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

There is a lump of ice in her stomach, her mouth feels as dry as dust. David squeezes her hand again, harder and harder until she almost can’t bear it.

She takes a deep breath.

‘OK,’ she says, and regrets it almost immediately. But it’s too late now.

She hears Margaux’s throaty voice inside her head.

We all have our ghosts, Thea. Some more than others.

Far away, beyond the darkening grey band on the horizon, the thunder rumbles threateningly.

2

‘I’m sure you’re wondering how Emee is. She runs away as soon as I let her off the lead. Disappears into the forest, won’t come back when I call her. I think she’s searching for you, Margaux. She misses you. We both do. Are you missing us? Sorry – stupid question.’

Thea cuts through the box garden and continues across the lawn behind the castle. Emee already knows the way; she is pulling at the lead, eager to get on.

The moat forms a pond here, or even a small lake, divided by the stone bridge leading over to the forest. The bridge is only a couple of metres wide. It was built in the early nineteenth century, presumably so that the fine folk could ride directly from the castle into the forest.

Beneath the bridge the water is bottle-green and slow-moving; the surface is largely covered with aquatic plants and a slimy layer of algae. The water comes from the marsh, bringing with it a smell that Thea recognises from other places: the jungles of Nigeria, the desert landscape of Ethiopia, the forensic pathology lab in Solna and among the ruins of Syria. It is a mixture of earth and yeast, iron and ammonia, insects with vibrating wings, and grubs that live on decay.

Thea shudders. Emee snorts, as if she too wants to escape the musty smell. As soon as they reach the other side Thea lets her off the lead, and she races away among the tall trees like a streak of grey.

Thea follows the path, waiting until she is out of sight of the castle before lighting up. Gauloises with no filter, which Margaux taught her to enjoy. She has promised David that she will stop.

She takes a deep drag, holds the smoke for a few seconds until she feels the pain in her lungs.

What’s worse than a doctor who smokes? Margaux used to say. Two doctors who smoke, of course!

A silly joke, but Margaux always got away with it. She only had to dip her head, hiding her eyes beneath her dead-straight, cartoon-character fringe to make everyone burst out laughing.

Today’s TV interview worries Thea. She tries to tell herself that she only appears on screen for a minute or two, that over twenty-five years have passed, and that no one is going to recognise her. Plus she had no choice; David couldn’t have carried on alone. The opening is getting closer and closer, he’s working long hours, and the phone is always ringing. He is under enormous pressure.

And yet she is convinced that it was the unexpected question that really threw him. A third dead girl, a much more recent event, something the interviewer definitely wanted to talk about rather than continuing with the sunny positivity. David has never mentioned the story to her. She will have to find the right opportunity to ask him about it.

*

The castle forest rises above the surrounding marsh on a slight hill, an area of solid ground where the trees have been able to grow bigger than in other places. The Bokelund Foundation has put all its funds into the castle itself, leaving the forest to its own devices. The section closest to the bridge and the castle was once more like a park, but weeds have invaded the gravel paths, the old lampposts are no longer connected to the electricity supply, and only a couple of the benches are sturdy enough to sit on. Not that anyone ever does. During the week or so she has been here, Thea hasn’t seen a single person in the forest, but maybe that’s not so strange. Tornaby is five kilometres away, and the castle has few neighbours. There are hardly any roads leading here; it’s as if the world has forgotten this place, left all its decaying beauty to her. The newly opened leaves have not yet formed a solid canopy, and the sunlight filters down onto the carpet of wood anemones. The birds are singing, the wind is soughing through the treetops. Everything is so lovely, and yet a little sad. Maybe that’s why she feels at home here?

A crooked signpost informs her that it is five hundred metres to the castle (heading south, back the way she came), five kilometres to Tornaby (west along the overgrown track to her left), six hundred metres to the stone circle that she hasn’t yet explored (straight ahead to the north), and finally five hundred metres to the canal (east along the track on the right).

David has told her that the canal is actually a wide ditch about a kilometre in length. It slices through the forest, diverting the water from the wetland to the moat. He has plans to create a floating restaurant, travelling via the moat and along the canal all the way to the hunting lodge at the far end. Personally, Thea wonders whether the almost stagnant water and the smell of the marsh might make the diners lose their appetite, but of course she hasn’t said anything to David.

She chooses the track leading east, talking slow drags to make her cigarette last as long as possible. After a couple of minutes she reaches a glade. On one side there is an ancient tree with a gnarled trunk and heavy, twisted branches. The bark is grey, but the light in the glade makes it look almost white.

Instead of continuing along the track she goes over to the tree. Its girth must be four metres, maybe more. Beside it there is a grubby information board that she hasn’t