Harbor

by John Ajvide Lindqvist

  A dream. It was a dream.

  No. Elin too had been tormented by memories that were not her own. Pictures she could not possibly have known about. The memories of others. This was the same thing.

  Henrik and Björn. Hubba and Bubba.

  He knew what he had to do. The clothes he had worn to the wedding were hanging on the bedpost, but he rejected those and picked up his own clothes, which lay in a heap in the corner. Despite the fact that they had been accidentally rinsed by the sea, the fluffy Helly Hansen top and the scruffy jeans still smelled unpleasant. They were impregnated with the smell of smoke, spilt wine and the sweat of fear, and it would take a proper wash to get rid of all that.

  But still. This was his uniform. He pulled it on with the intention of wearing it until the whole thing was over. He gathered up his bottles and comics from the floor. When he looked at the lines on the Bamse cartoon, he could see that the zigzag line he had taken for a temple could just as easily be a flight of steps.

  He took a few gulps of water. The perception of Maja’s presence in his body was once again so familiar that he didn’t even feel it, he simply knew that it was there. When he had swallowed the water, he opened the matchbox.

  The insect had grown, and was now so fat that it only just fitted in the box. When Anders let a heavy gob of saliva fall on to it, it came to life and began to writhe in its narrow confines. Anders pushed the box shut and closed his hand around it, once again feeling that all-encompassing awareness of the water around him, within him.

  He could feel the movements of the larva through the thin cardboard and felt a little sorry for it. But this was not the right moment to reflect on cruelty to animals and the rights of insects. In any case, Simon had said at the kitchen table that it wasn’t an insect. It had no will of its own, no purpose other than to be a source of power for its bearer. A kind of battery. Spiritus.

  Anders tucked Maja’s snowsuit under his arm and went down to the kitchen. It was just after eleven o’clock. There was a note in Anna-Greta’s handwriting on the table. He was to take care of himself, and everything he needed was there in the house, there was absolutely no need for him to go out.

  There was coffee in the machine, and Anders poured himself a cup. As he drank it he could feel every tiny movement of the liquid passing through his body. When he had finished he fetched a plastic bucket from the cleaning cupboard and half-filled it with water from the tap. He sat down on a chair with the bucket between his thighs, held the matchbox firmly in one hand and dipped the fingertips of his other hand in the water.

  He simply knew.

  As if the hand in the water were holding a remote control, or rather had become a remote control with which he was so familiar that he no longer needed to look at the buttons, he was now able to direct the water. His hand did not exist, the signals went directly from his brain to the contact surface.

  He asked the water to move clockwise, anti-clockwise. He asked it to climb up and run over the top of the bucket so that his legs were soaked. Then he put down the bucket, placed his hand on the wet fabric and asked the water to leave it. A burst of steam rose up towards his face.

  I can do it.

  When he had emptied the bucket and put the matchbox in his pocket, he went and fetched the shotgun. He stood for a while weighing it in his hands, wondering whether it might be of any help to him. Its metallic weight was reassuring, its polished wood; a weapon.

  But it wasn’t a weapon he needed, at least not one like this. He removed the cartridge, replaced it in the drawer where he had found it and rubbed his hands. He was clean.

  A pair of Simon’s well-worn boots from the army surplus store stood in the hallway. They were only slightly too big for Anders. He pulled them on, fetched Maja’s snowsuit from the kitchen and went out.

  Regardless of what kind of creatures Henrik and Björn might be these days, whatever they were composed of, however they lived, one thing was clear: the moped was an ordinary moped. It had weight and solidity, it could be damaged or destroyed. And it had to be somewhere.

  When Anders reached the village road he could feel how cold it was. The air was raw, the temperature around freezing. He wrapped Maja’s snowsuit around his neck and tucked the ends down inside his top to keep himself warm.

  He looked around. The ramblers’ hostel was on his right, the path down to the jetties on his left. Unlikely.

  A place where nobody goes.

  The western side of the island was more or less uninhabited, with just a few isolated, newly built villas on the side facing the mainland. It struck him that he had virtually never gone that way, not since he was little. At that time he and the others in the gang had occasionally embarked on an expedition into the unknown. The western part of the island was simply not part of their world, because no one they knew lived there.

  Anders pushed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, and was immediately aware of the water as his hand brushed against the matchbox; he moved his hands to his back pockets instead. It wasn’t the most comfortable way of walking, but he could only cope with that heightened awareness for short periods at a time. It was there anyway, because the box was so close to his body.

  He passed the Bergwalls’ house and stopped. There was no sign of life from inside the house; perhaps the family had been moved to the mainland. The outside tap was shining.

  Who’s there?

  The house lay on top of a little hill and had a view of the sea, but it was a hundred metres or more to the water’s edge. Anders lit a cigarette and tested his feelings. He couldn’t see the water down inside the rock, but it must be there, must have found its way with its long fingers until it was able to look out through shining taps and enter into the people.

