Harbour (26 page)

This time that problem had already been resolved. When his body hit the bottom he had only a few simple twists left before he could rip open the sack with the sharpened picklock and swim towards his triumph.

It was then, just as he was easing the penultimate chain over his shoulder, that the water above him suddenly became heavier. Something laid itself on top of him. His first thought was that someone up on the jetty had thrown something into the water. Something large and heavy. He was being pushed down to the bottom, and had to make quite an effort to stop the air being forced out of his lungs.

He opened his eyes and saw only darkness. The cold that was working on his skin from the outside now had help from the cold fear on the inside. His heart began to beat faster, consuming the valuable oxygen he had left. He tried to understand what could possibly be lying on top of him, so that he would have a better chance of escaping from its grip. He couldn't come up with anything. It had no shape, no seams. The first feeling he had had was the closest he got: the water had become heavy.

Panic threatened. His eyes had now grown accustomed to the faint light that penetrated through the sacking and six metres of water. When a few bubbles of air escaped from his lips, he could see them as blurred reflections.

I don't want to die. Not like this.

With an enormous effort he managed to twist his body in the grip of the water so that the last chains fell off. He still had time. When he was training himself to hold his breath he had sometimes had Marita there to help, which had given him the courage to hang on as long as possible. He could tell when he was about to lose consciousness. He wasn't there yet.

But he couldn't escape from the weight. It was lying on top of him like a giant pestle, and the sack was a peppercorn in the bottom of the mortar.

He managed to rip open the sack with the picklock, and was rewarded with a glimmer of real daylight. He was lying on his back, pressed against the seabed, and way up above he could see the contours of the people on the jetty, the blue sky above them. Nobody had thrown anything, there was nothing on top of him. Except water. Six metres of impenetrable water.

The cold had now got a serious grip on him, and a feeling of calm was beginning to spread through his body. A calm that resembled warmth. He relaxed and stopped fighting. He had at least a minute left before it was over. Why should he spend that minute struggling and fighting? He had freed himself from the chains, the handcuffs and the rope, but he knew he wouldn't be able to free himself from the water. He had been defeated in the end.

Everything was beautiful.

Quiet and helpless, Simon lay there on the seabed. He lay there like the dead, and through the tear in the sacking he could see the sky and vague figures waiting for him. It was the angels calling him to them, and in a while he would be there. He was in darkness, but soon he would come into the light, and it was good.

He didn't know how long he lay like that. It might have been one minute or two, perhaps ten seconds, when the water suddenly released its pressure. As lightly as a veil the weight was withdrawn, and he was free.

With a calm which he would later find difficult to comprehend, he merely thought something along the lines of:
I see, we're doing it this way, then.
He got out of the sack and swam with even strokes over to the far jetty. Nothing grabbed at him, nothing wanted to get at him. There was no weight, only lightness. When he broke the surface of the water, hidden from view by the boats, he took a deep breath, and only then did everything go black. He grabbed at the rail of the nearest skiff and managed to stop himself from sinking. He breathed evenly and calmly, and the world began to come together once again.

From the steamboat jetty he could hear someone shouting, ‘Three minutes!' and he couldn't believe they were referring to him. He had been gone much longer than that.

Simon hung on to the rail and tried to regain his grasp of reality. When the voice on the jetty yelled, ‘Four minutes!' he had come to his senses. He recognised the faint smell of tar from the skiff, the taste of salt and old fear in his mouth, the piercing cold in his muscles.

I'm alive.

He swam towards the shore and after a couple of metres he was able to walk in the shallows, crouching down behind the boats. He carried on up on to the rocks, and the rest of the story matched the official version.

This was the first in a series of things he had allowed to pass over the years. A number of people had disappeared under dubious circumstances, he had found Spiritus, and Maja had vanished into thin air. He had allowed himself to be assured that everything was as it should be, because it was easier that way and because the alternative was impossible to put into words. It was just ridiculous to think there was some kind of silent conspiracy among those who lived on Domarö all the year round. And yet he had begun to wonder if that wasn't precisely the situation.

