Zeke doesn’t ask, just concentrates on the car and the road, as they pass the turning to Olstorp and head on towards Lake Hultsjon.
They drive past the golf course, the flags still flying, and Malin imagines the flags as the brothers’ bodies blowing in the wind, the breeze their mother’s breath with the power to send them whichever way she pleases.
Jakob Murvall grips the wheel tighter, turns off on to the road leading to the summer cottages around Hultsjon, little white-painted shacks covered in cotton wool.
The green Range Rover swerves over the snow, ice crystals swirling out over the ditches, like the polished shards of a cluster bomb, but he manages to keep the vehicle on the road.
Elias hasn’t said anything more.
And Adam is sitting silent, focused, in the passenger seat.
We’re just doing what has to be done, Jakob thinks. Like we always do. Like we’ve always done. Like I did when I found Dad at the bottom of the stairs. I pulled myself together, even though I wanted to scream. I closed his eyelids, so Mother wouldn’t have to see those frightening eyes.
We do what we have to. Because if we let someone rape our sister without doing anything about it, what sort of people would that make us? There’d be no end to the crap that followed. What we’re doing now, it says stop, think again.
At the end of the track he stops the car.
‘Out with you,’ he yells, and the brothers jump out, and, if there was any doubt in Elias’s body, it’s gone now.
They’re all dressed in green jackets and dark blue trousers.
‘Come on,’ Jakob shouts, and Adam opens the back door and takes out the stained box, putting it on the ground as he shuts the door.
‘Ready,’ he calls. Then he puts the box carefully under his arm and they clamber across the heaped-up snow and on into the forest.
Jakob in front.
Then Elias.
Adam at the back with the box.
Jakob sees the trees around him. The forest where he’s been hunting so many times. He sees Mother at the table. Maria in bed the only time he could bear to visit her in Vadstena.
He thinks, Bastard. You bastard.
His brothers behind him.
They swear whenever their boots cut through the white crust, breaking up as it does under their rapid, heavy steps.
How can three grenades weigh so much, Adam thinks, yet still so little, when you consider the damage they can do?
He thinks of Maria in her room. How she always shies away when he visits, shrinking into a corner of the bed, and he has to whisper her name over and over again to get her to calm down. He doesn’t even know if she recognises him. She’s never said anything, but she allows him to be there, and after a while she’s no longer scared, accepts the fact that he’s in the room with her.
What then?
Then they sit there in the middle of her hurt.
Fuck it.
His boot crashes through the crust, sinks right down towards a root, and he has to pull hard to get it out again.
It was that bastard who did it.
To his own sister.
There’s no other option. Away, he has to be done away with. No reason for doubt. Doubt isn’t for us.
The box under his arm. He holds it tight. Doesn’t know what might happen if he drops it.
He’s short of breath. Sees his brothers ahead of him, feels the cold and remembers that time by the canal when the two of them took care of that Turkish fucker for him, when they showed that no bastard could get one over on us, we stick together; that means you too, Maria, and that’s why we have to do this.
Kicking, kicking, kicking.
Much more than that.
We’re grown-ups. And we have to behave like grown-ups.
Elias only ten metres or so ahead of him. Adam can still feel his body, the wind in his hair. He is still sitting behind him on a Puch Dakota moped, will always be sitting there.
There’s the vehicle.
The Murvall brothers’ Range Rover has been driven right into the bank of snow, and Zeke parks close behind, taking care to block it in.
They’ve called in, a helicopter is on its way. Malin to Sven Sjoman: ‘Trust me on this, Sven.’
