‘OK. Can you tell me why you don’t want to dress up?’
‘I just don’t.’
‘But why? You can dress up as somebody else.’
‘I don’t want to be somebody else.’
‘But it’s fancy dress. If you don’t dress up, you can’t go.’
‘I won’t go, then.’
Teresa’s attitude was as crystal clear as it was untenable. Maria couldn’t accept it. Teresa would end up being odd if she was allowed to follow every whim. Since Teresa wasn’t old enough to have an overview of the consequences of her actions, it really came down to a question of upbringing, of taking responsibility as a parent.
‘Right,’ said Maria. ‘This is what’s going to happen. You are going to the disco and you are going to dress up. The matter is not up for discussion. There’s only one thing I need to know: what do you want to dress up as?’
Teresa looked her mother in the eye and said, ‘A banana.’
If Maria had had a different sense of humour, she might have laughed at her daughter’s obviously defiant answer, then hunted out everything yellow she could lay her hands on. However, she didn’t have that particular sense of humour. Instead she nodded grimly and said, ‘OK. If that’s the way you want it, I’ll decide for you. Stay there.’
It is possible that we inherit certain characteristics from our parents. If this is the case, it was her sense of order that Teresa had inherited from her mother. In the clothes storeroom was a big box labelled ‘Fancy Dress’, since neither Arvid nor Olof had anything against getting dressed up-quite the opposite, in fact. After a few minutes Maria was back in the kitchen with black and red make-up, a black cape and a pair of plastic fangs.
‘You can be a vampire,’ she said. ‘Do you know what a vampire is?’
Teresa nodded, and Maria took this as a sign of approval.
When Göran got home at eight o’clock, Maria asked him to pick Teresa up from the disco. He turned around in the hallway and went mechanically back to the car. This week had almost finished him, and the world felt like a piece of flat stage scenery as he drove towards the school.
Music was pounding from the gym, and a few children in costume were charging around outside the entrance. Göran blinked and rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t do it. He just didn’t have the strength to walk into that pulsating grotto of excited little bodies and well-meaning parents.
He wanted to go home. He knew he couldn’t. With an effort he hauled his soul to its feet from its slumped, sideways position and walked towards the entrance, smiling and nodding at the parents who had been kind enough to organise this inferno.
Multi-coloured lights flashed across the darkened room. Sweets and popcorn were scattered all over the floor, and infants dressed as monsters were running around chasing one another while Markoolio sang that song about heading for the mountains to drink and screw. Göran peered into the darkness, trying to spot his daughter so that he could take her home.
He had to walk around before he found her sitting on a chair by the wall. She had thick black kohl all around her eyes, and her mouth looked oddly swollen. From the corners of her mouth ran painted-on trickles of dried blood. Her hands were resting on her knees.
‘Hi, sweetheart. Shall we go home?’
Teresa looked up. Her eyes shone bright within their frame of black. She got up and Göran held out his hand. She didn’t take it, but followed him out to the car.
It was a relief to close the car door. The sound was muted and they were alone. He glanced at Teresa, sitting in the passenger seat staring straight ahead, and asked, ‘So did you have a good time?’
Teresa didn’t reply. He started the car and pulled out of the school car park. When they were driving along the road, he asked, ‘Did you get any sweets?’
Teresa mumbled something in reply.
‘What did you say?’
Teresa mumbled something again, and Göran turned to look at her. ‘What’s that in your mouth?’
Teresa parted her lips and showed her fangs. A cold shudder ran down Göran’s spine. For a brief moment he thought she looked genuinely horrible. Then he said, ‘I think you could take those out now, sweetheart. So I can hear what you say.’
Teresa removed the teeth and sat there with them in her hand, but she still didn’t say anything. Göran tried again.
‘Did you get any sweets?’ Teresa nodded and the best follow-up Göran’s weary brain could come up with was, ‘Were they nice?’
‘I couldn’t eat them.’
‘Why not?’
Teresa held out the fangs. Göran felt a stab of pain in his chest. A dot of sorrow grew and grew, pressing against his ribs. ‘But sweetheart, you could have taken them out. So you could eat your sweets.’
Teresa shook her head and said nothing more until they had parked on the drive at home. When Göran had switched off the engine and they were sitting in the darkness she said, ‘I told Mum I didn’t want to go. I told her.’
The Svensson family lived in a new house on what had been agricultural land before it was carved up. A narrow strip of conifers and deciduous trees separated them from their nextdoor neighbour. Among the trees were two big rocks, or rather boulders, lying side by side in such a way that a cave a few metres square was formed at their base. The autumn before Teresa turned ten, she had begun to spend more and more of her free time there.
One day at the end of September when Teresa was sitting in her secret room setting out an exhibition of different-coloured autumn leaves, something blocked the light from the entrance. A boy of her own age was standing there.
‘Hi,’ said the boy.
‘Hi,’ said Teresa, glancing up briefly before returning to her leaves. The boy stayed where he was without speaking, and Teresa wished he would go. He didn’t look the way people usually looked. He was wearing a blue shirt, buttoned right up to the neck. Teresa tried to concentrate on the leaves, but it was difficult with someone standing there watching her.
‘How old are you?’ asked the boy.
‘Ten,’ said Teresa. ‘In a month. And a week.’
‘It was my tenth birthday two weeks ago,’ said the boy. ‘I’m seven weeks older than you.’
Teresa shrugged her shoulders. Boys always had to boast. Sorting out the leaves, which had absorbed her completely only a moment ago, suddenly seemed childish. She scraped them into a heap but couldn’t leave while the boy was standing there blocking the opening. He looked around and said with a certain amount of gloom in his voice, ‘I live here now.’
‘Oh, where?’
The boy nodded in the direction of the house on the other side of the trees. ‘There. We moved in yesterday. I think this is our garden. But you can use it if you want.’
‘I don’t think it’s up to you to decide.’
The boy looked down at the ground, took a deep breath and let out the air in a long sigh. Then he shook his head. ‘No. It’s not up to me to decide.’
Teresa didn’t understand what kind of boy this was. At first he had seemed boastful, and now he was standing there looking as if somebody was about to hit him. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Johannes.’
Teresa thought that was quite a safe name. Not like Micke or Kenny. She got up and Johannes moved so that she could get out. They stood facing one another. Johannes swirled the leaves around with his toe. He was wearing a pair of trainers that looked almost new. Teresa said, ‘Aren’t you going to ask what my name is?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Teresa. I live here too. There.’ She pointed at her house. Johannes looked at the house, then carried on poking at the leaves with his foot. Teresa wanted to go home, but in some strange way she felt as if she ought to look after Johannes. There was something about that shirt that looked so uncomfortable. She asked, ‘Shall we do something?’