Harbor John Lindqvist (grave mercy TXT) 📖

he was breathing through a straw. He passed the straight pine tree, pulled open the door of the Shack and went straight into the kitchen without taking off his shoes. He leaned over the sink, turned on the tap and drank like a man who has walked across the desert. He panted, breathed in deeply, drank again. Straightened up, panted, drank again.

He drank until his stomach was distended and the cold water was threatening to come back up through his throat. Then he lay down on the floor. When he rocked from side to side he could hear the water lapping in his stomach.

Come in. I will carry you.

He closed his eyes and listened, checked what he was feeling.

He had promised Simon and Anna-Greta that he would go back up to Anna-Greta’s house as soon as he had done what he had to do at home. But still he lay there on the floor, waiting as the water in his stomach gradually ceased to be a cold, separate clump, as its temperature rose to body heat and became a part of him.

Are you there?

There was no answer, and doubt sank its claws into him. Whatif Simon had been wrong? What if Simon had been right, but it still didn’t mean that Maja was on his side? The snowsuit. How had Henrik and Björn actually got hold of the snowsuit?

This was the last chance. He was balancing on the edge of a precipice, and only a touch as light as a feather, the right touch, could save him. If it didn’t come, there was nothing but the downward plunge and the darkness.

Come. Touch me.

Inside his body was a hollow space that was much bigger than his body. A summer breeze off the sea wafted through the room, bringing with it a single fluffy dandelion seed that floated around on the air currents until it finally landed on the inside of his skin. It tickled and settled down. That was what it felt like. So faint. But he knew.

You are here.

After that first, microscopic touch it grew stronger. What the water had carried with it spread through his blood, into his muscles, and the tickle became a soft caress and a greater presence, as if the downy seed really had brought with it other seeds that had now taken root in his flesh, causing small dandelions to bloom. He couldn’t see them, but beneath the horizon they lit up his world, and his eyes filled with tears.

Hello, sweetheart. I’m sorry I…forgive me. For everything.

He looked in cupboards and drawers and got out every bottle he could find, then filled them from the kitchen tap. He ended up with about ten litres of water in large and small bottles, which he stuffed into two carrier bags. He found room for the bottle of wormwood too.

Finally he fetched some Bamse comics from the bedroom and slipped the photographs from Gåvasten into his pocket. Then he left the house. Before he even got to Anna-Greta’s house he fished out one of the bottles and took a couple of swigs.

The newlyweds were sitting in the kitchen, and had changed into their everyday clothes. Everything was as usual, and everything was different. New bonds had been formed without anything changing on the surface. When Simon caught sight of the carrier bags, he asked, ‘Is that…water?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I have a look at one of the bottles?’

Anders dug out one of the bottles and placed it on the table in front of Simon. It was an old plastic bottle; the label had fallen off, and the slightly cloudy water was clearly visible through the plastic. All three of them gathered around the bottle as if it were a relic, a sacred object.

There was nothing special to see, Anders had already established that when he was filling the bottles. The water in the Shack had always been cloudy because of methane gas or chemical deposits, it had always had that misty, slightly ghostly appearance; it needed to stand in an open container for a while before it cleared.

Simon pulled a glass towards him, looked at Anders and asked, ‘May I…?’

A pang of…a protective instinct ran through Anders, but before he could open his mouth Anna-Greta had said what he was about to say, ‘You’re not going to drink that?’

‘I’ve drunk it before,’ said Simon. ‘But this time I was only intending to pour it out. Is that OK?’

Anders nodded, finding the situation slightly absurd. Simon was asking for permission to pour water out of a bottle. But it wasn’t absurd. Not anymore.

Anders felt uncomfortable as Simon unscrewed the cap and poured the water. Maja was in that water, and Simon knew that, which was why he had asked for permission. It was like handling someone’s ashes. The relatives must be consulted.

She isn’t dead. She isn’t gone. She…

Anders suddenly thought of something Simon had told him a long time ago, or was it just a few days ago? Time had lost its meaning asdays and nights, hope and powerlessness slipped in and out of each other in strange ways.

He was about to ask, but Simon’s experiment caught his attention. Simon had picked up the matchbox and tipped the insect into his left hand. He now moved his right hand towards the glass, glanced at Anders, then dipped his index and middle finger in the water. Closed his eyes.

There wasn’t a sound in the kitchen as Simon waited. Thirty seconds passed. Then Simon removed his fingers from the glass and shook his head.

‘No,’ he said. ‘There is something there. Particularly now that I know. But it’s too faint.’

For a moment Simon didn’t know what to do with his wet fingers. He was about to dry them on his trousers purely as a reflex action, but stopped himself and allowed them to dry on their own. Anders raised the glass to his lips and drank the water.

‘Do you really think that’s a good idea?’ asked Anna-Greta.

‘Grandma,’ said Anders. ‘You have no idea how good