiful, a kind of delicate, naïve beauty that exists only in the narrow gap between childhood and adulthood.

The photograph is taken in daylight, and yet there is something unpleasant about the whole thing: the children, the masks, the lovely young woman, the stone and the warped trees. It is somehow reminiscent of a horror film, an impression that is reinforced by the flat perspective and the faded colours.

Someone has written on the white border beneath the image:

Walpurgis Night 1986. Come to the stone circle at midnight.

Then three more words. Thea reads them aloud.

‘The spring sacrifice.’

7

Walpurgis Night 1986

I notice them staring at me. Not just the boys in school, but the teachers too, the fathers, the old men in the town square. All of them.

Most of them do it secretly when they believe no one is watching, but I can feel their eyes on me. I know what they think of Elita Svart. What they want to do to me.

School was over for the day, the bus shelter was empty. Arne checked behind the seating at the football pitch, drove past the kiosk. Then he headed down to the common, where the villagers had built a huge bonfire ready for the Walpurgis Night celebrations. Right on the top, leaning against a T-shaped structure, was a figure approximately the height of a man. It was made of interwoven twigs and branches, the head formed by a loop. Arne had seen it many times, in countless variations: a representation of the Green Man.

His big sister Ingrid used to tell terrifying stories of the Green Man and his ghostly horse, just as the residents of Tornaby had done for generations. Arne hated to admit it, but there was something about that faceless object that still made him shudder.

He spotted a few kids on the far side of the bonfire, and wound down the window. They looked at one another when they saw the police car, then picked up their backpacks and turned their bicycles around, ready to disappear.

‘David!’

‘Hi, Uncle Arne.’ The boy let go of the handlebars, looking relieved. ‘Cool car!’

Arne nodded with satisfaction. ‘What are you up to?’

‘Nothing.’ The answer came much too quickly.

‘So what are you doing tonight?’

David shuffled uncomfortably and looked at his friends. Arne was trying to remember their names; he knew they often hung around at Ingrid and Bertil’s place, but he’d never taken much notice of them. The girl was adopted, Chinese or Korean or whatever, and the boy with the cropped hair was a Pole whose parents were something important at the plastics factory. Behind them was another terrified face that presumably belonged to that crazy seamstress’s boy.

‘Nothing special. We’ll probably check out the bonfire,’ David replied.

‘You’re not going to do anything stupid?’

‘Of course not!’

David shook his head, and the other three joined in.

‘Good. By the way, I don’t suppose you’ve seen Elita Svart?’

For a second it was as if the little group froze in the middle of shaking their heads. Only their eyes moved, darting from side to side like frightened little sparrows. Arne fixed his eyes on his nephew. David opened his mouth a couple of times, but nothing came out.

‘No, we haven’t, have we, David?’

The little adopted princess had spoken. She gave David an encouraging nod.

‘No,’ he mumbled.

‘She’s older than us. We don’t hang out together,’ the girl added.

‘I see. Remind me of your name?’

‘Jeanette, but everybody calls me Nettan.’

‘Your father’s the headmaster at Tornaby school, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. And Mum’s on the council.’

The kid was glaring at him in a way that both irritated and amused Arne.

‘You don’t say.’

He sucked in air between his teeth. It was obvious that these kids were up to something; could he be bothered to find out what it was? He ran his thumb and forefinger over his moustache. What could a gang of spoilt twelve-year-olds come up with in Tornaby? The answer was simple: nothing that was of any interest to him.

‘Just behave yourselves,’ he said sternly. ‘Otherwise the Green Man might come after you.’

He pointed to the figure on top of the bonfire, and much to his satisfaction he saw four young faces turn a little paler.

8

‘Hi, Margaux, it’s me again. I promised to tell you about Tornaby. The people here are perfectly ordinary, the kind who mind their own business and do the right thing. They have neatly mown lawns, and the local paper comes out on Sundays. A safe place – on the surface at least. I can’t stop thinking about that photograph.’

Dr Andersson is nearing retirement age, a well-built woman with several double chins and small, square glasses. She’s wearing an oilskin coat and cargo pants, and groans loudly with the effort of clambering out of her little white Toyota to shake hands.

‘Thea – lovely to meet you in person.’ Her handshake is firm, her palm slightly sticky. ‘That was a hell of a storm we had last night. Thunder and lightning – in April! Did you survive?’

‘More or less – we still don’t have any power. David’s trying to get hold of a generator for the fridges and freezers.’

‘Oh dear – let’s hope it’s back on soon, Thea.’

The doctor clearly likes to repeat names – not an unusual trait among those who work with people. The Toyota is new, and the name of the local car dealer is displayed on the doors in big letters. This seems strange for a local GP, but Thea already knows that this whole set-up is kind of strange.

‘Have you settled into the coach house?’ Dr Andersson cranes her neck as if she’s trying to see in through the windows.

‘Absolutely – we’re getting there!’ A white lie. The boxes of their possessions remain largely untouched.

‘Excellent! The sooner the better, that’s what I always say.’ The doctor remains where she is for a few seconds, as if she’s hoping to be invited in, then she gives up and gestures towards the car. ‘OK –