The boy began exploring drawers and cupboards with great caution. At times the small cone of light would strike something, but only ever as a flash. Something was fished out of a drawer and put in the rucksack. Roald tried guessing what it might be. A hand whisk, possibly. The boy also took a pair of oven mitts, or possibly just the one. Then he suddenly hoisted up the rucksack and went back to the door.
Roald hesitated. Was now the time to make himself known? Should he step forward, clear his throat? The boy would probably get the shock of his life if he did. Perhaps he had better wait until the kid was on his way out of the window? Why the hell hadn’t he made a plan of his own?
The boy disappeared out of Roald’s field of vision. A faint squeak revealed that the door had been opened and closed. Soon afterwards there was a barely audible sound from the corridor; it came from the door to the stock room. If Roald hadn’t been expecting the sound, he would never have heard it. It might easily have been the wind. For a moment he hesitated in his hideout next to the cupboard, trying to collect his thoughts.
Finally he came forward. He didn’t head for the door to the corridor, although he knew that his stock room was in the process of being raided. He slipped out of another door – through the living room, out into the hall, out through the front door. He moved more silently than he had ever done, and thanked the wind for being a little noisier now. When he had closed the heavy front door carefully behind him, he turned to the small reception area in front of the pub. In one of the flower beds a couple of large bushes were swaying in the glow from the streetlight. Apart from that, everything was quiet.
The road to the north was just as deserted as the reception area. At that time of night any human activity would have been strange. Roald walked softly along the front of the pub until he reached the corner, from where he had a view of the driveway round to the back and thus the open basement window. The light from the nearest street lamp didn’t reach this far, but a crescent moon threw a faint glow over the gravel and the pub.
The first item to appear might well be toilet paper. An economy pack of twelve, which you could just about squeeze through the window frame. Afterwards, followed… a roll of some sort? Maybe oilcloth. Then the rucksack. Two skinny arms in a stripy jumper arranged everything outside to make room.
And then the child followed.
After he had climbed out, the boy left the window ajar, as he had found it. Then he put on the rucksack, picked up the toilet paper and the oilcloth and moved almost silently across the gravel and out on to the tarmac road. Roald stared after him. He still couldn’t decide whether to make himself known to the boy.
So instead he followed him. In the shadows.
The boy didn’t run, not really, but neither did he walk. There was something floating about his gait. Roald was reminded of indigenous people and Asian field workers who carried heavy loads over long distances.
However, what puzzled Roald wasn’t so much the gait. It was the direction. The child was following the road northwards. Did he live in one of the houses scattered along the road a little further up? Were there even children his age living there?
There were few streetlights north of Korsted. Roald hesitated momentarily at the prospect of moving in the dark. But the moon hung like a golden sabre, reflecting the rays of a distant sun. There was light, a little light. Enough for him to see the small figure ahead of him. But what if the boy saw him? He really didn’t want to frighten the child.
It was a great stroke of luck for Roald that the road was winding and flanked by different types of shrubs. It gave him the chance to move faster when he was under cover and in no danger of being seen; he was forced to admit that he was unable to move at the same speed as the child. The boy had to be as strong as an ox.
After some time the landscape opened up again and further ahead, where the road passed a small cluster of houses, there were streetlights, but only a few. The boy, however, seemed to want to evade the light because he veered off across the field and ran left around the houses. Halfway across the field, Roald had to stop. Panting, he stared after the small figure that had disappeared into the darkness to the north.
Was the boy really heading out to the Head?
Dear Liv
The other day you were about to say something about some traps – when you suddenly stopped. You wouldn’t say anything more. You’ve got me worried.
What kind of traps?
What are you not telling me?
I wish you were here now.
I wish you were here to keep me company. I miss you.
Retention
Jens Horder carried the newborn baby outside. Outside the shrinking bedroom, along the narrow corridor, down the stairs that contracted with each step, through the rooms of the house, which dwindled to dusty airways. And he went out into the yard, where the sky tried to penetrate the forest of indispensable junk, but found the ground only when small passages criss-crossed the heaps like rabbit tracks in the grass. He reached his workshop and placed his newborn daughter on the workbench on the small quilted blanket in which he had carried her. She was a child who didn’t scream.
Jens Horder didn’t scream either, not any more. He was calm now, focused.
When Liv joined him, he had finished washing the child. Without asking questions, she carried the basin of water outside and emptied it behind the workshop, as he had asked her to. And she filled it again with water from the pump. For his hands, he had said. And she found the oils in the kitchen for him. And the empty jam jars. And she fetched the bags of gauze. And she helped him with the sack of salt. And she lit the camping stove outside and started cleaning the resin, as he had taught her. They would need it later, he said. Except for the jam jars and the salt; they were for now. She couldn’t see Carl anywhere.
Liv tried to stay calm, but she was scared and confused. And in that moment she was acutely aware that she was only a child.
Jens fetched a kitchen knife and held it over the flame while Liv sat next to him. She wanted to ask him, but couldn’t. She opened her mouth, but no air came in and no sounds came out. Then she followed him back inside the workshop. He walked as if he didn’t know that she was there; as if he didn’t see her. As if she were Carl.
Liv could see the edge of the quilted blanket hanging crookedly over the corner of the workbench, and she could see two bare feet which were so tiny, much smaller than hers. An oil lamp beside them caused the feet to cast woolly shadows. Only they didn’t look warm.
Carl had yet to turn up, and Liv didn’t know whether to stay or go. Her father was standing by the workbench and she could hear him breathe. The tiny toes lay very still. She walked closer, positioned herself on the other side of the workbench and looked up at him. He didn’t see her. He was looking down at the blanket.
Recently, his breathing had changed, as if there were wood shavings in the air he inhaled. Sometimes she wanted to help him breathe, breathe in unison with him or maybe breathe in while he breathed out. And at times she wanted to drag him out into the forest. They hadn’t been there for a long time now. The air in the forest was nicer than in the workshop… and far better than in the house and the container. She missed the forest.
And now she didn’t know what to do.