Harbor

by John Ajvide Lindqvist

  I hit him. I hit him. I hit him.

  It was only a few seconds later, when he had disentangled himself from the branches and saw Anna-Greta sitting with her hands covering her mouth and Marita rocking back and forth that other thoughts began to force their way through:

  If I’ve killed him, if I…

  Rolf had stopped roaring. Simon swallowed, but without any saliva.

  Thirsty. So bloody thirsty.

  A drop of sweat trickled down into his eye, obscuring his vision. He wiped it away and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again, Anna-Greta was standing next to him. She was squinting, and looked as if she were in pain. She pointed at the hand holding the butt of the gun and tried to say something, but no words came.

  Simon looked at the shotgun. Only now did he discover that there were two triggers one behind the other, one for each barrel. He had only pressed the outer trigger. There was one cartridge left. Anna-Greta nodded and put her hand over her ear. She walked towards the lilac hedge and Simon followed her with the shotgun raised.

  Rolf clearly wasn’t dead, because he was moving. Quite a lot, in fact. He was hurling himself back and forth on the ground as if he were trying to shake off some invisible nightmare. His jacket was ripped and covered in blood from the left shoulder to halfway down his back on one side. Only some of the shot had hit him. If Simon had fired half a second later, Rolf would probably have been lying completely still right now.

  Johan came back hesitantly, approaching the man on the ground as if he were an injured wild animal that might leap up and attack at any moment. Then he walked a long way around the thrashing body and fell into Anna-Greta’s arms. She stroked his hair and they stood there in silence just hugging each other for a long time. Then Anna-Greta said, ‘Take your bike and go and fetch Dr Holmström. And Göran.’

  Johan nodded and ran off. After thirty seconds he rattled past along the track on his bike. Rolf had settled down and was just lying there clenching and unclenching one fist. Simon still had the shotgun pointing at him, with his index finger resting on the trigger. He felt sick.

  This isn’t me. This can’t be happening to me.

  After twenty minutes both the doctor and the police had arrived. Rolf’s injuries were not life threatening, just extremely painful. Some fifteen shotgun pellets had penetrated the muscles and tissue in his left shoulder and upper arm around the shoulderblade. He was bandaged provisionally just to stop the bleeding, and the doctor rang for transport. Göran wrote a report that would need to be completed at the police station in Norrtälje. Simon’s little finger was put in a splint.

  True to form, Marita had vanished, and they later found out that she had managed to catch the tender before anyone started seriously looking for her. Rolf was transported to Norrtälje, and both Göran and Dr Holmström went home, after establishing that they would go to the police station together the following day.

  Simon, Anna-Greta and Johan sat in silence in the lilac arbour. The torn leaves in the hedge were the only sign that darkness had abused their hospitality just a couple of hours ago. Just as the slight movement of a finger can release a devastating hail of shot, so an event that lasted no more than five minutes can send its repercussions through days and years to come. It is impossible to ignore the consequences, there is too much to say, and the result would be silence.

  Johan was drinking Pommac, Simon was drinking beer and Anna-Greta was drinking nothing. They had all saved each other at different points in the complex web created by one simple act of violence; gratitude and embarrassment were mixed up together, and words were difficult.

  Simon fiddled with his bandage and said quietly, ‘I’m sorry. That you both got dragged into all this.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ said Anna-Greta. ‘It can’t be helped.’

  ‘No, but I’m still sorry. I apologise.’

  When the initial shock had faded they began to talk hesitantly about what had happened. The conversation continued during the afternoon and later up at Anna-Greta and Johan’s house, where they ate a simple dinner. Towards nine o’clock a different kind of silence took over, a fundamental exhaustion of speech. They just couldn’t bear to listen to the sound of their own voices any longer, and Simon went back down to his cottage.

  He sat down at the kitchen table with the crossword in order to distract his mind, and for once he cut it out, filled in his name and address and put it in an envelope. The summer evening was still lilac outside his window when he had finished, and he regretted turning down the invitation to sleep on the kitchen sofa up in the big house. The day’s events were turning over and over in his mind. Until today the future had been dismal but predictable, he had been able to see himself plodding on through the years. Now he couldn’t see anything anymore.

  Just as the recoil from the gun had thrown him backwards, so he had been thrown outside himself at the moment he fired the shot. It wasn’t the action itself that frightened him—that had been born of panic and necessity—but what had happened inside him.

  He had seen Rolf’s head explode as he pressed the trigger, in fact he had fully intended to blow Rolf’s head to bits. When Anna-Greta had pointed to the gun afterwards and Simon had realised that there was one cartridge left, his immediate impulse had been to shoot Marita as well. To execute her. Blow her head off. Get rid of her.

  He hadn’t done any of those things. But he had thought it, and had experienced a wild desire to do it. Perhaps he would have, if there hadn’t been any witnesses. He had been hurled into a different version of himself, someone who wanted to kill whatever stood in his way. It was not a pleasant thought, yet at the same time it was a very pleasant thought: he could be someone different from now on, if he wanted to be.

  But who? Who am I? Who will I become?

