legs are bent and its chest is down in the grass. Its ears fold back, its nose wrinkles and its lips curl. The sight of the yellow teeth dripping with saliva brings his mother to a halt, but only for an instant, because she then rushes towards them waving the axe. The fox slinks away between the fence posts and disappears.
But the hare sits as if nailed to the spot. It looks as if it is forcing its skinny shanks to be still. It is shuddering and gaping, and yellow shards of teeth are visible in its sloping lower jaw. Its ears are black-tipped and ragged.
Not until she is standing directly over it does the hare leap aside, remarkably elongated. It runs in a loop around them, coming so close to the boy that he cries out. After that it rushes off, like a shudder in the grass.
His mother is breathing heavily through her nose. Her forehead and cheekbones are oily with sweat and her nostrils are shiny. Her lips are pressed tightly together.
The boy inundates her with questions. What he wants to know most of all is why she chased the animals away. Instead of answering she shoves him ahead of her into the cabin, and when they are inside she locks the door.
*
‘There was something wrong with them,’ she says, cutting up his sausage. It surprises him that she is cutting up his food because she is always nagging him to do it himself. ‘They were sick. Do you understand?’
Her voice sounds tense and her gaze keeps wandering to the window. She has not put any food on her plate yet. It is shiny, and empty apart from some scratches. There are still flickers of sunlight in the grass down at the bottom of the path, but below the trees everything has become black and intertwined.
After a moment she leans forwards, staring at him.
‘Do you want to go home?’
The boy has stuffed his mouth full of macaroni.
He eats and looks at her.
‘Do you?’ he asks, reaching for his glass of milk.
Then she snorts and small wrinkly lines form round her eyes.
*
He should have gone to bed ages ago, but it seems she has forgotten all about him as he sits by the wood burner. The cork flooring where he is sitting is scattered with splinters of wood and small strips torn from a newspaper. He has pulled up one leg and is resting his chin on his kneecap. The little figures are lined up. He is planning some kind of competition.
His mother has remained at the table, looking out through the window. She has turned to stone over there, her back hunched and her elbows resting on the tabletop, which is why he jumps when she suddenly stands up. The chair scrapes the floor, almost toppling over behind her.
The boy stares.
‘What is it?’ he asks.
But she does not reply. She just continues staring out of the window.
He walks up to her.
‘Is it the fox?’ he asks.
She has cupped her hands against the glass and is breathing hard.
‘Mummy!’
He tries to climb up on the table, but she pushes him back down. She does it so roughly that he almost falls backwards.
‘No!’ she says.
He is not sad. But he is angry.
All he wants is to see what she is seeing.
He makes another attempt to get to the window, and when she stands in his way he runs towards the door.
‘Magnus!’
She screams at the top of her lungs, a pleading howl that makes her voice crack. She tries to grab hold of him and knocks the kitchen table with her hip.
But he has already run outside.
He is already gone.
Because the first news picture of Magnus Brodin, carried in the Gefle Dagblad on 24 July 1978, takes up over four columns, there is no need to read the headline to realise that something bad has happened to the boy. That’s always the case when a large face appears in the paper.
This picture was the only one to be published. A black and white passport photo, probably taken in one of those little booths you have to feed with coins. His hair is unusually thick and cut bluntly across his forehead. He isn’t looking at the camera but down to the side, and he looks a little uncertain, almost afraid, I
But the hare sits as if nailed to the spot. It looks as if it is forcing its skinny shanks to be still. It is shuddering and gaping, and yellow shards of teeth are visible in its sloping lower jaw. Its ears are black-tipped and ragged.
Not until she is standing directly over it does the hare leap aside, remarkably elongated. It runs in a loop around them, coming so close to the boy that he cries out. After that it rushes off, like a shudder in the grass.
His mother is breathing heavily through her nose. Her forehead and cheekbones are oily with sweat and her nostrils are shiny. Her lips are pressed tightly together.
The boy inundates her with questions. What he wants to know most of all is why she chased the animals away. Instead of answering she shoves him ahead of her into the cabin, and when they are inside she locks the door.
*
‘There was something wrong with them,’ she says, cutting up his sausage. It surprises him that she is cutting up his food because she is always nagging him to do it himself. ‘They were sick. Do you understand?’
Her voice sounds tense and her gaze keeps wandering to the window. She has not put any food on her plate yet. It is shiny, and empty apart from some scratches. There are still flickers of sunlight in the grass down at the bottom of the path, but below the trees everything has become black and intertwined.
After a moment she leans forwards, staring at him.
‘Do you want to go home?’
The boy has stuffed his mouth full of macaroni.
He eats and looks at her.
‘Do you?’ he asks, reaching for his glass of milk.
Then she snorts and small wrinkly lines form round her eyes.
*
He should have gone to bed ages ago, but it seems she has forgotten all about him as he sits by the wood burner. The cork flooring where he is sitting is scattered with splinters of wood and small strips torn from a newspaper. He has pulled up one leg and is resting his chin on his kneecap. The little figures are lined up. He is planning some kind of competition.
His mother has remained at the table, looking out through the window. She has turned to stone over there, her back hunched and her elbows resting on the tabletop, which is why he jumps when she suddenly stands up. The chair scrapes the floor, almost toppling over behind her.
The boy stares.
‘What is it?’ he asks.
But she does not reply. She just continues staring out of the window.
He walks up to her.
‘Is it the fox?’ he asks.
She has cupped her hands against the glass and is breathing hard.
‘Mummy!’
He tries to climb up on the table, but she pushes him back down. She does it so roughly that he almost falls backwards.
‘No!’ she says.
He is not sad. But he is angry.
All he wants is to see what she is seeing.
He makes another attempt to get to the window, and when she stands in his way he runs towards the door.
‘Magnus!’
She screams at the top of her lungs, a pleading howl that makes her voice crack. She tries to grab hold of him and knocks the kitchen table with her hip.
But he has already run outside.
He is already gone.
Because the first news picture of Magnus Brodin, carried in the Gefle Dagblad on 24 July 1978, takes up over four columns, there is no need to read the headline to realise that something bad has happened to the boy. That’s always the case when a large face appears in the paper.
This picture was the only one to be published. A black and white passport photo, probably taken in one of those little booths you have to feed with coins. His hair is unusually thick and cut bluntly across his forehead. He isn’t looking at the camera but down to the side, and he looks a little uncertain, almost afraid, I
Similar Books
Wild Horses
Denise L. Wyant
All In The Game (Dearly Beloved)
Virginia Crane
Tuck
Stephen R. Lawhead
Peter and Veronica
Marilyn Sachs
The Cat Who Came in Off the Roof
Annie M.G. Schmidt
The Celebrity
Laura Z. Hobson
Sparked (city2city: Hollywood)
Edie Harris
A Proper Scandal
Charis Michaels
A Cookbook Conspiracy
Kate Carlisle