Igor is over me.
I am flat on my belly with my hands locked in an iron grip behind my back.
Strong arms lift me up and slam me against the floor.
Lift me up. Slam me.
Over and over, as if I were a rag doll or perhaps a coconut that he is trying to crack open.
I feel something in my face break; my nose crunches as he once again throws my head to the floor. Seconds later my mouth fills up with blood.
Igor’s hold is so hard that I can barely breathe. All I can manage is to inhale teeny, tiny gasps.
Then he sits on me. A knee presses into my lower back. The grip on my hands becomes even harder and a sharp pain radiates through my already numb arms.
He leans over me and whispers in my ear.
‘Fucking. Bastard. Damn. Cunt.’
Spit splashes across my cheek.
I can’t answer, can’t move. I can’t breathe, but I can still detect his smell; a predator’s acrid scent of sweat and rage.
And in the midst of all the chaos it is as if some part of my brain is still able to analyse the situation. Calculate the likelihood that he will crush my head against the floor or break my arms. Weigh my options with astonishing precision.
And that part of my brain dryly establishes that I am toast. That I stand no chance in hell against Igor. That he will mash me like an overripe banana.
I should be panicking. Perhaps I should be praying. But all I can do is think of her.
Mum.
‘You thought you could get one over on me? You’re going to die, do you understand?’
The words are more distant now, as if I am thinking them or maybe remembering them rather than hearing them.
‘Your mum led me here. Isn’t that comical? She . . .’
Igor’s voice fades away and all that exists is the red-hot pain that pulsates through me in waves. As if I am drowning in a sea of pain.
Then everything is white and quiet.
The pain fades away and I can feel her presence. Know that she is standing there next to me, that she will not let me die. She places her cool hand on my forehead.
‘Samuel.’
Her voice is a whisper, but it contains so much love.
‘Samuel, how are you? Please, tell me that you are OK!’
The pain returns to my arm, my nose begins to throb and the world around me regains solid outlines. I recognise the shiny wooden floorboards against my cheek and become aware of the weight on my back.
She gives my shoulder a light shake.
‘Samuel!’
I open an eye.
It’s not Mum, it’s Rachel.
And then I see the blood. It’s oozing across the floor like a fucking lake. Covers almost the entire hallway.
I scream even though I suspect that I am dead. Surely nobody can bleed this much and live?
Rachel puffs and groans and a few seconds later the weight on my back is gone. The relief is immediate – I feel almost as if I am floating above the floor.
I manage to get up into a squat and look around. Slip on the blood and almost fall.
Igor is lying on his back on the floor next to me.
His arms have fallen out to the sides; his mouth is open, his eyes too and there is a gaping red hole in his temple. It looks like a predator took a large bite out of his head.
I look at Rachel.
She is standing next to Igor. On the floor beside her is a doorstop in the shape of a lamb.
It is covered in blood.
Rachel is distraught.
Tears stream down her cheeks and snot hangs in long strands from her nose.
‘I. Didn’t. Mean. To. Kill. Him.’
I can barely make out the words between her sobs as we move into the kitchen. I turn the tap off and wipe myself on the linen tea towel, but my hands are shaking so badly I drop it on the floor.
‘He’s deeaaad,’ Rachel groans and begins to walk back and forth in the kitchen. She leaves sticky red footprints in her wake.
I glance out towards the hallway.
The large body is still lying in the puddle of blood.
Rachel sinks into a chair at the kitchen table, buries her face in her hands and rocks back and forth.
‘What are we going to do?’ she moans. ‘What are we going to do? What are we going to do? What are—?’
‘Maybe we should call the police?’ I whisper.
Not because I really want the police to show up, but because this is too crazy for us to handle on our own. Not even I – who avoids the cops like the plague – have the faintest clue what to do when you have accidentally killed someone.
Rachel stops rocking, takes her hands off her face and looks at me. Suddenly she seems collected.
‘We can’t do that,’ she says. ‘I killed him. I can’t go to prison, surely you understand? Jonas doesn’t have anyone but me. He wouldn’t make it, he would . . .’
Her voice cracks and she emits a barely audible sob.
‘It was self-defence,’ I say. ‘You don’t go to prison for that.’