  He made his way along paths where people seldom went, he found some of the overgrown foundations of the houses that had once made up the western village. He finally reached the rocks and looked over towards Nåten, almost indistinguishable in the fog over the sea. He continued on into the forest, walked across uncultivated agricultural land. When he found an old barn that was even more crooked than the Shack, with the roof on the point of collapse, he thought he had found the right place, but the barn contained nothing but rotten wood, rusty tools and a few piles of slates meant for a roof that had never been built. Anders sat down on one of the piles and blew out a long breath.

  Where are you? Where the hell are you?

  His plan was simple. If he found the moped, he would also find Henrik and Björn. He would wait for them, and when they turned up he would…that was where the plan came to an end. But he had Spiritus, and something would be done.

  He was exhausted and hungry after searching for many hours. He would have to go home for something to eat if he was going to be able to carry on.

  When he reached the village road again he considered going back down to the Shack to wait, after all they might come looking for him again. Yes, that’s what he would do. He would spend the night at the Shack and wait for them, whatever happened.

  Since there was more food in his grandmother’s house he went there first and made himself a couple of roast beef sandwiches, which he ate gazing out across the sea. It was almost twilight, and he was waiting for the lighthouse at Gåvasten to start flashing.

  He took a few swigs of what he had started to think of as Maja-water and ran his fingers absent-mindedly over the telephone dial. Anna-Greta had never bothered to get a phone with a keypad, despite the fact that this made any contact with computerised organisations so much more difficult. She wanted to talk to a real person, that was how she put it.

  Before he had even considered how and why, he found himself dialling Cecilia’s number. Just because it was such fun to use a phone with a dial, and he couldn’t think of another number to ring.

  He didn’t think Cecilia would be at home, and as the signals rang out an immense desolation began to echo in his ears. He felt so horribly and irrevocably lonely. This wasn’t a feeling of panic, or the fear th
at had seized him so many times in the past; this was a great sorrow, and the overwhelming feeling that he was totally alone in the world.

  ‘Hello?’

  Anders took a deep breath and forced back the sorrow as much as possible, but his voice was weak as he said, ‘Hi, it’s only me. Again.’

  There was the usual pause as Cecilia switched from anticipating a pleasant chat to expecting a difficult conversation.

  ‘You shouldn’t call here, Anders.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose I should. But at least I’m sober.’

  ‘Well, that’s good.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a silence between them, and Anders looked down towards the Shack, waiting in the twilight.

  ‘Do you remember that time when you gave me a lift on your bike? After I bought you an ice cream?’

  Cecilia gave an exaggerated sigh. However, when she replied her voice was slightly less dismissive than in previous conversations. At least he was sober, as he had said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do.’

  ‘Me too. What are you doing?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was having a little sleep.’ She hesitated before adding something a little more personal, ‘I didn’t really have anything else to do.’

  Anders nodded and looked out over the sea; his gaze had just reached Gåvasten when the first flash came.

  ‘Are you happy?’ he asked.

  ‘Hardly ever. What about you?’

  ‘No. What happened with that bloke you met?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about that. How about you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  One flash, two flashes, three flashes. It was still much too light for the intermittent beam to build a pathway across the sea. Four flashes.

  ‘I’m looking for Maja,’ he said.

  There was no reply from Cecilia, just a click in Anders’ ear as she put the receiver down. He waited. After a while he could hear her crying some way off.

  ‘Cilia?’ he said, and then louder, ‘Cilia?’

  She picked up the receiver, her voice thick, ‘How…how can you be looking for Maja?’

  ‘Because I think I can find her.’

  ‘You can’t, Anders.’

  He had no intention of starting to explain everything, it would take hours and Cecilia wouldn’t believe him anyway. One flash, two flashes. Something happened. He suddenly felt as if the flashes from the lighthouse were warm. And good. A light found its way inside him and a terrified little pocket of joy leapt in the air.

  ‘Do you remember that song they sang at Dad’s funeral?’ he asked. ‘As long as the little boat can sail, as long as the heart can beat, as long as the sun sparkles on the blue billows?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘That’s how it is. That’s exactly how it is. It doesn’t end. Everything is still here.’

  Cecilia sighed again, and he could picture her slowly shaking her head.

  ‘What are you saying, sweet—’

  Cecilia swallowed the last word. Out of habit she had been about to end the sentence with ‘sweetheart’. Just the way they used to talk to each other. She cleared her throat and said in a controlled voice, ‘I don’t think we should talk anymore now.’

  ‘No,’ said Anders. ‘You’re probably right. But I wish you well. I might not ring you again.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Do you want me to ring you again, then?’

  ‘No. Well…but why did you say that?’

  ‘Just in case.’ Anders swallowed a lump that had started to grow in his throat and said quickly, ‘I love you,’ then hung up. He sat for a long time with his hand resting on the receiver, as if to prevent it from jumping up in the air or ringing.

  He hadn’t known before he said it out loud. Perhaps it wasn’t even true. But after hearing her voice, her more-friendly voice in his ear for several minutes, it had suddenly come over him. Perhaps it was just the longing for another person, or nostalgia evoked by happier memories, perhaps he idealised her now that he no longer saw her, perhaps it wasn’t true.