Simon pulled his old leather jacket on over his overalls and went out. There was a thread, and now he was going to tug at it to try and provoke a reaction. The thread was called Holger. The discovery of Sigrid's body had obviously shaken him, because there had been no sign of him, so perhaps he was off balance and susceptible to a chat.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and the sound of an axe chopping wood echoed across the inlet. Simon nodded to himself. Anders was obviously hard at work, and that was a good thing. The dull sound of a lump of wood being repeatedly thumped against the chopping block suggested that he had made a start on the dry fir.

Well, that will give him plenty to do.

The village was deserted in the soft afternoon light. The school children had gone home, and were probably having something to eat. Simon looked down towards the jetty and remembered that day long ago when he had stepped ashore for the first time. Astonishingly little had changed. The wooden boats around the jetty had become fibreglass boats, and some kind of transformer station stood there humming quietly at the end of the jetty, but otherwise everything looked just the same as it had done then.

The waiting room had been torn down and rebuilt. The boathouses were listed as cultural heritage these days, and thus remained unchanged, the diesel tank was still there spoiling the track up to the village, and the sea buckthorn perhaps looked a little better, but was still in exactly the same place. These things had seen him step ashore, had seen him almost drown, and now they saw him walking through the deserted village kicking pebbles along in front of him as he went.

You know more than me. A lot more.

He was so absorbed by his own feet that he didn't notice there was a light on in the mission house until he was virtually on top of it. It was only in exceptional cases that the mission house was used at any time other than a Saturday morning, when a small flock of the older residents gathered to drink coffee and sing hymns to the accompaniment of a treadle organ.

The curtains were closed and the chandelier on the ceiling, the pride and joy of the mission house, was visible only as a pale blotch. Simon went up to the window and listened. He could hear voices, but not what was being said. He thought for a moment, then went around the side and opened the door.

The village council. I'm part of this village as well.

The sight that met his eyes as he walked in was in no way remarkable. A dozen individuals aged between sixty and eighty were sitting on chairs in a loose huddle beneath the votive nave. He knew or recognised every one of them. There was Elof Lundberg and his brother Johan. There was Margareta Bergwall and Karl-Erik something-or-other from the south of the village. There was Holger. And Anna-Greta. Among others.

The conversation stopped the second he opened the door. Every face turned towards him. They looked neither caught out nor embarrassed, but their expressions made it very clear that his intrusion was not welcome. He looked at Anna-Greta, and saw something different in her face. A hint of pain. Or a prayer.

Go away. Please.

Simon pretended not to notice anything; he just walked in and said cheerfully, ‘So what are you all cooking up, then?'

Glances were exchanged, and the unspoken agreement seemed to be that Anna-Greta should be the one to respond. When a few uncomfortable seconds had passed without her saying a word, Johan Lundberg said, ‘A Stockholmer wants to buy the mission house.'

Simon nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see. And what are you thinking of doing?'

‘We're wondering whether to sell.'

‘Who is this Stockholmer? What's his name?'

When no reply was forthcoming, Simon went over to the group, pulled up a chair and sat down.

‘Carry on. I think this is interesting as well.'

The silence was suffocating. A faint clicking sound came from the old wooden walls, and a petal drifted down from the wilting flowers on the altar. Anna-Greta scowled at him and said, ‘Simon. You can't be here.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because…you just can't. Can't you accept that?'

‘No.'

Karl-Erik stood up. He was the most well-preserved of those present, and a pair of still muscular arms protruded from his rolled-up shirt sleeves. ‘Well, that's the way it is,' he said, ‘and if you're not prepared to leave of your own free will, then I'll just have to carry you out.'

Simon stood up as well. He hadn't much to offer in comparison to Karl-Erik, but he looked him in the eye anyway and said, ‘You're welcome to try.'

