microwave out of his car window. On that occasion he had made a note of the registration number and reported the incident in writing.
He was about to head off along his normal route, searching out the good mushroom places, when he noticed that the plastic bag was moving. He stopped. The bag moved again. It should have been something to do with the wind. That would have been best. But there wasn’t a breath of wind among the tree trunks.
He heard a faint rustling noise as the piece of plastic shifted again, and all of a sudden his legs felt heavy. The forest surrounded him, silent and indifferent, and he was all alone in the world with whatever was in the plastic bag. Lennart swallowed, his throat dry, and moved forward a few steps. The bag was motionless now.
He didn’t want to see an old dog that had almost but not quite been put out of its misery, or a pile of kittens whose skulls had almost but not quite been smashed. He didn’t want to know about anything like that.
So it wasn’t a sense of responsibility or sympathy that drove him on towards the bit of plastic sticking up from the ground. It was ordinary human or inhuman curiosity. He just had to know, or that waving white flag would torment him until he came back to find out what he had missed.
He grabbed hold of the piece of plastic and instantly recoiled, his hands flying to his mouth. There was something inside the bag, something that had responded to his grip, something that felt like muscles, like flesh. The earth around the bag had recently been disturbed.
The thought took flight and suddenly Lennart knew exactly what had responded to his hand. Another hand. A very small hand. Lennart edged back to the bag and began to clear away the earth. It didn’t take long; the soil had been thrown carelessly over the bag, probably by someone without any tools, and in ten seconds Lennart had freed the bag and pulled it out of the hole.
The handles were tied together and Lennart ripped at the plastic to let in air, let in life. He managed to tear a hole in the bag, and saw blue skin. A tiny leg, a sunken chest. A girl. A baby girl, just a few days or weeks old. She wasn’t moving. The thin lips were pressed together, as if defying an evil world. Lennart had witnessed the child’s death throes.
He placed his ear to the child’s chest and thought he could hear the faintest echo of a heartbeat. He pinched the child’s nose between his thumb and forefinger, and took a deep breath. He pursed his lips to send a blast of air into the tiny mouth; he didn’t even need to take another breath in order to fill the little lungs once more. The air bubbled out, and the chest was still.
Lennart took another breath and as he sent the second puff down into the lungs, there it was. A shudder went through the tiny body and white foam was coughed up. Then a scream sliced through the silence of the forest and started time ticking once more.
The child screamed and screamed, and its crying sounded like nothing Lennart had ever heard before. It wasn’t broken or plaintive. It was a single, clear, pure note, emerging from that neglected body. Lennart had a good ear, and he didn’t need a tuning fork to tell him that it was an E. An E that rang like a bell and made the leaves quiver and the birds fly up from the trees.
The girl was lying on the passenger seat, wrapped in Lennart’s red Helly Hansen sweater. Lennart was sitting with his hands resting on the wheel, staring at her. He was completely calm, and his body felt as if it had been hollowed out. Clarified.
He had once tried cocaine, towards the end of the ’70s. A fashionable rock band had offered, and he had accepted. One line and that was it, he had never done it again-because it had been fantastic. Too fantastic.
We are always in a certain amount of pain. There is chafing somewhere, and if it isn’t in our body, then it’s in our mind. There’s an itch, all the time. The cocaine took it away. His body became a receptacle made of velvet, and within that receptacle there were only crystal clear thoughts. The mists had lifted, and life was wonderful. Afterwards, realising that striving to regain this feeling could become his life’s work, Lennart refrained from taking cocaine again.
As he sat here now with his hands resting on the wheel, he felt something similar. There was a stillness in him, the forest was glowing with autumn colours, and a great being was holding its breath and waiting for his decision. Lennart slowly reached for the ignition key-
On the main road he was overtaken by several cars as he crawled along. The child had no basket or seat, and Lennart drove as if he were transporting a bowl filled to the brim with a priceless liquid. The child felt so fragile, so transient, that the slightest violent movement might hurl it out of existence.
His back was soaked with sweat by the time he turned into the drive ten minutes later, switched off the engine and looked around. Not a soul in sight; he scooped the child up in his arms and jogged up to the house. He reached the porch and discovered that the door was locked as usual. He knocked twice, paused, then knocked twice more.
A cold breeze swept over his damp back, and he clutched the child closer to his body. After ten seconds he heard Laila’s tentative footsteps in the hallway, saw the spy hole darken as she checked him out. Then the door opened. Laila stood there like a massive door stop.
‘Why are you back already, what have you got there-’
Lennart pushed past her and went into the kitchen. The door slammed behind him and Laila shouted, ‘Don’t you go in there with your shoes on, are you out of your mind, you can’t go in the house with your shoes on, Lennart!’
He stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, completely at a loss. He had just wanted to get inside, into the safety of the house. Now he didn’t know where to turn. He made to put the child down on the kitchen table, then changed his mind and held it close as he spun around, searching for inspiration.
Laila came into the kitchen, red in the face. ‘Take your shoes off when you come in, I’ve just finished cleaning up and you-’
‘Shut up.’
Laila’s mouth closed and she recoiled half a step. Lennart loosened his grip on the child and unwrapped the sweater so that the head and a tuft of blonde hair were visible. Laila’s mouth opened again. Gaped.
Lennart raised and lowered the bundle. ‘I found a child. A baby. In the forest.’
There was the faint click of Laila’s tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth and pulling free as she groped for something to say. Eventually she managed to whisper, ‘What have you done?’
‘I haven’t done anything, I found her in the forest. In a hole.’ ‘A hole?’
Lennart explained briefly. Laila stood there motionless, her hands folded over her stomach. Only her head moved, from side to side. When Lennart reached the point where he blew air into the child’s lungs, he broke off. ‘Can you stop shaking your head while I’m telling you this? It’s bloody irritating.’
Laila’s head stopped in mid-movement. She took a hesitant step forward and peered at the child with an expression of restrained horror. The child’s eyes and mouth were tightly screwed up. Laila began to knead her cheeks. ‘What are you going to do?’
The range of baby products had increased significantly since Jerry was little. There were bottles with one teat, two teats, smaller teats, bigger teats. Different sized bottles. Lennart chose three at random and threw them into his trolley.
It was the same with nappies. Jerry had had cloth nappies that you washed, but the ICA hypermarket didn’t seem to have anything like that. Lennart stood before the wall of brightly coloured plastic packs like a Buddhist at a prayer wall. This wasn’t his world. He hadn’t a clue.
He almost did the same as he had with the bottles, but then he noticed that the nappies came in different sizes for different ages. There were only two kinds for newborns, and Lennart chose the more expensive ones.
