Until Thy Wrath Be Past

standing next to Hjorleifur, they were only going to talk to him – but suddenly, without warning, Hjalmar lashed out with the lump of firewood. A splash of blood landed on Tore’s jacket. Yes, that’ll do the trick. Hjalmar murders the prosecutor, then kills himself. Somehow. Tore will have to improvise a bit, but it will be alright. It will all turn out O.K. No problem.

That bloody Hjalmar! What the hell does he think he’s playing at? There’s not a grain of sense in that flabby skull of his. He lets himself crumble under pressure. But not Tore. He has a family to think about. Laura. His sons. Even if they are grown up now. And Mother and Father. Tore has been running the firm more or less on his own ever since he was fifteen. He has never had a week’s holiday in the whole of his adult life. He has worked and taken on more responsibility. Worked and taken on more responsibility. And for what? So that his brother can take it all away from him? No.

Tintin is the first to hear the scooter. She raises her head and listens. At which point Vera barks. Only then do Martinsson and Hjalmar hear the sound of an engine coming closer. Hjalmar gets up and looks out of the window.

“Bad news,” he says. “It’s my brother.”

Martinsson jumps up – but where can she go? Out the door? What would happen then?

“There’s no time for that,” Hjalmar says. “He’s here.”

Martinsson hears the snow scooter’s engine being switched off.

Now he’s getting off the scooter, she thinks. Now he’s going to come in.

Hjalmar turns to Martinsson and speaks. The words come tumbling out of his mouth faster than they have ever done in his life.

“Get into the bathroom,” he says. “Lock the door. There’s a window. Climb out. Run down to the river and across it. Stick to the scooter tracks. They’ll have frozen over and with luck will take your weight. It’s your only chance. I’ll try to slow him down. But I can only talk to him. I can’t lay a hand on him. I simply can’t lay a hand on Tore.”

The bathroom door locks from the inside. Martinsson fumbles with the hasp: she has to lift up the handle in order to thread the the hasp through the metal ring. The window is tiny, high up in the wall above the toilet. Martinsson stands on the toilet lid and releases the window catches. Using both hands, she opens the window. There are bottles of shampoo and detergent on the window ledge. She tosses them out into the snow. Then she grabs hold of the window frame and heaves herself up onto her elbows until she is hanging halfway out of the window. She wriggles through it until her hips are resting on the ledge. It is further up from the ground than she expected. She will have to do her best to avoid breaking her neck when she tumbles out.

This is going to be disastrous, she thinks, as she thrusts herself head first through the window.

At that same moment Tore Krekula flings open the door of the cottage.

“Where is she?” Tore says to his brother.

Hjalmar says nothing. Vera stands up and starts barking. As does Tintin.

“In there?” Tore says, nodding in the direction of the bathroom. Marching over to the door, he tugs at it.

“Come out of there!” he shouts, banging on the door so hard that it rattles against the frame.

“What the hell have you told her?” he says to his brother. “Tell me!”

“The truth,” Hjalmar says.

He is still sitting on the the sofa.

“The truth!” Tore says, mimicking his brother’s voice. “You thick, bloated arsehole!”

He kicks the bathroom door in. It flies open instantly. Thuds against the washbasin.

Tore peers inside. Empty. But the window is wide open.

Martinsson falls headlong out of the window. Lands on her back like a beetle. The snow is wet and soft, so she is unhurt; but it is nearly impossible to get up. She struggles in vain to stand.

Manages in the end. Her head is at the top of her body, and her feet at the bottom. But with every step, she sinks into the snow up to her waist. The river had seemed very close, but now it seems far, far away. She fights her way through the deep snow. Sinks down after every step. Her muscles tremble with the strain. The sun is broiling. Sweat pours off her. If only she can get as far as the snow-scooter tracks. The frost has hardened them. They will support her and she will be able to run across the river to the other side.

Tore looks out of the window. Down towards the river. Sees the prosecutor wading through the snow. She manages to crawl up onto the icy snow-scooter tracks, and is heading for the river. What is she thinking? That she can get away?

“Is the ice thick enough to take the scooter?” he says to his brother.

“No,” Hjalmar says.

The dogs are restless. They are running around in circles and howling.

Tore does not believe his brother.

“You’re lying,” he says.

He pulls on his gloves. He will drive after her and mow her down. She is dead. She is already as good as dead.

When he opens the door, Tintin sneaks out.

Martinsson runs along the scooter track towards the river. It is like a strip of shiny ice on top of the powdery snow. She is a reindeer calf on wobbly legs. The wolf is not far away. Her limbs are exhausted after wading through the deep snow. She finds it hard to stay on the track. Her temples are throbbing. Her strenuous efforts have produced a bitter taste in her mouth.

She hears the sound of an engine behind her, and looks round. It is Tore on the snow scooter.

He will run her down. She will die in the snow, her insides mashed to a pulp, blood pouring out of her nose and mouth. Run, run.

Tore drives down the slope towards the riverbank. He is standing up on the scooter. The engine is roaring. He is catching her up. It will not take long. Martinsson stops and turns to face him.

I’m not going to survive this, she thinks.

He is only ten metres away now. She shuts her eyes.

She thinks about her farmor. How she always smelled slightly of the cowshed and tobacco smoke. How she used to get up at the crack of dawn and light the fire in the kitchen stove. Martinsson would drink tea with honey and milk, and eat a cheese sandwich. Her farmor would drink coffee and smoke her hand-rolled cigarettes. Martinsson thinks about her father. How he and Farmor and Martinsson would sit at Farmor’s place stemming lingonberries. They each have a tray. Under one edge of the tray is a folded newspaper. The sound of the hard berries rolling across the tray and down towards the side, where the stemmed ones gather. Pulling off the stems and leaves, they nudge the trimmed berries so that they roll down the sloping tray. Martinsson finds spiders and other creepy-crawlies that must be rescued and released outdoors.

Then she hears the sound of the scooter sinking through the ice. The ice gives way with a crash. The engine bubbles away in the water, but finally falls silent. She hears Tore Krekula screaming.

When she opens her eyes only the rear end of the scooter is sticking out of the water. It is sinking rapidly. After a few seconds there is no trace left of it or of Tore. No sign at all. The ice crackles and sings as if glasses were floating in the water. Soon there is no trace left of the hole. A thick layer of slush covers the water where he sank. The ice seems to be rocking. A wave of terror flows over Martinsson.