The Living and the Dead in Winsford by Håkan Nesser

brother Göran once said. The premier league? I remember wondering. What on earth do you mean by that? It’s as plain as day, Göran insisted. A literary colossus and a television presenter – you are playing in the premier league. You only have yourselves to blame.
    He plays in division three. He explained that as well. He’s a secondary school teacher in a small town in central Sweden, which means that he’s slap bang in the middle of real life. Not the town he grew up in, of course not; and the business about divisions was something he’d got from a colleague, apparently. Martin disapproved of that: he had been on the list of Social Democrat election candidates a couple of times – never likely to be selected, but still – and such people mustn’t belong to an elite.
    That was long before the incident in the hotel in Gothenburg. Martin ceased to be a social democrat round about the turn of the century, it wasn’t clear exactly when.
    But the fact is that to a large extent both our lives have been lived in what is known as the glare of publicity – my brother was right about that. We have been standing on a stage – usually separate stages, but occasionally a shared one – and when you are on a stage you try to put on an act. To be good-looking and talk clearly, as I said before. Until somebody says it’s time to make an exit. And on that occasion when Gunvald came home drunk, the only time he had done so, and spelled out the truth for me, his analysis was more or less identical with that, it really was.
    ‘You’re a bloody nobody, do you realize that? A made-up cut-out doll, that’s what I had for a mother – thank you very much. But you don’t need to feel ashamed – I’ve been doing that for you all these years.’
    He was seventeen then. A year later he reached the so-called age of maturity, and fell off that balcony.
    I adjusted the pillow against the side window and started thinking about Synn.

9
     
    ‘Mark,’ he said. ‘My name’s Mark Britton. I can see that you have a shadow over you.’
    Those were the first words he spoke, and I wasn’t sure I had heard them correctly.
    ‘I beg your pardon,’ I said. ‘What did you say?’
    He had eaten the rest of his food. Now he slid the plate to one side and turned towards me. We were sitting at neighbouring tables, with about a metre between us. Rosie had switched the television on again, but turned the sound down to almost zero. Two men in white shirts and black waistcoats were playing snooker.
    ‘A shadow,’ he repeated. ‘You must forgive me, but I notice things like that.’
    He smiled and reached out his hand. I hesitated for a second before shaking it and telling him my name.
    ‘Maria.’
    ‘You’re not from round here, I take it?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Travelling through?’
    ‘No, I’m renting a house for the winter just outside the village.’
    ‘For the winter?’
    ‘Yes. I’m a writer. I need some peace and quiet.’
    He nodded. ‘I’m familiar with peace and quiet. And I read quite a bit.’
    ‘What did you mean by “a shadow”?’
    He smiled again. He seemed reserved and friendly, and gave the impression of being a reliable person. I’m not sure what I mean by that epithet, or how I justify it, but he reminded me vaguely of a religious studies teacher I had at secondary school. It’s a reflection I’m making now with hindsight, as I am writing – not something I hit upon as we were sitting there in The Royal Oak. I don’t remember what he was called, that teacher, but I recall that he had a daughter who was confined to a wheelchair.
    I also wonder what made me start talking to this Mark Britton so casually. It wasn’t just my loneliness crying out for somebody to make contact with, anybody at all: there was a simple straightforwardness about him, not a trace of that typically male scheming that is so prevalent and about as hard to perceive as an elephant under a handkerchief. Despite everything I am aware that I can