Harbor John Lindqvist (grave mercy TXT) 📖

a passing car with its stereo turned to full volume. Sometimes just a note or two in the soughing of the trees and the dripping of the water during the night.

With Simon’s words, the entire orchestra stepped forward out of the darkness and crashed into life, deafening him and silencing his whole body.

The water. Of course. The drinking water.

Despite the perception that Maja was running through his body, it had never occurred to him that that was actually the way it was. He had been going around knocking back wine from plastic bottles, sometimes several litres per day. Wine diluted with water from the tap. He had woken feeling thirsty and hungover, and had drunk lots and lots of water.

And what really made him almost slide off his chair as he sank further and further into the music: Maja had not left him at all. He just hadn’t been drinking water. During the whole of the previous day he had drunk only undiluted wine and wormwood concentrate. It was only when he got to Anna-Greta’s house that he had taken in liquidin the form of water. And their water wasn’t…infected.

Anders felt a hand on his back and Simon leaned over him. ‘Do you understand?’ he whispered.

Anders nodded vaguely as the music of all the connections continued to reverberate in his head. The eternal sea, always one and the same, that could work its way into every crack, could spread and extend but always returned to itself. One vast body with billions of limbs, from thundering waves to rivulets as thin as a spider’s leg that found their way in, found their way through. The sea. And those who existed within it.

Simon pulled at his arm and Anders got up and followed him as if he were in a trance.

No one has such long fingers.

In his mind’s eye he could see the sea groping its way across the rocks on the islands, through fissures in the bedrock, down into the ground, into the wells, and it was like a mantra running through his head as Simon led him outside: No one has such long fingers. No one has such long fingers.

‘Anders, are you still with us?’

Simon waved a hand in front of his eyes, and with an effort Anders managed to bring himself back, to discover that he was standing on the porch of the community centre. His right hand was resting on the cold iron railing; he gripped it tightly, holding himself firmly in place.

‘How did you work it out?’ he asked.

‘When I was looking for water for Göran,’ said Simon, ‘and I felt all the brackish water coursing through the rock—’

‘Felt?’

‘Yes.’ Simon pulled the matchbox out of his pocket and showed it to Anders, then put it away again. Anders nodded. He did actually remember that part of the story.

‘And then I thought about what your water is like,’ Simon went on, ‘and above all what Elin’s water was like. After the fire I was by her well, there was something that drew me to it, there was something there. I didn’t pick up on it at the time, but I tasted the water and itwas salty. More salty than yours. Since then that thought has been in the back of my mind and…today I caught sight of it.’ Simon sighed and glanced at the closed door of the community centre. ‘Although I don’t really think I managed to convince anybody.’

‘Why were you so late?’

Simon shrugged his shoulders. ‘I had to check. Karl-Erik’s well and the Bergwalls’ well. It was the same there. Salt in the water. When they were sawing they probably had flasks of water with them, and drank as they worked. I think it reaches some kind of critical point and then…it breaks out. The other person.’

Anders leaned on the railing and looked down towards the harbour. It was an hour until the next tender crossed the sea. Was permitted to cross the sea.

No one has such long fingers. No one has such strong fingers.

Unannounced, a memory popped into his head. He was perhaps ten years old when his father put out a hoop net for fun and caught one solitary eel. Anders had stood on the jetty watching his father trying to grab hold of the eel to get it out of the boat. It had been impossible.

Eventually his father managed to push the eel into a plastic bag. It slithered out. He got the eel into the bag once again and held the top closed with both hands as he climbed out of the boat with great difficulty.

When he got up on to the jetty he stopped and stared at the bag and laughed out loud. Despite the fact that his hands were strong and he was clutching the bag as tightly as he could, the eel had still managed to brace itself against the bottom of the bag and was slowly and inexorably forcing its way past his clenched fists and out of the bag. It fell on to the jetty, hurled its body forward and slid into the water.

‘Well, there’s a thing,’ said his father with a kind of admiration in his voice. ‘That one certainly wanted to live.’

Afterwards they had laughed about it. His father so big and strong, the eel so small and tough. And yet the eel had won.

No one has such long, such strong fingers.

And yet it is still possible to slither through. If you just want to live enough.

Come in

At half-past six the tender moored at the jetty on Domarö, and a man who no longer wanted to die left the group of cheerful people getting off. He ran to the west. When he drew level with the ramblers’ hostel he had to slow down, since a renewed desire to live does not bring with it new lungs.

Anders jogged to the point where the track divided in two. He was forced to walk the last stretch because his windpipe was whistling and he felt as if