Harbor

by John Ajvide Lindqvist

  I suppose this is how it starts, thought Simon, refilling his glass.

  He was less concerned about Marita in her capacity as his wife than in her capacity as his assistant. The shows in Nåten were due to begin in three days. If she didn’t turn up he would have to scrap some of the best numbers: the mind-reading and the hat box. It would still be all right, but he really wanted to put on a good show in this particular venue.

  Simon took a deep draught of his cognac and sighed. This wasn’t the way he had expected his life to be. It worked, but that was about all. Happiness had got lost somewhere along the way. He allowed his gaze to rest on the water, which looked as soft as silk in the colours of the summer’s evening. Far away a gull cried.

  Oh yes, happiness exists. Just not right here.

  Behind him he heard the slap of footsteps and a faint rattling noise. He turned in his chair with some difficulty and saw Johan pushing a wheelbarrow towards him through the grass. He was wearing only a pair of swimming trunks and a voluminous shirt covered in damp patches, and his hair was soaking wet.

  ‘Johan?’ said Simon. ‘What have you got there?’

  Johan grinned and pushed the wheelbarrow forward. It contained all the chains and padlocks Simon had left on the seabed. He tipped them out at Simon’s feet.

  ‘I thought it was a bit of a waste.’

  Simon laughed. He would have liked to stroke Johan’s hair, but for one thing he couldn’t manage to get to his feet at this particular moment, and for another he wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do. Instead he simply nodded and said, ‘It would have been. Thank you. Sit down if you like.’

  Johan sat down on the other garden chair and let out a great puff of air.

  ‘However did you manage?’ asked Simon. ‘They must have been heavy.’

  ‘They were,’ said Johan. ‘I couldn’t lift them, so I had to fasten them to a hook and drag them ashore, one by one.’

  That was what Simon himself usually did, and what he had intended to do this time. However, he had no intention of telling Johan this, and he was grateful to be spared the job.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Simon.

  ‘No,’ said Johan, reaching into the breast pocket of his shirt. ‘And then there’s this. It was in the sack.’

  He handed a thin, wedge-shaped piece of metal to Simon, giving him a conspiratorial look. Simon raised his eyebrows and pushed it into his own breast pocket.

  Johan leaned back in his chair and said, ‘I still don’t understand how you do it.’

  ‘Do you want to know?’

  Johan sat bolt upright. ‘Yes!’

  Simon nodded. ‘OK, go and fetch a bottle of Pommac from the fridge. My wallet is on the kitchen table; help yourself to five kronor for bringing back the chains. Then come back and I’ll tell you.’

  Johan shot out of his chair and raced inside. After thirty seconds he was back. Simon couldn’t understand why he’d said that. The words had just flown out of his mouth. He never usually revealed his secrets. It must be the cognac, the atmosphere. And after all, Johan already knew the only part that really involved cheating.

  So he told him. When he had finished the Pommac bottle was empty and the bay had darkened to a deep blue carpet, with the flashing light from Gåvasten lighthouse drawing thin scratches through it. A bat flitted around them, hunting for moths.

  Johan let out a fizzy belch and said, ‘I still think it sounds pretty dangerous.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Simon. ‘But if you just…’ He was struck by a thought, and raised a warning finger. ‘You’re not to go trying this yourself, Johan!’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Promise?’ Simon extended his thumb towards Johan. ‘Thumbs?’

  Johan smiled and rubbed his thumb against Simon’s. Then he inspected it as if to check if there might be a binding agreement somewhere in his thumbprint, and said, ‘I think Mum’s a little bit in love with you.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  Johan shrugged. ‘I just do. She goes all peculiar.’

  Simon emptied his brandy glass and refrained from pouring himself a refill. That was enough, a pleasant warmth suffused his whole body. He held up the glass, looking at the light from Gåvasten as it was refracted through the remains of the liquid around the rim, and said, ‘Well, there are lots of reasons why people go peculiar.’

  ‘I suppose there are, but…this is a particular kind of peculiar.’

  Simon narrowed his eyes at Johan. ‘You seem very well-informed about this kind of thing.’

  ‘I know my mum.’