  But love? Who can say what is just a mire of dark needs and desires, and what is true love? Does such a thing exist? Can’t it be that if we say, ‘I love you’ to another person and know that we mean it, then that is love, regardless of the motive?

  Maja or no Maja, he loved the person sitting at the other end of the line far away from him. What the reason might be, what had changed, he had no idea. That was just the way it was.

  It was almost dark over the bay now, and when Anders rested his elbows on the windowsill he could see the beam of the lighthouse on Gåvasten flickering like a golden street across the water, disappearing for five seconds and then reappearing, disappearing.

  Where the streets are paved with gold.

  He blinked a couple of times then shook his head at his own stupidity. Why should the moped necessarily be on Domarö just because that was where they used to ride around? It could be anywhere, on any island, he of all people ought to know that. The sea was their highway.

  The sea is so big, the sea is so big…

  But they couldn’t just go riding around whenever they felt like it; if that were the case, then somebody would have spotted them. It must be somewhere that wasn’t too far away, a place where there weren’t too many people…

  Anders went into the kitchen and fetched the big torch, checking that the batteries were working. Then he pulled Simon’s jacket on over his Helly Hansen top and zipped it up with Maja’s snowsuit tucked inside, with the result that he looked pregnant. He moved Spiritus to the jacket pocket.

  When he got outside it wasn’t quite as dark as it looked from inside, but in about half an hour it would be evening. He quickened his steps down to the jetty, keeping his fingers crossed that Göran would have brought back Simon’s boat, as he had promised.

  He had. The scruffy boat that had been involved in so much over the past few days lay scraping gently against the jetty and Anders climbed aboard, untied the ropes and started the engine.

  It seemed perfect, almost too perfect, and he didn’t know whether Henrik and Björn had a feeling for such coincidences, but he suspected that they did. You can’t idolise Morrissey and The Smiths without nursing a longing to go back to the beginning, to the times and places where everything started, for good or evil.

  Anders swung the boat around half a turn, opened the throttle and set off, heading straight for Kattholmen.

  Back to the old place

  The trees felled by the storm lay here like long-necked, thirsty dinosaurs, stretching out all the way to the water’s edge. A general amnesty had been declared. If the sea froze in the winter, anyone who was interested could make their way over to Kattholmen and chop up as much wood as he or she wanted; the main thing was to get it cleared.

  But there were only these enormous fir trees, which were very hard to handle. Difficult to saw up, tough to chop, and the wood wasn’t much good either. There was very little interest. If it had been birch, which is fairly easy to work with, there would have been no need to wait for the ice; people would have come over in boats to grab what they could, and Kattholmen would have been cleared in no time.

  But the fallen fir trees were still here, dark, gloomy tree trunks lying across the rocks, with the odd branch sticking up out of the water here and there like the arms of skeletons pleading for help, ignored and rejected by one and all.

  The moon had begun to tire and shrink, balancing helplessly on the branches of the few firs still standing. Veils of cloud drifted past, and as Anders drew closer Kattholmen was bathed in a light with no luminosity, like aged aluminium. He rounded the northern point where a concrete buoy marked a shipping lane that was no longer used, and continued along the rocky shore on the eastern side of the island.

  The boathouse was still there. It would be hundreds of years before wear and tear took its toll on its wal
ls, built with horizontally placed logs, and none of the trees had fallen on it. Anders slowed down and drifted the last few metres, turning off the engine and folding it inboard to avoid damaging the propeller. When the keel scraped along the seabed he clambered into the water, which immediately seeped into his boots. He pulled the boat ashore and switched on the torch, directing the beam towards the boathouse.

  Nothing had changed. It looked exactly the same as the last time he had been here. The place where the fire had been was still there, the fire from which glowing coals had been kicked at Henrik’s naked back. But the grass flattened by Henrik and Björn’s bodies had long since grown tall again. It glittered wetly in the beam of the torch.

  Anders looked over at the door and could almost hear the fanfare behind it, the voice singing, ‘It’s the final countdown…’ but the only sound was the whispering of the wind in the dry pine needles.

  He took a few steps to the left, shone his torch along the side of the house, and there it was. The wooden platform had been damaged by the fire but was still in one piece, the petrol cap gleamed as Anders swept the torch over Henrik and Björn’s moped. There were tyre tracks in the grass leading down to the water.

  So here we are…

  Anders sat down on the bottom step and looked out across the water. Simon’s boat rocked gently as a wave hit the stern. The aluminium light of the moon made the world frozen and metallic. A dry tree trunk creaked behind his back and he found himself at the beginning of everything and the end of everything. The fixed point. The final countdown.

  Ten, nine, eight, seven, six…

  He counted backwards slowly from ten to zero perhaps thirty times while nothing happened, still staring out across the water as he waited for those who had the key. The ones who knew, and were going to help him whether they wanted to or not.

  He pushed his hand inside his jacket and rubbed the smooth fabric of the snowsuit with his fingers. The moon hauled itself laboriously away from the tops of the fir trees, looking down at him as he sat there on the step. Ill at ease, he stood up, pulled the peg out of the door and pushed it open, shone his torch inside.