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

many times, but it was becoming more and more difficult. The words slithered around, slid away in the fog that filled his head.

Yes, he’d been disappointed.

Yes, he’d drunk more than he usually did because he was upset. Yes, he’d made a stupid decision.

You dressed up as the Green Man, took Bill out, rode into the stone circle. We know that. We’ve matched the hoof prints. You scared the children who were there half to death.

And then, when they’d run away, you were alone with Elita.

He shook his head, tried to silence the voices.

Bill threw him off in the forest. He definitely remembered lying on the ground on his back, looking up at the treetops, a patch of sky, the moon and the stars. He could see them now, as clearly as the flickering fluorescent light.

Bill had thrown him.

But maybe he did that on the way back?

Maybe you were so shocked, so shaken by what you’d done that you lost control of the horse?

Maybe you fell so hard that you don’t remember what happened?

Maybe . . .

‘No!’ He shook his head, tried to blink away the scalding tears.

He hadn’t done it. Hadn’t done it, hadn’t . . .

. . . killed Elita. Are you absolutely certain of that, Leo? Are you sure it wasn’t you?

The images tormented him, disturbed his sleep even more than his crazy neighbour and the flickering light.

Elita on her back on the sacrificial stone. Her hands crossed over her chest, holding the antlers, her face covered with a white handkerchief.

A perpetrator covers his victim’s face because he’s ashamed, Leo. Because he can’t stand to see the victim’s eyes.

The next image was worse.

Elita’s face . . .

Beaten to a pulp. A single, powerful blow with a stone, according to the forensic pathologist. It takes real strength to cause injuries like that. You’re strong, aren’t you, Leo?

He turned over again, covered his eyes with his hands, desperate to escape the blinding light. He needed to talk to someone. His mother. When had he last heard from her? It must be at least a week ago.

No visits, no phone calls, no letters. Not since Elita’s funeral.

Why not?

Because she’s started to have doubts, Leo. Just like you. Not even your mother believes you’re innocent now. We have a witness who saw you bending over Elita on the sacrificial stone.

‘No!’

He buried his face in the paper pillowcase.

The voice grew softer, working its way into his brain.

You loved her, didn’t you, Leo? You’d have done anything for her. She says so herself, in her letter.

Is that what happened? You didn’t do it out of anger, but out of . . .

Love.

Do you love me, Leo?

He sat bolt upright, rubbed his eyes with his fists. His neighbour had fallen silent. When? Impossible to tell. He’d completely lost track of time.

‘Leo would do anything for me. Whatever I ask of him.’ That’s what she wrote in her letter. She wrote that she was going to die, that she’d chosen someone to help her. Is that what happened, Leo?

‘No . . .’

He wrapped his arms around his knees, shook his head.

The image appeared once again, the same image that broke through the grey fog inside his head with increasing frequency. It could be a dream – at least that was what he kept telling himself, but it felt so real.

Elita lying on her back on the sacrificial stone. Eyes open. Looking straight through him.

Do you love me, Leo?

‘Yes,’ he sobbed. ‘Yes, I love you.’ He hid his face between his knees.

I am the spring sacrifice, Elita whispered. All that dies shall be reborn.

She gasped. Her eyes widened. He could see his own reflection in them. One hand was raised above his head. It felt as heavy as a stone.

Do you love me?

Did you kill her, Leo?

Do you love me?

Did you kill her . . .

The bang made him jump. The sound of one of the guards hammering on his door.

‘Up you get, Rasmussen. The police want to question you again.’

47

INTERVIEWER: You said you were never at the stone circle.

LEO RASMUSSEN: That’s correct.

INTERVIEWER: And you’re absolutely sure of that?

LEO RASMUSSEN: Yes.

INTERVIEWER: Just like you’re absolutely sure that you didn’t see Elita.

LEO RASMUSSEN: Yes. Can I ask a question?

INTERVIEWER: What?

LEO RASMUSSEN: My mother hasn’t been to see me for over a week. Not since Elita’s . . . (INAUDIBLE)

INTERVIEWER: Not since Elita’s funeral?

LEO RASMUSSEN: Yes. She used to come every day.

INTERVIEWER: I know.

LEO RASMUSSEN: I’m worried that something might have happened to her.

INTERVIEWER: So she didn’t say anything to you?

LEO RASMUSSEN: About what?

INTERVIEWER: Your family have gone, Leo. Left you in the lurch.

LEO RASMUSSEN: When?

INTERVIEWER: The day after the funeral. One of the guys from the castle called round and the place was empty, the cars gone. No one has seen Lasse, Lola or your mother since then.

LEO RASMUSSEN: That can’t be right. Are you looking for them?

INTERVIEWER: Why would we do that? None of them is suspected of a crime. And you’re an adult – twenty years old, with your own lawyer. You don’t need any help from your mummy, do you?

LEO RASMUSSEN: (INAUDIBLE)

INTERVIEWER: Let’s go back to Walpurgis Night. So you’re absolutely certain that you weren’t at the stone circle, and you didn’t see Elita?

LEO RASMUSSEN: Yes.

INTERVIEWER: The thing is, we’ve found something very close to the spot where the body was discovered. Can you tell me what this is?

LEO RASMUSSEN: It’s . . . It’s my cap badge. From my beret.

INTERVIEWER: ND. Norrland Dragoons. A cavalry regiment originally, I believe. I myself was a coastal ranger. I know how hard you have to work to be awarded your beret and badge. It’s something precious, isn’t it?

LEO RASMUSSEN: Well, yes . . .

INTERVIEWER: So how do you explain the fact that your badge ended up in the forest only twenty-five metres from Elita’s dead body?

LEO RASMUSSEN: I . . . (INAUDIBLE)

INTERVIEWER: Could you repeat that, please?

LEO RASMUSSEN: I can’t explain . . .

INTERVIEWER: ‘Leo would do anything for me. Whatever I ask of him.’ That’s what she wrote in her letter. Is that what happened, Leo? Did Elita want you to kill her?