Anders slipped, stumbled, fell to his knees on the ice and shone the beam of his torch on the bundle in front of him as the moped continued on its way, out to sea.
Maja, Maja, Maja...
It was her, there was no doubt. When he shone the torch he could see the patch on the chest of her snowsuit. Maja had stuck a knife in it when she was having difficulty putting it on, and Cecilia had mended it with a patch with a picture of Bamse on it.
'Sweetheart? Poppet?'
He crawled over to her and pulled her close. When he had the snowsuit in his arms he screamed.
She had no head.
What have they done, what have they done, what have they...
Everything went black and he collapsed on top of the little body that was beyond all help. He fell right on top of her, and it didn't matter. She had no head, no hands, no feet.
As the darkness tied a knot around his head he heard the gulls in the distance. Gulls that were flying at night. Maja's body crunched beneath his, was squeezed together.
He curled up on the ice and raised his head slightly, shone the beam of the torch on the neck of the snowsuit. There was no body inside. He reached out weakly and touched what was there instead. Seaweed. It was filled with wet bladder wrack.
He lay completely still for a moment digesting this fact as the screams of the gulls drew closer. He felt something cold trickle over his ear and raised his head, drew his legs up under him and managed to get to his feet with the snowsuit in his arms.
A hundred metres out to sea he saw the moped swing around. The headlight was facing him like an evil eye, and it was getting closer.
A trap. It was a trap.
He turned and staggered a few steps towards the shore. The surface beneath his feet squelched and splashed. The ice he had run along earlier had begun to melt. He covered perhaps another ten metres, and then his feet were under water and the ice bridge w.is swaying beneath him.
He clutched the snowsuit tightly and kept going. After a few metres more the ice broke beneath him and he sank down into the water. He had no weapons, and only the moon could see him. He lay in the cold sea and the headlight kept on coming closer.
Clever. Clever of them.
One tiny, tiny detail they had overlooked. The bladder wrack they had used to fill the snowsuit was acting as a kind of a float. He didn't sink immediately. He gained another minute's respite before the cold and the water took him.
Movement was almost impossible. His body had been frozen already, now it felt as if his skeleton itself was clinking with splintering ice as he began paddling towards the shore out of a pure and meaningless instinct for self-preservation.
The moped passed him and Henrik and Bjorn braked, blocking, his way. He saw them only vaguely, as if a film of ice had formed over his eyes. Behind them hundreds of thin silhouettes moved against the starlit sky.
The gulls want to join in, too.
A kind of peace sank into his body, a hint of warmth. It was over now. His efforts had been in vain, but it didn't matter any more. Ii had given him something. He had at least got to see her snowsuit once again. That was something. He would have it with him in his watery grave. The only sad thing was that the gulls would tear at him too, perhaps even peck out his eyes before he...
'Come out,' screamed Henrik as a cloud of birds enveloped him, 'find the one that...' The high-pitched screams of the gulls filled the night as they dived on the boys on the moped and ripped at their hair, pecked at their faces.
Björn stood up on the platform, hitting out at the savagely flapping birds, but for every bird he managed to chase away, there were five more who settled on him, stabbing at his clothes, driving their beaks into his inhuman flesh.
Anders' eyelids twitched and all he wanted to do was sleep, sink down. It was warm now, and a beautiful spectacle to watch. The white wings of the gulls shimmering in the moonlight, their ferocious defence of him, one small human being.
Thank you, beautiful birds.
His left hand was clutching Maja's snowsuit tightly and the movements of his legs stopped as Henrik and Björn shot away on the moped, disappearing in the direction of Gåvasten with the flock of seagulls after them. Anders paddled feebly with his right hand, just to stay afloat long enough to enjoy the beautiful sight for a little while.
Good night, little lapping waves. Good night little lapping waves...
He thought it was Henrik and Björn coming back, having shaken off the gulls. But the sound of the engine that was getting louder was different, somehow. His frozen thoughts moved slowly around in his head as he began to sink. The water had just begun to cover his eyes and run into his mouth when he worked out that it was probably Simon's engine.
The engine slowed and switched to neutral, and Anders just had time to take in a mouthful of cold water before a hand grabbed his hair and pulled him upwards.
Then he was lifted into the boat in a way that was impossible to understand. It was as if the water threw him upwards, away from itself, and he tumbled on to the deck.
He lay on his back looking up at the stars and Simon's face. A clenched fist was laid on Anders' brow and before he fainted he
thought he could see the water lifting from his body in clouds of steam, could feel a wave of real heat sweeping through his blood. Then he saw and felt nothing more.
