Ларс Кеплер - Stalker

Erik hurries forward but the ground feels like it’s rocking, water rises around his feet, up over his ankles, and he realises he can’t keep going across the bog. He needs to turn back, but sinks deeper and almost falls. He leans one hand against a tree trunk. The cool moisture is rising out of the ground, and there’s a sucking sound as the wet moss lets go of his foot. He has to crawl back, getting his knees wet and cold. He eventually reaches firm ground and starts running.

A dragonfly flashes past, and he sees a white deer’s skull lying next to a rotten log.

He jumps across a furrow full of deep, brown water, with a layer of black leaves at the bottom. Without looking back he runs into the forest once more. Twigs snap under his feet and after a while he can’t run any further, and walks as fast as he can instead. He holds larger branches aside with his hands and lowers his head to protect himself from twigs.

The dog patrol is closer now, their barks echoing tinnily like thunder.

They’ve picked up his scent, soon they’ll have caught up with him.

A strong impulse to just lie flat on his stomach and give up, hand himself over to the police overwhelms him. Imagine, this could all be over, he could be warm again, allowed to rest and start to focus on what’s happened, and whoever has done this to him.

I’m going to give up now, he thinks, and stops, his heart pounding. There are no hiding places in the forest.

Then he remembers Nestor getting shot straight through his chest.

The calls are drawing nearer, a hunting team surrounding their prey.

Erik goes cold inside.

He has to try to reach the buildings by the ski slope, carry on round the bog in a wide arc, then find his way out through the forest.

He sets off running again, dodging between the trunks, through dense undergrowth. Twigs scratch at his face, arms and legs.

The dogs are barking frantically behind him.

He’s so out of breath that his throat feels raw, and he knows he has no chance of outrunning the dogs if they’ve been set loose.

Dry pine cones crunch beneath his feet. Flowering heather brushes his legs. The ground is sloping up now, and the lactic acid in his muscles makes his calves feel tight and heavy.

A tall rock face covered in sphagnum moss and lichen rises up between the trees. He keeps running and starts to climb, forcing himself upwards when the moss starts to slip beneath him and he begins to slide and ends up scraping his hands to stop himself.

When he’s finally at the top he lies down, flat out. His heart pounds against the rock beneath him. He wipes the sweat from his eyes and sees the ochre-coloured housing blocks in Björkhagen above the trees. A crow caws and shuffles clumsily at the top of a fir. Below him, not far away, on the edge of the marsh, he can see the police officers circling round with their dogs straining at their leads. The police are talking into their radios and shouting to each other, and pointing out across the bog. Suddenly one of the dogs signals that it’s picked up a scent. It turns back into the forest, following his trail through the trees. Its leash stretches tight and the dog starts barking loudly.

Erik shuffles backwards and hears the helicopter approaching. He crouches down and starts to run, aware that he has to put some distance between him and the dog-patrol. His legs tremble with the exertion as he runs sideways down the slope, into denser forest again. He follows a path and emerges on to a running track covered with damp bark chippings. A woman in a pink tracksuit is standing still, stretching her muscles, and he hesitates briefly before running past her. Her neck and chest are sweaty. She has a distant look on her face and he sees that she’s listening to music on her headphones. Just as he passes her she looks up at him. Her face stiffens and she looks away a little too quickly. He realises that she’s recognised him, and sees her start to move in the opposite direction out of the corner of his eye.

He carries on round the next bend and stops in front of a map of the nature reserve. A red dot at the bottom marks Sickla Park, where he is now. He looks along the route of the Sörmland Trail, at the running tracks, marshes, watercourses and lakes, then decides to carry on down towards the water at Sicklasjön.

Erik takes long strides across a patch of tall blueberries, then runs straight into the pathless forest.

Dog patrols are approaching from several directions now. He forces his way through a thicket and catches his jacket on a branch. Erik can feel himself starting to panic, tears the cloth loose, and stumbles out into a clearing. He’s so out of breath that he bends double for a few moments, spits, then carries on through the trees.

Erik runs past a fallen tree and carries on through the forest as he hears the barking of the dogs echo between the tree trunks.

After half a kilometre or so he reaches a stream. The bottom is covered with red stone, and the water shimmers brown with iron.

Erik steps into the ice-cold water and wades along the stream, hoping the dogs will lose his scent for a few minutes.

He wishes he could phone Jackie to tell her that he’s innocent. He can’t bear the thought of her believing that he’s a murderer. The media and social networking sites must be full of exaggerated accusations, details from his life, things from long ago that are now being dragged up as proof of his guilt.

Erik tries to wade faster but slips on a stone, falls and hits his knee on the bottom, and lets out a gasp. Cold and pain shoot up through his bones, up into his spine and neck.

He stands up and tries to run. The stones slide and slip beneath his feet, his clothes are heavy and the water foams up around him.

He reaches a bend. The banks are steeper here, the water-channel narrower and faster ahead of him.

The trees lean over the water and he has to bend down beneath their branches. He carries on wading as the stream passes through thicker forest. He can no longer hear the dogs, just the water lapping around his legs.

He makes his way round another bend and decides to get out of the stream. Dripping with water, Erik scrambles out of the water and hurries through the forest on squelching shoes. Exhaustion and his clinging clothes mean that he keeps stumbling.

Up ahead he can see the shimmering water of the long, thin Sicklasjön. He sinks down behind a large rock, pushing past the narrow trunks of a clump of rowan trees, panting so hard that his chest hurts.

This is hopeless, he thinks.

It’s over, I haven’t got anywhere to go.

He has loads of acquaintances, people he socialises with, colleagues of many years’ standing, a few good friends, but no one he can call right now.

He’s pretty sure that Simone would be willing to help, but she’s probably being watched. And Benjamin would do whatever he could, he knows that, but Erik would rather die than put his son in any danger.

There are only a few people he knows he could call.

Joona, Nelly, and maybe Jackie.

If Jackie has gone to see her sister, perhaps he could borrow her flat — assuming she doesn’t believe what the papers have been saying.

Erik looks at his phone. It’s only got 4 per cent of its battery charge left. He doesn’t want to put Nelly at risk, but he calls her number anyway.

If her phone’s being monitored then that’s that, but if he’s going to stand any chance at all he has to take the risk. He’s completely surrounded out here, he has no other option.

The sound of the helicopter clatters in the distance, then all he can hear is the wind in the treetops. His phone crackles and he hears the ringing tone, and then there’s a click.

‘Nelly,’ she answers in a calm voice.