  His thoughts continued to go around and around after he had gone to bed. He was ashamed of himself. For what he had done and what he had not done, for what he thought and who he was. He tried to make himself think about the forthcoming performances in Nåten, how he was going to get through them with a broken finger, but the images were washed away and replaced by others.

  After a few hours he fell into an uneasy sleep, which after a short while was disturbed by banging, thumping, knocking. Just knocking. He got up quickly and looked around the room. Somebody had been knocking. Somebody wanted to come in. There was still a hint of light in the sky, and he could see the silhouette of a head outside the bedroom window.

  He breathed out and opened the window. Anna-Greta was standing outside with her hands clasped over her breast. She was wearing a white nightdress.

  ‘Anna-Greta?’

  ‘May I come in? For a while?’

  Simon instinctively reached out to help her over the windowsill, but realised how stupidly he was behaving.

  ‘I’ll open the door,’ he said.

  Anna-Greta went around the side of the house and Simon opened the front door to let her in.

  Driftwood

  The dream about Elin

  For a good two hours Simon and Anna-Greta had taken it in turns to tell their story. Anders’ knees creaked as he got to his feet and stretched his arms up towards the ceiling. Outside the window the weather was neither worse nor better. Small raindrops caressed the pane, and the wind whispered among the trees without any great hurry. A walk seemed possible, and he needed some exercise.

  Simon took the tray out into the kitchen and Anna-Greta brushed crumbs off the table. Anders looked at her wrinkled hands, imagining them holding the shotgun. ‘What a story.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anna-Greta. ‘But it’s only a story.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Exactly what I say.’ Anna-Greta straightened up with the crumbs in her hand. ‘We can never know anything about what has happened in the past, because it has turned into stories. Even for those who are involved.’

  ‘So…it didn’t happen like that?’

  Anna-Greta shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Not any more.’

 
Anders followed her into the kitchen where Simon was carefully stacking the best china in the dishwasher. Anna-Greta brushed the crumbs off her hands into the bin and got out the dishwasher powder. They moved around each other with a manifest ease. The dance of everyday life, worn smooth over the years. Anders looked at them in a kind of double exposure.

  The smuggler king’s daughter and the magician. Loading the dishwasher.

  Whether their story was true or not, it had stirred things up in his mind. New associations must be made, new sequences of images must be put together. He felt a physical weariness as the synapses prepared the way for all these new connections.

  ‘I’m going for a walk,’ he said.

  Anna-Greta gestured towards the fridge. ‘Aren’t you going to take some food with you?’

  ‘Later. Thanks for the coffee. And the story.’

  Anders stepped out on to the porch, lit a cigarette and strolled down the garden path. He passed the path to Simon’s house and stopped, taking a deep drag.

  My dad ran along here with his air gun. And without his air gun.

  The gun was still around in a cupboard at the Shack, and he’d tried it once or twice when he was little. But the barrel was loose and the pressure was so poor that the pellet often got stuck in the bore. He’d wondered why his father kept it. Now he knew.

  Leaves were rustling or falling all around him, and a light drizzle was dampening his hair as he carried on up towards the shop. The tender was just reversing away from the jetty after dropping off a small group of schoolchildren. A little girl of about seven came running along the track towards him, her school bag cheerfully thudding against her back. It was Maja—

  not Maja

  —who had come back at long last—

  it isn’t Maja.

  —and he had to restrain himself from dropping to his knees and scooping her up in his arms.

  Because it could have been Maja. Every child aged around seven or eight could have been Maja. The thought had ground him down into despair during the first six months after her disappearance. All the children who could have been Maja, but weren’t. Thousands of eager, happy or sad faces, small bodies on the move, and not one of them was the right one. His little girl, and only his little girl, had been removed. No longer existed.

  He had loved her so much. It should have been someone else who disappeared. Someone who wasn’t loved. The girl ran past him and he turned, watched her rucksack with its picture of Bamse the Bear grow smaller as she headed for the southern part of the village.

  It should have been you.

  He had given up teacher training when Maja disappeared, and it was just as well. He would never be able to work with children, not when his feelings were so divided. His first impulse was to love and embrace them all, his second was to loathe them because they were still alive.

  There were already a number of bags hanging on hooks on the wall of the shop, along with the odd new or old mailbox and a couple of buckets with lids, with the box numbers marked in ink. Anders made a mental note to put something there in a day or two, before the photos came back.

  The steamboat jetty lay empty and the white geese were running across the sea without taking off, the wind was tearing at the plastic bags on the wall of the shop. There was an irregular squeaking noise. Anders listened hard to try and identify the sound. It was coming from the steps leading up to the shop, or behind them.

  He went over and when he saw the source of the noise he couldn’t understand why he suddenly felt so afraid. He took a step backwards, gasping for breath, the hair on his arms standing on end. The GB ice cream man was standing there.

  The GB-man was a plastic figure mounted on springs on a block of cement, and the wind made him swing backwards and forwards, squeaking. He usually stood outside the shop, but had been put away for the season. Anders looked at his grinning face and his pulse rate shot up, his breathing ragged. He cupped his hands over his mouth and tried to take deep breaths.