  They sat in silence for a while. The only sound was the flapping of the bat’s wings as it darted here and there, swooping after something only it could perceive. When the engine of a boat started up down in the harbour, the atmosphere was broken and Simon said, ‘Can you help me up? I’m still a bit stiff. It’ll be better tomorrow.’

  Johan stood up and held out his hand to help Simon out of his chair. They stood facing one another. For a couple of seconds a mutual approval flowed between them. Then Simon patted Johan on the shoulder and said, ‘Thanks again for your help. See you tomorrow.’

  Johan nodded, took the wheelbarrow and left. Simon watched him go. When he had disappeared into the darkness beneath the aspen trees, Simon snorted and said quietly to himself, ‘A particular kind of peculiar…’

  Then he shuffled into his house and closed the door behind him.

  The uninvited guest

  The next morning Simon made a few calls, trying unsuccessfully to track down Marita. Then he sat down in the lilac arbour with a pen and paper to work out an alternative program for the performances at the community theatre.

  He couldn’t settle to the task. His thoughts kept sliding away towards the most extreme issues. Why was he carrying on with this at all, what was the point of everything, how is a person supposed to live a life with no future, and should you even bother.

  This was his mood when Anna-Greta called out a brief, ‘Thanks for yesterday, it was very good’, on her way down to the jetty. He asked her to come and sit down for a while. She perched on the edge of the chair opposite him, and seemed uneasy. Simon wondered if this unease was a particular kind of peculiar, but of course he had no way of asking.

  They talked about this and that, safe topics, and Anna-Greta had just settled more comfortably on her chair when Simon realised they were being observed. Standing by the gate, watching them, was Marita. Simon felt as if he had been caught out somehow and was just about to leap out of his chair, but the anger got there before the guilt. He stayed put and stared at Marita without moving a muscle.

  Marita was blinking slowly, her eyelids moving in slow motion, as if it took a conscious effort for her to open and close them. Her hair was unwashed and she had dark circles under her eyes. She was scratching her arm mechanically. ‘Well, would you look at that,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that sweet.’

  Simon continued to stare at her. From the corner of his eye he could see that Anna-Greta was about to get up, and he gestured to her to stay where she was. In a low voice, Simon asked the question that had become something of a mantra in recent years, ‘Where have you been?’

  Marita waved her head around in a gesture that could mean just about anything, and therefore meant: Here and there, but mostly out in space.

  Marita came and stood directly in front of Simon, looked down at him and said, ‘I need money.’

  ‘For what?’

  She opened and closed her mouth; it sounded dry and sticky at the same time as she loosened her tongue from her palate.

  ‘I’m going to Germany.’

  ‘You can’t. We’ve got work here.’

  Marita’s gaze slid between Anna-Greta and Simon. She seemed to be having some difficulty in focusing. ‘I’m going to Germany. You have to give me some money.’

  ‘I haven’t got any money, and you’re not going to Germany. Go inside and go to bed.’

  Marita shook her head slowly, and seemed to be
stuck fast in the same movement, as if her head were a pendulum and she had to keep it moving so that time would not come to a standstill. Anna-Greta stood up.

  ‘I’m going.’

  The sound of her voice attracted Marita’s attention. She pointed at Anna-Greta. ‘Have you got any money?’

  ‘No, I haven’t got any money for you.’

  Marita’s lips curled upwards in an imitation of a smile. ‘You’re carrying on with my husband. That means you have to pay, you must realise that.’

  Simon shot up out of his chair, grabbed hold of Marita’s wrist and pulled her towards the house. ‘Shut your mouth!’

  The violent movement made Marita stumble, and Simon dragged her along behind him towards the steps. Marita allowed herself to be hauled across the lawn for a few metres, then she yelled, ‘Help! Help!’

  Simon looked up in order to convey some kind of message to Anna-Greta with his eyes, I’m sorry or don’t condemn me, but before he had time to formulate his expression he saw a man step out from behind the lilac bushes. Someone who had been standing there waiting.

  Marita twisted herself free of Simon’s grip, and as she crawled towards the new arrival on all fours she said in a pathetic little voice, ‘Rolf, he’s hitting me.’