Karl-Erik raised his bushy eyebrows and took a step forward. ‘If that's the way you want it…' Without any definite purpose in mind, Simon closed his hand around the matchbox in his pocket. Karl-Erik angrily shoved a couple of chairs out of his way, working himself into a rage.

Anna-Greta shouted ‘Karl-Erik!' but it was no longer possible to stop him. He had a glint in his eye, and a task to see through. He stepped up to Simon and grabbed hold of his jacket with both hands. Simon lost his footing and hit Karl-Erik's chest with his head, but he didn't let go of the matchbox.

With his forehead pressed against his opponent's ribs, he asked the water in Karl-Erik's blood, the water in his tissues, to hurl itself upwards. The strength in Simon's request was not as great as when he had held Spiritus in his bare hand, but it was more than enough. Karl-Erik staggered, let go of Simon's jacket and put his hands up to his head. He reeled backwards a couple of steps, then leaned forward and threw up all over the antique rug.

Simon let go of the matchbox and folded his arms across his chest once more. ‘Anyone else?'

Karl-Erik coughed and retched, threw a venomous look at Simon and retched a little more, then wiped his mouth and hissed, ‘What the fuck do you…'

Simon sat down on his chair and said, ‘I want to know what you're discussing.' He looked from one to the other. ‘It's the sea, isn't it? What's happening to the sea.'

Elof Lundberg rubbed a hand over his bald head, which looked indecently naked without the obligatory cap, and asked, ‘How much do you know?'

A couple of the others looked angrily at Elof, since his question implied an admission that there was something to know. Simon shook his head. ‘Not much. But enough to know there's something wrong.'

Karl-Erik had pulled himself together and was on his way back to his seat. As he passed Simon he spat, ‘And what exactly are you intending to do about it?'

Simon unzipped his jacket to indicate that he intended to stay. He looked at the group, which was tightly closed around an invisible centre, making no move to invite him into the circle. Anna-Greta wouldn't look in his direction, which he found hurtful. Despite his bad feeling, he hadn't wanted to believe it would be like this.

What are they so afraid of?

It couldn't be anything else. They sat there like some little sect, fearfully protecting their secret and their belief, terrified of any intrusion. What Simon couldn't understand was that Anna-Greta was part of this. If there was ever a person he had met in his life who didn't seem to be afraid of
anything
, it was her. But here she sat now, her eyes darting everywhere, focusing anywhere but on him.

‘I'm not intending to do anything,' said Simon. ‘What could I do? But I want to know.' He raised his voice. ‘Holger!'

Holger, who had been deep in thought, jumped and looked up. Simon asked, ‘What really happened to Sigrid?'

Perhaps Holger hadn't really picked up on any of the previous aggression towards Simon, because he answered sourly, as if Simon already knew, ‘That's exactly what we're talking about.'

Simon was about to say something ironic about the fact that he thought they were talking about the mission house, but if he did that they could carry on attacking him and bickering until the cows came home, so instead he folded his arms and simply said, ‘I'm not going anywhere. It's up to you how you deal with that.'

At last Anna-Greta was looking at him. Her gaze was direct and impossible to interpret. There was no love in it. No loathing or any other emotion either. She was a function looking at another function and trying to assess it. She looked at him for a long time, and Simon looked back. The sea lay between them. In the end she clamped her lips together, nodded briefly and said, ‘Would you be kind enough to go out for a couple of minutes, at least? So that we can come to a decision.'

‘About what?'

‘About you.'

Simon considered the matter and decided this was a reasonable request. With exaggerated care he zipped up his jacket and went out. Just before the door closed he heard Karl-Erik say, ‘Bloody summer visitors, they think…' then the door closed on the rest of his comment.

Simon walked a few metres away from the mission house and stood there contemplating the autumn. The thicket of dog roses next to the mission house wall was covered in rosehips, red and alive like insects. All the leaves were gradually turning yellow, and the rust-coloured roof tiles shone slightly with dampness. Odd chips of gravel sparkled on the path when a shaft of sunlight penetrated through the foliage.