Strange Ways
So carry me. Carry me all the way home.
Carry me up the path,
round the side of the house, over the threshold, into the house.
Lift me inside in your hands opened gently like eyelids.
Mia Ajvide —If a Girl Wants to Disappear
Another one to the sea
The boat was lying by the jetty and Anders was lying on the deck. With the help of Spiritus, Simon carried on drying his clothes and warming his body. He had asked the water to cast Anders away from itself, but there was no help to be had in getting him ashore.
During the afternoon Simon and Anna-Greta had kept an eye on Anders' house to see if the light came on, if Anders came home. They had taken a walk around the village to look for him, they had phoned but got no reply. When the evening came they had begun to think he had caught the tender and left Domarö. Hopefully.
But Simon had a bad feeling as he went down to his house to try on his clothes for the following day.
Since Anders came back to the island, Simon had never questioned his readjusted picture of Maja, had never seen any reason to do so. This was Anders' way of dealing with his grief, and as long as it worked for him he was welcome to carry on living under his illusions, as far as Simon was concerned.
But the situation had changed.
It had changed when Elin Gronwall started burning houses on Kattudden, when Karl-Erik and Lasse Bergwall ran amok with their chainsaws and Sofia Bergwall pushed the other children off the jetty. When the horrible people returned to Domarö.
Simon didn't know if you could actually call Maja horrible. He too had had his tussles with her, and she was definitely not a 'good' child. She was moody, hyperactive and quick to anger. Yes, she laughed if someone fell over and hurt themselves. Yes, she enjoyed crushing butterflies to dust between her hands. But horrible? Simon had also seen a fierce appetite for life and a vivid imagination which, in a best- case scenario, would stand her in good stead in the years to come.
But even so. Even so.
If Anders really was carrying Maja or a part of Maja inside him, it was not a good thing if he regarded himself as being pregnant with an angel. There was no guarantee that Maja wished him well, and he ought to be aware of that.
That was more or less Simon's reasoning earlier in the day when he had failed to give Anders the assurances about his daughter's goodness that Anders had sought. In the current situation it was no longer possible to do that.
Anders twitched on the deck and Simon placed his fist on Anders' forehead, sending another pulse of warmth through his blood. Anders was still clutching the red snowsuit tightly in his left
hand, the suit that Simon also recognised.
How can this be?
Simon had been standing in front of the mirror in his bedroom holding items of clothing up in front of him when he heard the cry, 'Stop, you bastards! Stop!' He had thrown down the clothes and rushed to the kitchen window.
It wasn't easy to see in the moonlight, and what he saw down by the jetty flew in the face of reason. However, he recognised an emergency when he saw one and began to hobble as quickly as he could to the outside door, then down to the jetty.
By the time he got in the boat, Anders had stopped far out in the bay.
Spiritus, Spiritus...
Fortunately Simon had had the matchbox in his pocket, and as his fingers closed around it he thought he could see how things stood. Anders also had a Spiritus, but like Simon he hadn't said anything about it. How else could the strip of ice lying in a black line across the sea be explained?
Simon had pumped petrol into the engine, pulled out the choke and started her up. In his agitated state he had forgotten to push the choke back in when he accelerated, and the engine died. It had taken a while to get it going again, by which time Anders had turned for the shore and started sinking.
When Simon saw the headlight of the moped heading straight for Anders across the water, he had realised that another Spiritus might not be the right explanation. That nothing he knew applied any longer. He had managed to get so far in his thoughts before the mooring ropes were untied and he set off at full speed towards the flock of birds falling from the moon.
Anders coughed a couple of times and opened his eyes. He looked at Simon and nodded slightly. Then he pulled the snowsuit close and clutched it to his chest, saying, 'They tricked me.'
For a long time he said nothing more. He lay still on the deck, twisting and turning the snowsuit in his hands. Then he hauled himself into a sitting position and leaned his back against the central seat. He looked down at his body, pulled at his shirt.
'Why aren't I.. .wet?' He looked at Simon and frowned. 'How did you get me out of the water?'
Simon scratched his neck and studied the patch on the snowsuit. Bamse had a pile of honey jars. Presumably he was very happy but the moonlight wasn't bright enough for Simon to see what mood he was in.
Anders turned his head and looked back at the bay, towards the spot where Simon had picked him up. 'Didn't it happen? Was it just... didn't it happen?'
Simon closed his eyes tightly, opened them again, cleared his throat and said, 'Oh, it happened. And I think...you need to be told. Quite a few things.'