  It’s only the GB-man. He isn’t dangerous.

  That’s what he’d said. To Maja. It was Maja who had been afraid of the GB-man, not him.

  It had started as a joke. Maja had been afraid of swans. Not the swans on the sea, which might have been natural. Even Anders had a certain respect for them. No, she was afraid that a swan would come in through the door or the window when she was in bed.

  Since Maja was always pleased to see the GB-man—which meant there might be an ice cream in the offing—Anders tried to make a joke of the whole thing by saying, ‘Swans aren’t dangerous, they’re nothing to be afraid of. They’re no more dangerous than…the GB-man. And you’re not lying here worrying that the GB-man might come in, are you?’

  Maja continued to be afraid of swans, but she became even more afraid of the GB-man. It had never occurred to her before: the fact that the GB-man might be lying under her bed, or come creeping in through a chink in the door with that smile plastered on his face. Anders came to regret that he had ever mentioned it. After that night he always had to open her window to check that the GB-man wasn’t standing outside. Maja’s bed was very low, there wasn’t really room for a lion under there. But there was room for the GB-man, since he was completely flat.

  The GB-man was everywhere. He was in the sea when she wanted to go for a swim, he was hiding in the shadows. He was fear incarnate.

  Now he was standing here squeaking behind the steps to the shop, and Anders was filled with a horror he couldn’t pin down. He forced himself to stare the GB-man in the eye, despite the fact that he was so scared he just wanted to run away.

  Home. Wine.

  But presumably alcohol was to blame for the whole thing. His nerves were shot. Oversensitive. Could suddenly feel scared of just about anything. But he steeled himself. Wasn’t going to go home and start drinking. Was going to stare at the GB-man until the bastard looked away or didn’t seem dangerous any more.

  The GB-man was swinging to and fro as if getting ready to pounce. Anders didn’t take his eyes off him. They weighed each other up. A shudder ran down Anders’ spine.

  Someone is watching me.

  He spun around and took a couple of steps so that he wouldn’t be standing too close to the swinging plastic figure behind his back. The enemy came from all directions. Anders quickly glanced over the jetty, the boathouses, the gravelled area, the sea. A lone gull was struggling with the air currents, seemingly incapable of forcing its way down to the surface of the water. There was no sign of anyone.

  But someone is watching me.

  Someone had been watching him as he stood there shaking in front of the GB-man, someone was still watching him. The only thing missing was a pair of eyes, or more than one pair. But they were nowhere to be found.

  Someone with no eyes is watching me.

  With his heart pounding he left the shop and set off along the track to Kattudden. The feeling faded as he got further away. He could still hear the squeaking of the GB-man in the distance, but the sense of being watched had gone. Anders walked on quickly, passing the closed-down school, the mission house, which was as good as closed down, and the alarm bell in its white wooden tower.

  After a few hundred metres his heart was still pounding, but by now it was because he was so unfit, not because he was afraid. He slowed down. Once he got in among the fir trees he stopped at the foot of the narrow path leading up to the rock, the erratic boulder. His hands were still shaking as he took out a cigarette, lit it, and took a deep, greedy drag.

  What was that?

  A strong sense of something unpleasant remained in his body, and he wished he had some wine with which to wash it away. The cigarette in his damp fingers tasted mouldy; he stubbed it out among the fir needles strewn across the track. He didn’t feel well. Something was shifting inside his body, and not in a good way.

  He took a step towards the path up to the rock, then changed his mind. He didn’t want to go up there. The path belonged to him and Cecilia, and he and Cecilia no longer existed
, so…

  Memories. Bloody memories.

  Everything on Domarö was steeped in memories. If not his memories, someone else’s. If only it were possible to get rid of all the memories. The path wound its way into the forest like a whispered promise of something else. Another place or another time.

  I need to get away from here.

  Anders followed the route of the path with his finger, drifting into a wave, a farewell.

  I need to be here. And I need to get away.

  He could see it with perfect clarity. That was the whole problem, in all its impossible simplicity. As he set off towards Kattudden again, a solution came to him. A practical solution for conquering his constant fear and anxiety.

  Anders continued through the forest and passed Holger’s house, which lay there brooding in the darkness. He worked out the details of his plan for the future, and there was nothing left unaccounted for, nothing that couldn’t be solved. When he emerged from the forest his planning was complete, and he was breathing more easily.

  Kattudden was desolate at this time of year. The houses were not insulated against the winter weather, and in most cases they were intolerably small without the access to the great outdoors that you had in summer.

  Anders had spent a large part of his summers at Kattudden. Almost all his friends had been the children of summer visitors, and it was in rooms or cottages here that he had drunk spirits for the first time, watched forbidden horror films and listened to Madonna. Among other things.

  Now it was no more than a deserted holiday village in the autumn gloom, and a pretty ugly one at that. Most of the houses were section-built. Ready-made packages delivered from the mainland on Kalle Gripenberg’s barge. Up with the walls, on with the roof, in with the windows and doors and then off to the cottage to have fun! The kind of houses that tend to age without dignity—although most of them were still better built than the Shack.