The Nightmare. Ларс Кеплер

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      Their calves are stinging with exertion as they stop and look round. They walk up the front steps, open the door to the porch and go in.

      ‘Hello? We need help!’ Penelope calls.

      The house is warm inside from the sun. Björn is limping, and his bare feet leave bloody prints on the hall floor.

      Penelope hurries through the rooms, but the house is empty. The inhabitants probably slept over at their neighbours’ after the party, she thinks, and stands at the window and looks out, hidden behind the curtain. She waits for a while, but can’t detect any movement in the forest or on the lawn or drive. Maybe their pursuer has finally lost track of them, maybe he’s still waiting at the other house. She goes back to the hall, where Björn is sitting on the floor looking at the wounds on his feet.

      ‘We need to find you a pair of shoes,’ she says.

      He looks up at her with a blank expression, as though he doesn’t speak the language.

      ‘This isn’t over yet,’ she says. ‘You need to put something on your feet.’

      Björn starts to hunt through the hall cupboard, pulling out flip-flops, wellington boots and old bags.

      Avoiding all the windows, Penelope hunts as quickly as she can for a phone, checking the hall table, the briefcase on the sofa, the bowl on the coffee table, and among the keys and paperwork on the kitchen counter.

      There’s a sound outside and she stops to listen.

      Perhaps it was nothing.

      The first of the morning sun is shining in through the windows.

      Crouching, she hurries into the main bedroom and pulls out the drawers in an old chest. She finds a framed family photograph lying among the underwear. A portrait taken in a studio, a husband and wife and two teenage daughters. The other drawers are empty. Penelope opens the wardrobe, pulls the few items of clothing from their metal hangers, and takes a knitted jumper and a hooded jacket that looks like it would suit a fifteen-year-old.

      She hears a tap running in the kitchen and hurries in there. Björn is leaning over the sink drinking from the tap. He’s wearing a pair of old trainers on his feet, a couple of sizes too big.

      We have to find someone who can help us, she thinks. This is getting ridiculous, there must be people everywhere.

      Penelope goes over to Björn and hands him the knitted jumper. Suddenly there’s a knock at the door. Björn smiles in surprise, pulls the sweater on and mutters about them finally having a bit of luck. Penelope walks towards the hall, brushing her hair from her face. She’s almost there when she sees the silhouette through the frosted glass.

      She stops abruptly and looks at the shadow through the glass. Suddenly she can’t bring herself to reach out her hand and open the door. She recognises his posture, the shape of his head and shoulders.

      The air feels like it’s running out.

      Slowly she backs away into the kitchen. Her body is twitching, she wants to run, her whole body wants to run. She stares at the glass window, at the indistinct face, the narrow chin. She feels dizzy as she moves backwards, trampling on bags and boots, reaching out to the wall for support, running her fingers across the wallpaper, knocking the hall mirror askew.

      Björn stops beside her, he’s clutching a broad-bladed kitchen knife in his hand. His cheeks are white, his mouth half open, his eyes staring at the window in the door.

      Penelope backs into a table as she sees the door-handle slowly being pushed down. Quickly she goes into the bathroom and turns the taps on, then calls out in a loud voice:

      ‘Come in! The door’s open!’ Björn starts, his pulse is thudding in his head, he’s holding the knife in front of him, ready to defend himself, to attack, as he sees their pursuer slowly let go of the door-handle. The silhouette disappears from the window, and a few seconds later he hears footsteps on the gravel path beside the house. Björn glances to his right. Penelope comes out of the bathroom. He points to the window in the television room and they move away into the kitchen as they hear the man walk across the wooden terrace. Penelope tries to figure out what their pursuer can see, wondering if the angles and light will reveal the shoes scattered across the hall, Björn’s bloody footprints on the floor. The wooden terrace creaks again. He’s making his way round the house, towards the kitchen window. Björn and Penelope huddle up on the floor, pressing against the wall beneath the window. They try to lie still and breathe quietly. They hear him reach the window, his hands slide across the sill and they realise he’s looking into the kitchen.

      Penelope notices that the glass door of the oven reflects the window, and in the reflection she sees their pursuer looking around the room. It occurs to her that he’d be looking her right in the eye if he happened to look at the oven door. It won’t be long before he realises that they’re hiding in there.

      The face in the window disappears, they hear footsteps across the terrace again, then along the gravel path leading to the front of the house. When the front door opens Björn walks quickly over to the kitchen door, puts the knife down, turns the key that’s sitting in the lock, pushes the door open and rushes out.

      Penelope follows him, out into the coolness of the garden. They run across the grass, past the compost heap and into the forest. It’s still fairly dark, but the first light of dawn is pressing between the trees. Penelope’s fear is chasing her, driving her on, churning up the panic in her chest again. She dodges thick branches, jumps over low bushes and rocks. Just behind her she can hear Björn, breathing hard. And behind him she can sense the other man the whole time, the man who feels like a shadow. He’s following them, and she knows he’s going to kill them when he finds them. She remembers something she once read somewhere. There was a woman in Rwanda who survived the Hutus’ genocide of the Tutsis by hiding in the marshes and running every day, running for all the months the genocide lasted. Her former neighbours and friends came after her with machetes. We imitated the antelope, the woman explained in the book. Those of us who survived in the jungle imitated the antelope’s flight from its predators. We ran, we chose unexpected paths, we split up and changed direction to confuse our pursuers.

      Penelope knows that the way that she and Björn are running is completely wrong. They have no plan, no ideas, and that’s only going to benefit the man chasing them. There’s no guile to the way they’re running. They want to go home, they want to find help, they want to call the police. And their pursuer knows all this, he understands that they’re going to try to find people who can help them, that they’re going to try to find inhabited areas, heading towards the mainland and home.

      Penelope tears a hole in her jogging bottoms on a fallen branch. She staggers a few steps but keeps going, only noting the pain as a burning snare round her leg.

      They mustn’t stop. She can taste blood in her mouth. Björn stumbles through a thicket, they change direction at a fallen tree with a pool of water in the hole left by its roots.

      As she runs alongside Björn, her fear suddenly brings to mind an unexpected memory, a memory of a time when she was just as frightened as she is now. It was when she was in Darfur. There was something about people’s eyes there, a difference in the eyes of those who had been traumatised, who couldn’t go on, and those who were still fighting, who refused to give up. She will never forget the children who came to Kubbum one night with a loaded revolver. She will never forget the fear she felt then.

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