Rites of Spring by Anders Motte (life books to read .txt) 📗

takes one, shares a toast with Per and realises at the same time that Hubert is standing on the steps, watching her. She meets his gaze and raises her glass, gives him a smile that she hopes looks innocent. Hubert’s expression doesn’t change.

David walks up to the bonfire and pushes the torch deep inside. The fire catches so quickly that the wood must be drenched in some kind of accelerant. The Green Man stands motionless as the flames grow bigger.

‘A fascinating ritual, don’t you think?’ Per says. ‘Beneath the civilised surface we Tornaby residents are still pagans.’

Thea murmurs a response. She sees David go over to Nettan who takes his arm, holds onto it, caresses his elbow with her thumb.

The flames are leaping into the air now, licking at the Green Man’s legs as they devour the wood.

Thea glances at Hubert. He is still staring at her.

‘Nature is hungry and the Green Man is riding through the forests.’

‘What did you say?’

Per gives a wry smile. ‘It’s something my dad used to say when I was little. He pretends to be a hard man, but he’s actually very superstitious. We’ve got Green Man figures on both the house and the stables. He makes them himself every year.’

‘Oh yes?’

Thea looks around for Per’s father. Finds Ingrid and Dr Andersson, but no Erik Nyberg. Maybe he and Bertil decided to stay inside instead of facing the chilly evening air.

The fire has begun to consume the Green Man. The fresh leaves shrivel up, exposing the twigs beneath, black lines that show through the flames like a skeleton. Arms, legs, the loop forming the empty face. The crackling becomes a dull, alarming bass note. The people on the steps talk louder and louder, until Thea’s ears are almost hurting, but the fire is louder still. Eventually the conversation dies away.

The Green Man is burning now, the flames reaching up into the sky. They are reflected in the eyes of the watchers on the far side of the courtyard. A loud bang from the bonfire sends a shower of sparks into the night.

Suddenly there is a scream. Thea turns towards the east wing. A window is open on the top floor, eight or maybe even ten metres above the ground. Jan-Olof is standing on the sill, clinging on with one hand as he leans out. One of the spotlights catches him as it sweeps across the façade.

‘Fucking liars!’ he roars. ‘Fucking liars, the lot of you!’

A shocked murmur spreads through the crowd.

‘Come down, Jan-Olof!’ Several voices join in. Per and some of the others begin to run towards the main door.

Jan-Olof isn’t listening. His face is ashen, his hair is standing on end. He is swaying alarmingly. Then he sees Thea. He stretches out his arm, points directly at her. She freezes at the top of the steps.

‘Thea!’ he yells. ‘Tell Leo I’m sorry! Promise!’

She opens her mouth to reply. Say something, anything, to make him get down from the windowsill, but before she can speak, Jan-Olof’s body jerks. He looks over his shoulder into the darkened room as if he’s heard something. He turns, seems to be on the way back in. Then he wobbles. Falls backwards out of the window and lands on the paving below with a horrible thud.

81

Thea breaks into a run, pushing aside people on the steps to get through.

Jan-Olof is lying on his back. One leg is bent at an unnatural angle, and a pool of blood has begun to spread beneath his head. He’s semi-conscious; his eyelids are fluttering and one arm is twitching. His breathing is rapid and shallow.

‘I need something to stop the bleeding!’ she shouts.

People crowd around her. She catches a glimpse of David and Nettan, with Sebastian and his girlfriend diagonally behind them.

‘Give me something to stop the bleeding!’ she yells again. ‘And call an ambulance!’

Someone gives her a handkerchief. It’s much too small, but it’s better than nothing. She feels at the back of Jan-Olof’s head, searching for the wound. Presses the handkerchief against it.

Jan-Olof’s breathing is becoming more laboured. His chest rattles, he opens and closes his eyes. People are crowding in from all directions, Thea hardly has room to move.

‘Stand back!’ a man bellows in English. He pushes away those nearest to her and kneels down beside her. It’s Philippe. Where has he come from? What’s he doing here?

He hands her a scarf. ‘What can I do?’

Thea gently lifts Jan-Olof’s head, presses the scarf to the wound as hard as she dares.

‘Hold this,’ she instructs him. ‘Try to keep the pressure even while I check if he has any more injuries.’

She gently runs her hands over Jan-Olof’s chest and stomach.

‘I’ve got emergency services on the phone,’ someone says. Thea looks up; it’s Sebastian’s girlfriend, Bianca. ‘What shall I tell them?’

‘We have someone who’s fallen from a height of between eight and ten metres. Severe head trauma, multiple fractures and possible internal bleeding.’

Jan-Olof’s chest rattles again. His breathing becomes shallower.

‘The ambulance is on its way,’ Bianca says. ‘There’s one nearby.’

Jan-Olof’s face is turning grey. Thea checks his pulse; it’s faint and uneven. She lifts his chin, tips back his head and opens his mouth. Gently pinches his nose and blows two slow, long breaths into his lungs.

His chest rises and falls, then nothing.

‘What shall we do?’ Philippe asks.

At that moment the crowd parts to let Dr Andersson through.

‘Head trauma, broken bones. Faint pulse, breathing compromised.’

The doctor kneels down beside Thea with some difficulty, then helps by holding Jan-Olof’s head while Thea breathes into his lungs again, more deeply this time.

Jan-Olof’s chest rises and falls as before, but suddenly he coughs, takes a deep, hacking breath, then another. His eyelids flutter, open.

He stares at Thea, then Dr Andersson.

‘Can you hear me?’ Thea asks. No response. ‘Can you hear me, Jan-Olof?’

His eyes are wide open. He takes another shuddering breath. His lips move as if he’s trying to say something.

‘Tell Leo . . .’

Thea leans closer; Dr Andersson does the same.

‘Not him,’ Jan-Olof whispers.

‘Not who?’

He