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

sounds, the smells, even the taste of my own fear. At the same time I feel guilty because I survived when others didn’t.’

Jan-Olof nods, as if he understands exactly what she means.

‘I hadn’t heard the story of the spring sacrifice until we moved here. David’s never mentioned it, and he refuses to talk about it. He says he’s put the whole thing behind him. Is it really possible . . .’ She swallows, starts again. ‘Is it really possible to forget something like that?’

Jan-Olof looks at her for a long time. The sadness in his eyes answers her question before he opens his mouth.

‘No,’ he says softly. ‘You never forget. Even if you spend your whole life trying to do just that.’

‘And you haven’t forgotten that it was Leo you saw?’

He doesn’t speak for a moment.

‘Leo confessed to the police,’ he says quietly.

‘He did. But now he’s changed his mind.’

She doesn’t know why the words came out like that. Maybe it’s because she was thinking about what Leo said on the phone to Kurt Bexell. Whatever the reason, they have a noticeable effect on Jan-Olof. He gives a start, the colour drains from his face. His lower lip is moving. Thea holds her breath, waiting for him to say something.

A shout from upstairs interrupts them.

‘Jan! Jaaan!’

Jan-Olof presses his lips together. He nods to Thea, then slowly turns and goes back up the stairs. His shoulders are drooping, hands hanging loosely by his sides.

We all have our ghosts, Margaux whispers in her ear. Who do you think his might be?

64

She eats her lunch and is back at the surgery at ten to one to be sure of opening on time. There’s already a patient waiting – Philippe, the Canadian who injured his hand.

‘Bonjour, docteur Lind! You told me to come back and have the wound re-dressed. I happened to be in the village today, so if it’s convenient . . .’ He holds up his bandaged hand.

‘No problem – come on in.’ She unlocks the door, lets Emee in and gestures to Philippe to sit down on the bed.

‘Nice dog,’ he says, holding out his uninjured hand. But Emee keeps her distance. Flattens her ears and growls.

When Thea tells her to go and lie down, she reluctantly obeys. Settles on her blanket, but keeps a close eye on the man.

‘OK, let’s take a look.’ Thea pulls on her Latex gloves and removes the dressing. Notices that Philippe is observing both her movements and her face.

‘What mineral was it you were prospecting for again?’

‘Vanadium.’

‘What’s that used for?’

‘Mobile phone batteries, mainly.’

‘And you think there’s some here, in the Tornaby area?’

He nods. ‘The question is whether there’s enough to make it worthwhile extracting. That’s why we’re doing test drilling.’

She cleans the wound; it has healed very well. The edges are pink, and the stitches have held.

‘And how do you extract vanadium?’

‘Open-cast mining.’

‘How do the landowners feel about that? Do they really want gaping holes in their land?’

He shrugs. ‘According to the law, they own only the surface layer. The bedrock is the property of the state, and if the state thinks a mine is a good idea, then the landowner doesn’t have much say in the matter.’

‘But why here?’ She’s seen open-cast mines in Africa, huge gaping sores in the landscape, machinery spewing out diesel fumes.

Another shrug. ‘Because this is where the resources are.’

The answer irritates her – or maybe it’s his nonchalant attitude. She places a fresh dressing on the wound.

‘I’m guessing that the locals aren’t too keen on your plans,’ she says.

Philippe clenches and opens his hand a couple of times to test the movement.

‘People want a new phone every year. Better and lighter batteries for each new model. But nobody wants a mineral mine near where they live. As long as the extraction is done in Africa or somewhere else far away, nobody cares how it happens. Even though most mines out there are environmental disasters.’

He’s beginning to sound pompous, and Thea is getting tired of his mansplaining.

‘We, on the other hand, can extract natural resources with minimum impact on the environment. We restore the landscape when we’ve finished . . .’

‘Really?’ she interrupts him. ‘Isn’t that what all the big companies claim? BP, Shell, and all the other friends of the environment. Maximum profit, minimum environmental impact. But that’s not the way things usually turn out, is it?’

He gets to his feet. Glares at her for a few seconds as if he’s trying to work out if she’s serious.

‘Are we done here, Doctor?’

‘We are. That will be two hundred kronor. You can pay by Swish.’ She points to the poster with the QR code. ‘If your phone battery is charged, of course.’

He fiddles irritably with his phone for a few seconds. Stops on his way out and taps the little sign on the door.

‘Is this surgery funded by the Bokelund Foundation?’

‘Yes – why?’

‘No reason – I was just curious. The foundation seems to be involved in most things around here, big and small. I believe your mother-in-law is the chair?’

A statement framed as a question. She doesn’t answer.

‘We have an information meeting in the community hall tomorrow evening. Why don’t you come along? Who knows, we might even be able to convert you, Doctor.’

He smiles apologetically as if he’s regretting his behaviour.

‘By the way . . .’ He reaches into his pocket and takes out an object which he places on the desk. ‘This was on your windscreen in the car park. I noticed it on passing and I was curious. What is it?’

Thea freezes.

It’s a Green Man figure, more or less identical to the one that was on her car after she’d been to Svartgården.

‘Are you OK?’ Philippe says. ‘You’ve gone very pale.’

‘I’m fine,’ she murmurs, unable to take her eyes off the little figure.

65

Thea heads home just after four. Walks around the car before she gets in, carefully checks out the car park. She scrutinises every vehicle she meets on the drive back to the coach house; the steering wheel feels sticky