Håkan Nesser - The Living and the Dead in Winsford

‘And what about Sune?’ I asked of course. ‘Opium for the masses, or whatever it is they say?’

‘Sune is number three,’ explained Louise, and giggled — she really could giggle like a thirteen-year-old. ‘Halldor is number two. Sune knows the ranking order, and accepts it.’

For some reason I never mentioned Louise’s religious beliefs to Martin, and long afterwards, when we no longer met, I sometimes wondered why. It wasn’t as if it were a secret she had trusted me with. Louise and I didn’t talk about it between ourselves either, not even when she was holding my hand during the difficult period after Synn’s birth. I guessed of course that she was sitting there praying for me in her own quiet way, but I never asked nor commented on it.

Perhaps I kept it to myself simply because I had no wish to hear Martin’s exposition and analysis of the circumstances: yes, that was probably the top and bottom of it.

Sune eventually got a post in Uppsala and they moved there. We visited them several times: they had managed to buy a house in Kåbo, the district of Uppsala where high-ranking academics are supposed to live — Martin used to tease Sune for what he called a betrayal of his lower-class roots, but I always had the feeling that there was a grain or two of jealousy in his comments. Sune had completed his dissertation before Martin, and hence at this stage was probably a step or two ahead of him in his career. I recall Martin occasionally — especially when we were still living in Söder — confiding in me comments on Sune’s so-called research which suggested that he really wasn’t up to standard.

But even if we didn’t meet so often we were still in touch throughout the nineties. They occasionally came to visit us in Nynäshamn and we went to Uppsala. Our children were friends, and I think they regarded themselves as sort of cousins. Halldor turned out to be extremely talented, and he completed sixth-form courses in maths, physics and chemistry while he was still in the fifth form. As far as I know he’s now a researcher at a university somewhere in the USA — in any case he won a scholarship and went there shortly after taking his school-leaving examinations.

Anyway, both Martin and Sune applied for the same professorship. It was just after the turn of the century, and for some reason I don’t know about there was a delay before a final decision was made. As I understood the situation, it was clear early on that one of the pair of them would get the chair: none of the other applicants could match Sune’s and Martin’s qualifications.

It was a strange time. For several months in the autumn it was as if war was in the offing. As if something major and unstoppable was on its way, and there was no way of avoiding it. Martin had submitted various extra items to the appointment committee after the closing date — I never asked what it was all about as I preferred not to know, and sometimes when I observed him at the breakfast table, or when he was absorbed by the television, I had the impression that he was somehow half-paralysed. As if he had suffered a cerebral haemorrhage but the only after-effect was this numbness. This sudden emptiness, or absence — I don’t know what to call it and didn’t know at the time, but at least it was clear to me that if it didn’t pass soon I would have to contact a doctor.

But it did pass. One day at the beginning of November it was announced that Martin had been awarded the chair, and almost immediately everything was back to normal again. The paralysis lifted, war was called off. We celebrated, of course, but not excessively. We went to a pub in the Vasastan district of Stockholm with a few of his colleagues, and sank a glass or two.

A few days into December Louise rang and hoped we could meet for a brief chat — she was going to be in Stockholm the following day, and wondered if I had some time to spare.

Of course I had. We met at the Vetekattan cafe in Kungsgatan: I recall that she was wearing a brand new red coat and that she looked younger than when we had last met, which to be honest was a few years back. I also thought that she radiated a sort of glow — that really was an unusual thought for me to have, which is probably why I remember it.

‘Anyway, there’s something I want to tell you,’ she said when we had found a quiet, out-of-the-way spot and started sipping our coffee. ‘I wasn’t at all sure that I ought to, but Sune and I spoke about it and he thought the same as me — that you ought to know.’

She smiled, and shrugged as if to indicate that it wasn’t the most important thing in the world despite everything. Not in her and Sune’s world, at least. I expect I probably raised an eyebrow, and asked what it was all about.

‘He cheated,’ said Louise. ‘Martin cheated. He got that professorship because he lied about something. Sune could report him, but we’ve agreed that we’re not going to do so.’

I stared at her.

‘That was all. But I think you ought to know about it. Nobody else knows, and Sune isn’t going to say anything.’

I opened my mouth, but couldn’t find any words.

‘We’ve agreed about that. You don’t need to worry. You know that you can trust Sune.’

I ought to have taken the matter up with Martin, of course I should; but yet again, as if it had become a sort of golden rule in our relationship, I chose to say nothing.

Or perhaps that was the very moment when I lay down the golden rule. In any case, I soon realized that my silence meant that I was also guilty. I wasn’t sure of what, but it was simply not possible for me to doubt anything that Louise had told me in confidence.

Anyway, I became an accomplice. I had buried something and cemented over an injury that would have needed light and air in order to heal. It seems to me that it is very much in keeping with so much else that I have failed to do during my journey from the cradle to the grave.

That really is the story of my life.

The other person who makes history by knocking on the door of Darne Lodge is not Lindsey from The Royal Oak, but Mark Britton who has come back from Scarborough.

It is in the morning of the twenty-ninth of December. I invite him in — I have in fact been expecting him, and the house is in as good a shape as it’s possible for it to be. A fire is burning in the hearth, and two candles are lit on the table. Castor is snoozing on his sheepskin, I have showered and look a little bit less like a witch now. Mark seems rather tired, and I suspect that the stay in Scarborough was not entirely without its problems.

‘We got back yesterday evening,’ he says. ‘It wasn’t exactly the most idyllic Christmas I’ve ever experienced, but at least nobody needed to go to hospital.’

‘Jeremy?’ I ask.

‘He wasn’t exactly on top form.’

‘I thought you got on well with your sister?’

‘There’s no problem with Janet — but she has a husband and three kids as well. And Jeremy is all at sea as soon as he leaves his room. Or is away from our house, at least, but I knew that already. Anyway, it’s over and done with now. It was an experiment and I prefer to skip the details. How have things been with you?’

I have already decided not to tell him that Castor went missing. I’m not sure why, and if he’s already heard about it at the pub I intend to try and make light of it. I just say it was okay although we were a bit lonely.

‘That’s precisely what I intend to put right,’ he says, brightening up a bit. ‘I have two suggestions: a walk over the moor tomorrow, and a New Year’s Eve dinner at our place the day after. I take it you haven’t drunk all the bubbly yet?’

I lapse into a sort of feminine routine and pretend to hesitate, then say yes to both suggestions. I also explain that both Castor and I have managed to steer clear of the champagne, but that we’re looking forward to tasting it. I ask if he’d like a cup of tea, and of course he would — and then we sit over my opened-out map while he explains in broad outline the route he has in mind for tomorrow’s walk.