Lars Kepler - The Nightmare

Bjorn extends his hand to lead Penelope to the water. His legs wobble with fatigue. He slips, then steadies himself on a rock as he gets back up. Penelope looks stiffly straight ahead with an empty gaze as she takes off her shoes, ties the laces together, and hangs them around her neck.

“Come on,” Bjorn whispers. “We’re just going swimming. Don’t think about it. Just keep swimming.”

Penelope wants to ask him to wait. She’s not sure she can do this, but he’s already wading into the water. She shivers and looks out toward the island opposite them and farther out in the archipelago.

She wades in and feels the cold water around her calves and then her thighs. The bottom under her feet is rocky and slippery but soon disappears deeper underwater. She has no time to hesitate but glides into swimming as she follows Bjorn.

Her arms ache and her clothes drag on her as she starts to swim to the far shore. Bjorn is already way ahead.

It’s a major effort. Every stroke feels unendurable as every muscle cries out for rest.

The island of Kymmendo is a sandy beach on the other side. Penelope kicks with exhausted legs, fighting to stay afloat. The first rays of sun over the treetops are blinding. They hurt her eyes and she stops swimming. She’s not cramping up but her arms can do no more; they’re giving up. In just a few seconds, her wet clothes start to drag her below the surface before her arms obey her commands again. When she breaks the surface and gasps for air, she’s terrified. Adrenaline pumps through her body and she sucks in more air, but she has lost her direction. She sees only ocean. Desperately she treads water and swirls around just keeping herself from wild screams. Finally she spots Bjorn’s bobbing head, barely above the surface of the water, about fifty meters ahead. Penelope starts to swim again, but she’s not sure she’ll ever make it to the other island.

The shoes around her neck hinder her strokes and she tries to get rid of them, but the laces tangle in her crucifix. Then the thin chain of her crucifix snaps and everything sinks to the bottom of the sea.

She swims onward, feeling her heart pound in her chest. It takes a moment or so to realize she can see Bjorn staggering up onto land. He’s looking back for her when he should be finding cover. For all they know, their pursuer could be on the north shore of Orno Island, searching for them through his binoculars.

Penelope slows down more and more. She feels the weight and the slowness in her legs as the lactic acid spreads through them. She can barely swim at all. Bjorn looks fearful. He wades back into the water toward her. She is almost ready to give up, but takes one stroke after another. At last she feels the ground beneath her feet. Bjorn is in the water beside her and he wraps his arm around her and pulls her close and then up onto the pebble-filled sandy beach.

“Hide,” Penelope whispers hoarsely.

He helps her past the beach and in among the spruce trees, until they can no longer see the ocean. They fall down on some moss and blueberries and hug, as much to warm themselves as to comfort each other.

“We can’t keep this up,” Penelope says through chattering teeth, her face pressed into his chest.

“We’ll help each other.”

Eventually they get back up, steadying each other, and walk again on stiff legs in silence as they make their way east. Twenty minutes later, they emerge on the other side of the island. The sun is high in the sky now; the air is getting warmer. Penelope stops short when she sees a tennis ball lying in the high grass of a meadow. Its greenish-yellow color is completely foreign to her. She glances up and sees the tiny red house. It’s almost completely hidden behind a tight hedge of lilac bushes. The curtains in all its windows are closed and there’s a hammock without pillows in the arbor; the lawn is overgrown and a broken branch from the old apple tree lies across the path of gray paving stones.

“Nobody’s home,” Penelope whispers.

They sneak closer, prepared to hear a dog bark or someone yell. They spy through the gaps between the curtains and continue around to the front and try the door. It’s locked.

“I’ll break a window,” Bjorn says. “We have to rest.”

Next to the wall, there’s a clay pot holding a tiny bush with narrow pale green leaves. Penelope smells the sweet scent of lavender. She bends down to pick up one of the stones from the pot. This stone is plastic and underneath it, there’s a little lid. She opens it and takes out the key before she puts the fake stone back.

Inside, the hall floor is made of pine. Penelope feels her legs shake. They’re about to give way. The wallpaper is a plush medallion pattern. Penelope is so tired and hungry that the house appears unreal-a gingerbread house from a fairy tale. Covering the walls are framed photos. Bjorn and Penelope recognize many faces from popular Swedish television programs: Siewert Oholm, Bengt Bedrup, Kjell Lonna, Arne Hegerfors, Magnus Harenstam, Malena Ivarsson, Jacob Dahlin.

They walk through the house, past the living room and into the kitchen. They cast a look around with worried eyes.

“We can’t stay here,” Penelope whispers.

Bjorn goes to the refrigerator and opens the door. The shelves are filled with fresh food. The house is not abandoned after all. Bjorn grabs some cheese, a log of salami, a quart of milk. Penelope finds a baguette and a box of breakfast cereal in the pantry. They rip the bread apart and pass the cheese back and forth between them as they eagerly bite off chunks. Bjorn gulps milk straight from the carton. It runs from the corners of his mouth down his throat. Penelope gnaws the salami and follows that with handfuls of breakfast cereal. Taking the milk carton from Bjorn, she swigs so much she chokes, then drinks some more. They grin nervously at each other, moving away from the window as they devour the food before finally slowing down.

“Let’s find some warm clothes before we have to leave again,” Penelope says.

As they search the house, they feel the warmth of the food expanding inside. Their blood seems to flow more freely, even as their stomachs ache.

There’s a wall-size wardrobe with mirrored doors in the master bedroom. Penelope rushes forward and pushes half of the door to one side.

“What’s this?”

There are gold jackets, black glittering cummerbunds, a golden tuxedo, and a medium-length fluffy fur coat. Penelope’s eyebrows lift as she rummages through banana hammocks of all kinds: see-through, tiger-striped, camouflage, and stretch-fabric G-strings.

She slides open the other wardrobe door and finds simpler clothes: sweaters, jackets, pants. She searches quickly and pulls out some items. Unsteadily, she takes off her soaked clothes.

She catches sight of her naked self in the mirror. She’s black and blue all over and her hair dangles in black strings. Her face is marked with scratches and bruises across her cheekbones. Blood still seeps from one of the gashes on her thigh and her hip is scraped from the fall down the cliff.

She pulls on a pair of pin-striped trousers and a T-shirt with the saying “Eat more oatmeal!” and a hoodie over that. The hoodie is so long, it hangs to her knees. She warms up enough so that her entire body wants to relax. She suddenly bursts into tears, but stops them, smudging away the tears from her cheeks. She goes into the hall to look for shoes. There she finds a pair of blue sailor boots that fit. Back in the bedroom, Bjorn, even though he is wet and muddy, has pulled on a pair of lilac velour pants. His feet look horrible. They are covered with dirt and wounds; he leaves bloodstains wherever he walks. He pulls on a blue T-shirt and a narrow-cut blue leather jacket with wide lapels. Penelope begins to cry again, her tears now streaming out in waves. She can no longer hold them back. It’s as if all the anguish and terror are now making their way out.