I Am Behind You by John Ajvide Lindqvist, Marlaine Delargy

no longer keeping him company. On the leather-upholstered seat is the shell of the man who was once Peter Sundberg, about to collapse in on himself and disintegrate into the empty field.
    The GPS screen flickers and turns blue. Peter taps it a couple of times, even though he knows there is no point. He stops the car, turns off the GPS, turns it back on again. Nothing. Only blue, as if he were out at sea.
    He randomly presses all the buttons, bringing up menus and settings, but no map or position indicators. Strangely enough this does not frighten him; it actually feels quite good, as if he has escaped .
    On a whim he puts the car in reverse. After thirty metres the map reappears. He brakes and something shifts inside his head. The playfulness is gone. He rests his chin on the steering wheel and stares out of the windscreen. There is some kind of border a few metres ahead of him. He opens the door and gets out, walks towards the point where the map disappears.
    Something happens, something striking. It reminds him of arriving in Thailand and walking out through the airport doors after spending many hours in an air-conditioned environment: the waveof heat and humidity that strikes him, the instant change. It is just as powerful here, but completely different in character.
    Peter sits down on the grass five metres from the car, his knees drawn up and his hands loosely linked over his shins. Total silence surrounds him. He is at rest. No Isabelle with her capricious demands and constant air of discontent. No Molly, hiding her nastiness beneath the guise of a princess. No one pulling him this way and that, wanting something from him.
    Nothing. Just nothing. The perfect stillness when the free kick from thirty metres curves over the wall, half a second away from landing in the goal. When everyone knows. In half a second the opposing team’s shoulders will slump as they accept the inevitable, his own team will raise their arms in celebration, but it hasn’t happened yet. Right now the ball is hanging in the air, the whole stadium holds its breath, in awe. That moment.
    Here he sits, Peter Sundberg. Over the years he has made hundreds of women feel better. And a few men, to be honest. But mostly women. They are sent to him if they are undecided. Is joining the gym, taking up aerobics really for them? After fifteen minutes with Peter, they usually sign up for annual membership. He does his best to meet their expectations. He remembers their names, always has a few encouraging words for them.
    ‘How’s it going, Sally? Looking good!’ ‘How’s your foot, Ebba? I’m impressed to see you back so soon!’ ‘You can do it, Margareta, I know you can!’
    They often fall for him. When he can’t make their dreams come true in that respect, many want him to be their confidant instead, particularly those who have him as their personal trainer.
    When they are relaxing after a training session, sitting together and assessing the client’s progress, a sense of closeness can often arise, a bubble that forms around the two of them. Sometimes they want to tell him who they are, what their lives are like.
    Peter is no psychologist; he rarely has any advice to offer beyond nutrition and stretching. But he knows how to listen. He can nod, hecan shake his head, he can say ‘mmm’. And that seems to be enough. He has received many bunches of flowers during the four years he has worked at the gym.
    But that’s not the most important thing. What gives him real satisfaction is to see a woman in her forties or fifties turn up at the gym looking like a sack of potatoes, an unhappy sack of potatoes, and then to watch the same woman walk in a year later looking like a different person. Not perfect, not necessarily happy, but with the strength to live, both physical and mental. A straighter back, a glint in the eye. That’s what makes his job worthwhile.
    Peter nods to himself and looks at his forearms, sinewy and muscular, covered in fine blond