Håkan Nesser - The Living and the Dead in Winsford

I have no desire to dwell on the fact that these are precisely the conclusions I want to draw. The time for hesitation and doubt has passed.

And in that depressing short story by Słupka there was just one line — one single line — that jarred. The suggestion that women don’t realize they are more cold-blooded than men until after they have passed the menopause.

That was written by a young woman. How does she know? I leave the Winsford Community Computer Centre, skirt round the church and walk up Ash Lane towards Mr Tawking’s house in order to collect my two hundred pounds. It’s beginning to get dark, and is drizzling slightly. I note that this is my last Thursday evening but one in Winsford, and the village is displaying itself in its gloomiest possible guise.

I knock on the door but nobody comes to open it. I can see that lights are on in two windows, so I think this is a bit odd. To make things worse, Castor is standing beside me and growling, something he never normally does. I knock several more times and think I can hear a noise inside the house. I pause for a moment, then turn the handle.

It’s not locked, and we go in.

‘Mr Tawking?’

He’s lying on the floor on his stomach with his arms underneath him. I can see his left eye as his head is turned to one side. He gives me a terrified look, so it’s obvious he’s alive. Castor growls and keeps his distance.

‘Mr Tawking?’

His head moves slightly and he blinks.

A stroke? I wonder. Cerebral haemorrhage? Heart attack?

Or is that just three different names for the same thing?

I realize that it’s not a question I need to think about, hurry back out and ring the neighbouring doorbell. A woman in her forties answers. I explain the situation.

‘Ah well,’ she says. ‘It’s just a matter of time. But I’m a nurse, I’ll take care of the situation. Bill, take that bloody chicken out of the oven, we’ll have to eat later!’

She smiles at me and is already ringing for an ambulance. I can see that the chances of my ever getting back that two hundred pounds are very small.

‘They said at the pub that Castor had gone missing. You never told me that.’

I think for a moment. ‘No, maybe I didn’t mention it.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t really know. It was during the Christmas holiday period when you and Jeremy were in Scarborough.’

‘It’s still odd that you said nothing about it.’

‘Do you think so? I thought I had done, in fact.’

What is all this? I think, and for the first time I feel a pang of annoyance directed at Mark Britton. Or maybe it’s aimed at me. I ought to have told him about those awful days when Castor was missing: instead I’m keeping quiet and telling lies and holding information back when it’s quite unnecessary, and in the end I won’t be able to keep it up.

‘At least nobody can accuse you of being an open book,’ he says. ‘I’m not scared of mysteries, and sooner or later I’ll get to read all the pages, won’t I?’

He laughs, and I choose to do the same. After all, this is one of the last occasions we shall meet. At least for the foreseeable future. I take a piece of cheese and a mouthful of wine, and he does the same. We are sitting in his kitchen, and I feel rather upset when I think the thought: the thought that I won’t be sitting here any more.

‘It’s not even possible to Google you,’ he adds. ‘It’s a stroke of genius, using a pseudonym.’

I nod. ‘Genius is the right word.’

‘And you’re not going to tell me what name you’re using?’

‘Not just yet. Sorry.’

Does he suspect something? Is Mark beginning to understand that there are hidden and worrying motives behind my veil of secrecy? Perhaps. I can’t make up my mind. He likes casting out flies on the water like this, in the hope of getting a bite: and he didn’t do that a month ago. But I can’t say that I don’t understand why he does it.

Especially if I mean as much to him as I suspect I do.

But this isn’t going to be the very last time we meet. We have another weekend left, assuming I really do leave here on the twenty-ninth as planned. I’ve looked into my diary and put a cross by that day. I must remember to get rid of that diary, but there are quite a few other things that must be disposed of as well.

‘I’m in love with you, Maria — I take it you realize that?’

That shouldn’t have been an unexpected declaration, but I nearly drop my glass even so. I don’t recall hearing such words since. . I try to remember if Martin ever said anything like that. I’m damned if I know. But Rolf no doubt did.

How many people are there in the world who never hear such words: an assurance that somebody loves them?

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you for saying that. I like you an awful lot, Mark. My life out here on the moor has become so much more meaningful since I met you. But I can’t make any promises. . if that’s what you are after.’

He sits for quite a while, weighing over what I said — I would do the same if I were him. Then he nods and says: ‘You know, I feel pretty confident regarding our relationship. There must be some reason for you turning up in this very village.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘No doubt there was a meaning.’

‘We are grown-up people,’ he says.

‘We are indeed,’ I say.

‘We know what it means to be in denial.’

‘We’re experts at that.’

He leans forward over the table and takes hold of my head with both hands. ‘In love with you, did I say that?’

E-mail from Martin to Gunvald:

Hi Gunvald. Thank you for your message — great to hear that you’re enjoying life down under. The situation in Morocco isn’t nearly so enjoyable, I have to admit. I have total writer’s block, and to tell you the truth I feel utterly dejected. We might go back home to Sweden sooner than intended: I know it’s a bloody awful time of year and all that, but what can one do? Anyway, take care of yourself — we’ll keep in touch. Dad

From Eugen Bergman to Martin:

My dear friend! Come home at once if you’ve run into a brick wall. There’s no point in wandering around in a foreign country and suffering. And a play might be just the right thing, don’t you think? You’ve never written anything for the theatre before. But we’ll see how it goes with that, the main thing is that you keep your head above water. My very best wishes — to Maria as well, of course. Eugen

From Soblewski to Martin:

My dear friend! You are far too young for depressions! But I can imagine how sitting in that very country with that very story could make anybody go crazy. I suggest you leave it and try to find other distractions — and if you really are on your way home, you are more than welcome to stay a few days in my house, which might enable us to talk things through properly. Your lovely wife and your dog are welcome too, of course. No new bodies have been reported and I have no idea whether they managed to identify the old one. I have heard nothing more about it. All the best, Sob

I read Soblewski’s message very carefully, especially the last sentence. No new bodies have been reported and I have no idea whether they managed to identify the old one.

I think it over. Surely, I think, surely this must be the most positive piece of information I could have wished for? I sit there for a minute or so, considering it from every conceivable point of view, but I can find no other possible assessment.

What happens next is up to me, of course.

E-mail from Martin to Eugen Bergman:

We shall see, my dear Eugen. It’s hard, but maybe we’ll do as you suggest and head northwards. Don’t have too high expectations of the play, though. All the best, M