  Rolf was so big that he looked as if he could easily pick Simon up and carry him in his arms. A pale, grubby linen suit concealed his muscles, but he seemed to have limited control over his body. He walked towards Simon: irregular, staggering steps, his arms dangling uselessly at his sides. The skin on his face was dark red, and his nose was flaking. The corners of his mouth pulled downwards in an unnatural way, as if he might have had a stroke.

  Since Simon was part of the way down the hill, Rolf towered over him by twenty centimetres or more as he wagged his finger.

  ‘You mustn’t hit your wife. You must give her money.’

  Marita curled up at Rolf’s feet like something on the cover of a cheap novel. Simon’s heart was racing as he folded his arms across his chest, looked up at the giant’s eyes—which were bloodshot—and said, ‘And what exactly has this got to do with you…Rolf?’

  Rolf moved his cheeks upwards so that his eyes narrowed. This looked utterly bizarre with his drooping mouth, but Simon refrained from laughing. Rolf’s pupils darted about for a few seconds, then he said, ‘You don’t like my name, is that right? You think it sounds silly.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘No, I think it’s a wonderful name, I just don’t understand what you’re doing here.’

  Rolf blinked a couple of times and looked down at the ground. His lips were moving as if he were analysing Simon’s words carefully and considering his response. Marita was gazing up at Rolf as if he were an oracle. Simon looked around and noticed that Anna-Greta was no longer there.

  Simon made a quick mental inventory of items in the vicinity that might be used as weapons. The closest was the spade leaning against the steps ten metres away. Rolf had finished thinking, and said slowly, ‘So you’re not intending to give her any money, then?’

  ‘No.’

  Rolf sighed. Then he placed a hand on Simon’s arm as if he were about to share a confidence. Before Simon had time to react, Rolf grabbed hold of his right hand, wrapped his fist around the little finger and bent it backwards. The finger felt as if it might actually snap off, and Simon was forced to his knees. Marita was already down there, and she glowered at him in a way that made it clear he couldn’t expect any help from that quarter. She looked…greedy.

  She’s been longing for this moment.

  The finger was still being bent backwards, and Simon had no time to open his mouth to say he would give them money, or kill them or take them out for a boat trip, before Rolf jerked the finger and it broke. A spasm of pain shot up Simon’s arm and came out of his mouth like a deep cough. For a fraction of a second all the things he would no longer be able to do with his hands went whirling by—the cards, the cloths, the ropes, the torn-up newspapers

  —before the dam broke and he screamed out loud. He saw his little finger hanging there like a pointless scrap of skin, filthy pain poisoning his blood as the tears filled his eyes. He screamed again, from despair more than pain. Marita sat quietly, watching him.

  Then Rolf was on top of him. He sat on Simon’s chest and forced his arm out to the side, pressing his hand against a rock. Out of his jacket pocket Rolf took a big clasp knife, which he managed to open using one arm and his teeth. He rested the tip of the blade on the rock just above Simon’s useless little finger.

  Once again, Rolf seemed to need time to formulate his next utterance. He looked at Simon’s face, his hand. He looked as if he couldn’t quite work out how things had ended up like this, and needed some thinking time before he could proceed.

  Simon lay still, watching a little cloud drift by above Rolf’s head. For a moment it looked as if Rolf had a halo. Then it tilted, freed itself from him and drifted on. A gull was calling out at sea, and for a couple of seconds Simon experienced absolute peace. Then Rolf spoke.

  ‘You’re a magician. So you need your fingers, right?’

  Simon said nothing, didn’t move. He listened to the waves lapping against the pebbles on the shoreline. It sounded…wholesome. He was terribly thirsty. Rolf had found the right train of thought, and went on, ‘I’m going to cut off your little finger now. Then I’m going to get hold of…what’s that one called? The ring finger. And I’m going to break it. Then I’m going to cut it off. And so on.’

  Rolf nodded at his own statement, pleased that he had expressed himself so clearly. He summarised, ‘And that will be the end of your magic. Unless…’

  He looked at Simon and raised his eyebrows, encouraging Simon to fill in the rest. When Simon didn’t oblige, Rolf sighed and shook his head. He turned to Marita, sitting curled up on the grass, following the course of events through half-closed eyes.

