Harbor John Lindqvist (grave mercy TXT) 📖

Göran’s house. And in that case a newly-dug well wouldn’t be much help.

‘Let’s see how it goes,’ said Simon. ‘I mean, you can always do the actual digging later.’

‘True.’

They passed through the village and glanced over at what used to be the Grönwalls’ summer residence. Simon’s throat went dry as he thought about what had happened to the girl who had lived there. They took the short path to Göran’s house.

‘What’s your take on all this?’ asked Göran. ‘Can you make any sense of it?’

‘None at all,’ lied Simon, taking out the divining rod made of rowan which he used for appearances’ sake.

‘Do you think you’ll be able to find a pure source here?’ asked Göran. ‘I know there have been problems in the past.’

‘Let’s wait and see,’ said Simon, starting to scan the ground as they moved towards the house.

Göran sat down on the porch and watched Simon as he moved slowly across the garden with the divining rod in one hand and the other hand in his pocket. He thought this was a strange technique. Twice before he had watched people using a divining rod, and they had held the forked branch steadily in both hands. He had neither seen nor heard of Simon’s one-handed grip before.

Oh well, Simon was welcome to walk backwards with the branch in his mouth as far as Göran was concerned, as long as he found clean water. For what it was worth.

Göran sighed and looked sideways at the front of the little cottage his grandfather had built more than a hundred years ago. He thought what a dreadful waste it all was. One little spark, and the entire history of this part of the family would be wiped out.

When he looked back at the garden, Simon had stopped and was looking down at the ground.

So there was water after all.

Göran got to his feet to go over to him, but froze as Simon raised his head and their eyes met. Something was wrong. Simon’s eyes were wide open and his mouth was gaping, the branch fell from his hands and he wobbled as if he had been dealt a powerful blow.

‘Simon!’

Göran got no reply, and went over to Simon, who was swaying on the lawn with unseeing eyes. A couple of words forced their way out and Göran thought it sounded like:

‘I…know.’

Old lead

Anders woke to a silent and empty house, inside and outside. Nothing was moving, and he could hear only the faint sounds of the house itself. He lay there for a while staring up at the white-painted wooden ceiling. Nothing had changed. The darkness was ready to pounce, only his decision was keeping it at bay.

He got up and dressed slowly and carefully in the clothes Anna-Greta had laid out. Then he crept down the stairs. The kitchen clock was showing quarter-past eleven, and Simon and Anna-Greta were out attending to their respective tasks. Everything was as it should be. He opened the door at the bottom of the stairs.

The hidey-hole consisted of two rooms, each approximately seven or eight metres square, and originally intended for children who never came. Now they were filled with all kinds of rubbish and long-forgotten memories, things that might come in useful but never did, and closest to the door more practical things, such as tools and painting equipment.

He passed a pile of old clothes and rags covered with a Swedish flag and went into the inner room. It was darker in here because the window was partly covered by an old table standing on end, and the smell of mould and age was more noticeable. He switched on the light.

The room was full of old nets, agricultural tools, spinning wheels and similar items. Someone from Antiques Roadshow would probably have been able to sniff out the valuable items amid all the rubbish.The thing he was looking for was straight ahead of him, propped up against a broken chair as if it were waiting for him.

He crouched down and picked up the double-barrelled shotgun, turned it over and broke it open. The chambers were empty. Anders lowered his head. The darkness pricked up its ears and crept closer to him, he could feel it as a pain in his stomach, growing stronger by the minute.

He placed the barrels in his mouth, closed his lips around them and curled his finger around the trigger. The darkness halted, moved back a little way. He had gained some respite.

His hands were trembling as he put down the gun and started looking for cartridges. He looked on the floor, on tables, behind nets. His fear of the darkness made his whole body shake as he swept aside piles of old newspapers, pushed his hands behind a chest of drawers and felt granules of dried mouse droppings slip through his fingers.

He sat up straight, pulled out the bottom drawer and there, among old whetstones and keys to locks that no longer existed, he found the box. An unassuming brown cardboard box containing seven cartridges. He breathed out, a panting sound, then took out one cartridge and studied it.

This little instrument of death was considerably newer than the gun. A cylinder of thick, red cardboard enclosed a densely packed clump of lead shot. Right at the bottom sat the gold-coloured detonator with its charge of primer.

Anders picked at the little circle in the centre of the cartridge’s base. One blow to that circle and the primer was ignited, exploded and hurled out the shot.

So simple, really.

He pulled the gun towards him, pushed the cartridge into the bore and snapped the barrels into place. He ran his finger over the hammer and pulled it back until it too clicked into place.

So simple.

The entire construction of the gun was nothing more than a looparound the thin hammer that would peck at the detonator with its beak and then…all over. In a few seconds it would all be over at last.

The best thing would probably be to prop the stock of