The television was on up at Anna-Greta's, even though she wasn't watching. This was an occasional habit, or vice, of hers, so it was against a backdrop of people yelling and shouting at each other that Simon sat Anders down at the kitchen table, wrapped a blanket around him and poured him a glass of brandy.
When Anna-Greta went into the living room to switch off the television, Simon followed her. A sweaty man standing in front of a steel-grey skyscraper vanished from the screen and Simon said quietly, 'He has to know. Everything.'
Anna-Greta's expression didn't change. She looked closely at Simon's face, then gave an almost imperceptible nod and said, 'Then he will also be—'
'I know,' said Simon. 'But that doesn't matter. It's already after him. He has to be told what it is.'
He told Anna-Greta very briefly what had happened out in the bay. Then they went into the kitchen together, sat down opposite Anders and told him the whole story.
Left
Tempered by fire. Anders had never really understood the concept, something being tempered by fire in order to change it. He still didn't really know what it meant, but he had an idea of how it felt.
He had despaired and been nothing, then he had chased after a burning hope. He had gone from the depths of cold to a rapid warming process in the course of just a few minutes, the opposite process to tempering steel, and that was just how it felt. He had been softened. Every nerve was on the surface, and his body was as loose as a rotten pear. If he didn't hang on to the edge of the table he would dissolve into a puddle. With every glass of water he drank, he felt more and more diluted.
Anna-Greta and Simon talked and told stories. Of Domarö's past, of the pact with the sea and the people who had disappeared. Of the island that had persecuted his father, and the recent change in the sea.
Anders listened and understood that he was being told astonishing facts. But it wasn't really hitting home, it was passing him by. His gaze returned over and over again to the red snowsuit, hanging up to dry in front of the kitchen stove.
He listened as attentively as he could, but it still seemed like any old story, a story in which he had no part. His story had been about Maja, and that story was over now. It was that thought which kept on going around and around in his head like the whine of a dentist's drill: They tricked me. They. And Maja.
Maja had been a participant in all of this. She had left him and gone back to them. She was one of the evil spirits now, one of all those horrible people who had been put to death, sacrificed, or gone to the sea of their own free will. Everything had been a game to trick him, to entice him.
To Gåvasten.
And he had gone. Presumably they would have taken him during the day if it hadn't been for the gulls. They hadn't been after him at all, they had protected him and formed a wall between him and the thing that wanted to take him.
You took me with you. And then you left me.
He had been aware of Maja's presence all the time. At first he had thought it was in the house, then he had realised it was inside his own body. It had left him now. He knew that. She had done what she had to do. And then she had left him.
The hours passed and he asked questions where necessary so that the narrative continued. He was afraid of being left alone with his thoughts.
Gåvasten.
Which means the stone of the gifts. Which gave. And took. And took.
Now it had taken everything. Anders could no longer hear Simon and Anna-Greta's voices. He stared at Maja's red snowsuit, and it really was the end now. There was, to put it bluntly, nothing to live for any longer.
Why should I live?
With the voices buzzing in the background he made an effort to come up with one reason why he should continue to crawl around between heaven and earth. He couldn't find one. A person is given a certain number of opportunities, and certain number of roads to follow. He had reached the end of every single one.
All that was left was the fear of pain.
He didn't notice that Simon and Anna-Greta had stopped speaking as he went through the alternatives.
The last thing he wanted was to drown himself. Hanging was horrible, and by no means foolproof. He had no tablets. Drinking himself to death would take too long.
For a brief moment he saw himself from outside, as it were, and found that these thoughts brought him peace. He had finally made his mind up, and it felt...not good, but less painful. There was even a hint of tingling anticipation deep inside.
Things will be better.
That last, faintly flickering possibility that something really did exist on the other side. A place or a state where there was joy, happiness. A place that was made for him. That wasn't his belief, but...
Anything is possible.
Yes, anything is possible. Hadn't that been proved during the last few weeks? "We know nothing and anything is possible, so why not a heaven or a paradise?
And then it occurred to him. The shotgun. The one that had featured in the story of Simon and Anna-Greta. He knew that Anna- Greta found it difficult to get rid of things, so presumably the gun was in the house somewhere, possibly in the hidey-hole.
Anders nodded to himself. The shotgun was good. It would satisfy all his requirements. It was quick, it was certain, and there was a perverse beauty in using the gun that had saved his father's, and thus his own life. To end things with the same weapon.
So he it.
Once the deci
sion was made and the method established, he became aware of the silence in the kitchen. He was worried that he might have been speaking out loud without being aware of it and, venturing a neutral little smile, he turned to Simon and Anna-Greta.
'Yes,' he said. 'There's a lot to think about.'
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