Rachel slowly shakes her head.
‘I can’t risk that. No.’
And then:
‘And you don’t want the police on your tail, do you?’
I look at her.
Even though I have confided in Rachel I never told her anything about Igor’s business, but maybe she figured that out on her own.
‘But . . .’ I say, feeling suddenly hopeless. ‘What should we do?’
Rachel sighs.
‘Maybe you are right. Maybe we have to call the police.’
Then, in the next second:
‘No. We just can’t. We can’t.’
Then she begins to sob again and walks towards me with her hands raised. For each step she takes there is a smacking from the dried blood.
‘Samuel,’ she says. ‘What have we done?’
She puts her arms around me and hugs me hard.
‘Let’s throw him into the sea,’ I mumble with my mouth against her ear.
Rachel freezes, lets go of me and steps back.
‘Are you crazy?’ she whispers.
Then she furrows her brow and seems to be processing what I said.
‘No,’ she continues. ‘We can’t throw him in here. What if someone finds him?’
‘But if we go further out to sea. You have a boat, don’t you?’
Rachel shakes her head and wipes a tear.
‘In this weather?’
She turns her face to the window. The rain is pouring down outside and the thunder rumbles.
‘Besides,’ she murmurs. ‘Something is wrong with the boat. It stops all the time. No. That wouldn’t work. What if our engine stalls with him on board?’
She nods in Igor’s direction. Seconds later she puts her hand to her mouth, as if she is feeling sick.
*
I push the wheelbarrow down the narrow path. Rachel is walking in front of me, guiding me.
The rain lashes the back of my neck and the thunderclaps come hard and fast. My head is throbbing, my nose feels as swollen as a fucking balloon and every once in a while I feel so nauseous I want to throw up, but I keep walking because I don’t want to let Rachel down.
I think that in some sense we are lucky, that it is probably less likely we’ll run into anyone in this weather.
Igor’s body is covered by a blanket, but a bloody hand pokes out from beneath the fringed hem.
The situation is so messed up.
We have actually killed a person, even if it was in self-defence and the person in question was a monster, a real arsehole who was trying to do the same to me.
We have taken a life and that is incomprehensible – that Igor, who was recently breathing and reeking of sweat and slamming my head into the floor like some kind of psycho, is now squeezed into the wheelbarrow, covered with a tartan blanket.
When I think about it that way I get nauseous and have to close my eyes. And when I close my eyes I need to stop and steady myself against a tree so as not to fall over.
Rachel turns around and looks at me with concern.
‘Come,’ she says and looks around quickly.
I grab the wheelbarrow and keep going. Count the steps, like I always do.
We walk along the road and up a small hill – 147 steps from the gate. Then we turn left onto something that looks like an abandoned lot – 197.
Rachel’s wet dress clings to her back and her bra is clearly visible under the wet fabric.
Two hundred and ten.
She turns around.
‘Here!’ she says, pointing into the bushes.
I can make out the outline of a dilapidated building, partially covered with weeds and saplings.
She waits for me to catch up.
I gather momentum and force the wheelbarrow over a small bump. Then I stop next to her.
Two hundred and fifty.
‘There used to be an old paint factory here,’ she says, nodding towards the ruin. ‘It closed fifty years ago but the ground is still poisoned by the chemicals and the council and the government can’t agree on who should fund the clean-up. By the way, that is the reason there are so few houses on the island. Nobody wants to build on toxic waste. Anyway, the ruin here is the old foreman’s quarters.’
I look around.
Next to the ruin I can make out an old well and beside that there is a pile of rocks overgrown with vines.
‘Nobody—’
Rachel’s voice is drowned out by a thunderclap.
‘Nobody ever comes here,’ she says emphatically. ‘Nobody.’
She gives me a serious look with her dark eyes and once again I think of Mum.
In the next instant I remember that I was supposed to meet her at Stuvskär. That must have been at least an hour ago. She has probably been standing on the dock in the rain waiting. Got angry, got sad and ultimately disappointed.
As usual.
Rachel points to the old well.
‘There!’ she says.
She walks up to the lid and grabs the rusty handle.
‘Can you help me?’ she asks.