Håkan Nesser - The Living and the Dead in Winsford

I stop reading after this description. Martin has three more days in Taza, but a thought has suddenly occurred to me: what is there to indicate that he wasn’t sitting in a hotel room in Copenhagen or Amsterdam, making up the whole story? What proof is there that the whole rigmarole is not an invention?

None, so far as I can see. Why haven’t I heard anything about all this before? Why has he kept quiet about these bizarre happenings for more than thirty years? Why hasn’t he written about it? I decide to check that there really is a place in Morocco called Taza. That will have to be the next time I go to the Winsford Community Computer Centre — I realize that it’s over a week since the last visit, so it’s presumably high time.

But then I recall that e-mail from G.

Have always felt an inkling that this would surface one day.

And the promise to Bergman and the conversation with Soblewski in his big house that night. . No, there must be a reality behind these notes, I have to accept that. It actually did happen.

Which of course doesn’t necessarily mean that every word is true. I decide to put the whole business on ice for a few days, put the notebooks back in the suitcase and the wardrobe, and think that if nothing else I should try to get hold of Bessie Hyatt’s two novels. For reasons I don’t really understand I haven’t read either of them: they are no doubt on the shelves in Nynäshamn, but those shelves are a long way away. Perhaps that nice lady in the second-hand bookshop in Dulverton can help?

I look at Castor, lying there in front of the almost dead fire. Ask him if he wants to go for a walk. He doesn’t answer. Through the window, on the other side of the wall, I can see a whole herd of Exmoor ponies grazing in the gathering dusk. At least twenty of them. In an hour we shall be swallowed up by darkness, both us and them.

The seventh of December, a Friday. Rain during the night, but fine the next morning. A cloudy sky, but no mist. A south-westerly wind, hardly stronger than five to six metres per second.

I have been sleeping badly for several nights, and during the day have felt restless, neglecting the usual routines. The lack of sleep has left me feeling sluggish whenever there is still a bit of daylight: I lie in bed, try to read, but instead end up in a sort of semi-torpor. If I didn’t have the obligatory daily walk with Castor to think about I would probably allow dawn and dusk to merge, and thus sink into a state of absolute lethargy. But our walks become shorter for every day that passes, and when I looked at myself in the mirror this morning, I had the impression of a woman on the downward path. I have also drunk two of the bottles of red wine I bought in Dunster, and half a bottle of port. All I have managed to do is to buy the basic necessities at the general stores in Exford. No excursions, not to Dulverton, Porlock nor anywhere else.

In the afternoon, after a short stroll down towards Tarr Steps, I pulled myself together even so: took a shower, washed my hair and had a complete change of clothes. Wrote in my notebook that I really must drive to Minehead on Monday to see to some laundry. I persuaded Castor to jump into the passenger seat of the car and drove down to Winsford and the computer centre.

It was already five o’clock by the time I got there, but there were lights in the windows and Alfred Biggs immediately bade me welcome. At one of the tables towards the back of the room were the two young girls I’d met on my first visit — or at least, I thought they were the same ones. Castor went over to greet them, they asked what he was called and spent some time playing with him before returning to their screens. I felt a surge of gratitude towards them.

‘It’s pretty bleak at this time of year,’ said Alfred Biggs.

‘You can say that again,’ I said.

‘How are things going for you up there?’

‘Not too badly, thank you.’

‘It must be hard, being a writer. Keeping tabs on everything.’

‘Yes, it’s not always all that easy.’

‘I mean, all those words and people and things that happen.’

‘Yes, exactly,’ I said. ‘Not all that easy.’

‘But I assume you keep a notebook?’

‘Yes, I do. You have to keep making notes all the time.’

‘I must say I admire you. For keeping tabs on everything. But forgive me, I mustn’t distract you with my chit-chat.’

He indicated where I could sit down, and went to make tea.

E-mail from Gunvald to Martin:

Hi. I hope all is well in Morocco. Work has been keeping me pretty busy, but virtue has its reward. My book has gone to the printer, and over New Year I’m going to a five-day conference in Sydney. I’ll stretch it out of course with a week’s holiday. Greetings to Mum, and have a Merry Christmas if we’re not in touch again before then.

E-mail from Soblewski to Martin:

Just a quick note to say that I’ve talked to BC and there is no problem. Let’s stay in contact. My best to your lovely wife and dog.

E-mail from Gertrud to Martin:

What are you up to nowadays? I got your e-mail eventually. Lennart and I have split up, so I’m as free as a bird. It would be great to meet and pick up the threads again, don’t you think?

Nothing from Bergman, nothing from G. I was grateful for that, especially the latter. The message from Gunvald could just as well have come from a cousin or a distant acquaintance. And as for Soblewski — greetings to your wife and dog?

Gertrud aroused suspicions, of course. Who is she, and what the hell does she mean by picking up the threads again? And why had I given her Martin’s e-mail address so casually when Bergman asked for it? But I couldn’t really get het up about it — whatever might have taken place between her and Martin belonged to a different life. For a few seconds I considered sending her a reply, just to amuse myself: but I let it pass. And didn’t write to Gunvald or Soblewski either.

E-mail from Synn to me:

Hello, Mum. I hope all is going well in Morocco. I’ll probably stay in New York over Christmas and the New Year — I assume you won’t be going home either. Business is going well, I’ve applied for a green card and expect to get it. I agree with Woody Allen: there’s hardly ever a good reason for leaving Manhattan. Greetings to the old bastard.

E-mail from Christa to me:

Dear Maria. Dreamt about you again. I think it’s odd, I hardly ever remember that I’ve been dreaming, never mind what about. This time you really were in danger, you cried for help and I was the one who would be able to help you. But I didn’t understand what I could do. There was a man in a car chasing you. You ran like mad to get away, and I really wanted to save you but I was so far away all the time. In another country, or something like that. Never mind, but it was both very clear and very horrible in any case. Write and let me know that all is well. Love, C

I thought for a while, then wrote to both of them. I wished my daughter a Merry Christmas and reported that both I and the old bastard were in good shape, all things considered. Christa was duly informed that everything was under control down in Morocco, and that I would try hard to behave myself rather better in her next dream. I took the opportunity to pass on season’s greetings, and asked her to pass on greetings to Paolo.

I didn’t bother to chase up the latest news from Sweden — nor news from anywhere else, come to that. Instead I thanked Alfred Biggs, and went with Castor to The Royal Oak for dinner.

Six days have passed since my last visit.

And it feels like a month since I sat here talking to Mark Britton that last time, which just shows how my conception of time is going off the rails. When he now comes in, less than a minute after I’ve ordered my food and got a glass of wine on the table, I suddenly feel grateful — and just as suddenly uneasy as well, in case he is only going to sit at the bar, drink a pint of ale and then leave.