  ‘You said this would be easy.’

  Marita made that wavy movement with her head that could be interpreted in any number of ways. Rolf grimaced and said to Simon, ‘Well, you’ve only yourself to blame. You leave me no choice.’

  He turned his attention to Simon’s hand on the rock. One cut and the finger would be gone.

  ‘Stop that!’

  Anna-Greta’s shrill voice broke through the paradoxical calm that had reigned for a moment or two. Rolf turned his head, looking tired more than anything. Anna-Greta was coming towards him with a double-barrelled shotgun in her hands.

  ‘Get away from him!’ she yelled.

  There was a long pause. Anna-Greta was standing a metre away from Rolf, pointing both barrels straight at him. Rolf had once again become enmeshed in a careful analysis of the course of events. His lips were moving and he was gazing out to sea. Then he stood up. The barrels of the gun were pointing right at his chest.

  ‘Drop the knife,’ said Anna-Greta.

  Rolf shook his head. Then he very carefully folded up the knife and put it in his pocket. The gun barrels shook as Anna-Greta waved them in the direction of the steamboat jetty.

  ‘Get out of here! Now!’

  Only now did it occur to Simon that he was actually present. That he could take an active role in what was going on. His arm was numb and when he had pulled it towards him he had some difficulty in getting up. He had only got as far as a sitting position when the lawn started moving from side to side like the deck of a boat.

  Rolf took a step towards Anna-Greta, and she moved backwards, raising and lowering the gun at the same time.

  ‘Stop! I’ll shoot you!’

  ‘No,’ said Rolf quite simply, and reached for the gun. Anna-Greta backed away still further and the battle was lost. When Rolf once again made a grab for the barrels, she moved them to one side instead of pressing the trigger. Rolf quickly stepped forward and slapped her across the side of the head with the flat of his hand. Anna-Greta fell sideways. The shotgun flew into the hazel bushes and Anna-Greta collapsed in a heap on the grass, whimpering as she pressed a hand to
her ear.

  As Simon attempted to get to his feet, he heard Marita’s voice. ‘Isn’t he just incredible?’

  Anna-Greta was lying a few metres away, with Rolf leaning over her. Simon’s brain wasn’t working properly, he couldn’t decide whether to try and grab the spade or just hurl himself forwards.

  Before had finished thinking it through, he heard a buzzing noise behind him, like some huge insect. There was a click and Rolf went down. Simon got to his feet and saw Johan standing by the lilac arbour with his air rifle in his hands. He was just lowering the gun, and was biting his lower lip.

  Rolf got up. A dark spot had appeared on his temple, and a small amount of blood was oozing out. His eyes were crazy and he no longer hesitated, he didn’t require any thinking time now. He took out his knife and opened it as he moved towards Johan.

  Simon was right behind him, but instead of trying to stop him, he dived into the hazel bushes and grabbed the shotgun. Before he had even got hold of it properly he yelled, ‘Stop, you bastard!’ but Rolf took no notice.

  Johan had dropped his air gun, which was useless after firing its single shot, and was running up towards the house. Rolf was after him, with the knife in his hand. With a grimace of pain Simon lifted the shotgun to his shoulder, just as Rolf disappeared behind the lilac hedge fifteen metres away.

  Simon had never fired a shotgun before, but he knew that the whole point of them was that the shot covers a wide area. He aimed at the lilac hedge and pulled the trigger.

  Then a number of things happened in less than a second. There was a deafening bang and the recoil hit Simon so hard that he fell backwards into the hazel bushes, but before he had even begun to fall a hole opened up in the lilac hedge and fragments of leaves flew up like a flock of frightened butterflies. The first hazel twigs were just scratching Simon’s back through his shirt as Rolf began to roar.

  Simon was still pressing the stock of the shotgun to his shoulder as the branches closed around him and he fell into shimmering greenery. Rolf carried on bellowing. The thicker branches further in stopped Simon falling any further, and he could feel blood on the skin of his back. He clutched the wooden stock and breathed; he stayed where he was and one thought went through his mind in time with his panting breath, in and out: