Harbor John Lindqvist (grave mercy TXT) 📖

the propeller. When the keel scraped alongthe 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.

It was obvious that people had been here since his last visit. Adifferent generation had taken over where theirs had ended, a more careless generation. A wooden chair had been smashed and a pack of cards lay scattered across the floor. In one corner there was a pile of empty bottles, and there were no mattresses or covers on the beds.

Anders went over to the table and sat down on a chair that wobbled under his weight. Through the little window he could see the moped up against the wall. He bent down and started gathering up the cards, thinking he might play a game of solitaire, but gave up. There seemed to be some cards missing in any case, he could only see about twenty.

While he was still leaning forward he heard a splash from outside. It sounded different from the water slapping against the boat, and he stiffened. Immediately afterwards he heard Henrik’s voice. ‘Don’t come here tonight,’ he yelled. ‘Someone here’s going to put a hatchet in your head!’

Anders slowly straightened up and dropped the card he was holding in his hand. It was the five of diamonds. He stared at the rhomboid symbols and found no meaning, nothing to interpret. He got up from the table, adjusted Maja’s snowsuit so that it lay like a band around his stomach, and went to the door.

Henrik and Björn were standing at the foot of the steps. The ridiculously long blade of the knife was sticking straight out from Henrik’s raised hand.

‘This old house,’ said Björn. ‘Too many bad memories.’

Anders sat down on the top step and looked at them. They hadn’t really changed much since that time after all. The place where they found themselves made him see them through a filter of memories, and he no longer saw two vengeful ghosts, but two miserable boys who had no one but each other. And he knew the song, so he said, ‘I really liked you and I meant to tell you. But I never did.’

Henrik lowered the knife and the scornful expression left his eyes. Anders extended his hand towards them, palm upwards, and said, ‘It was me who gave you the tape, do you remember?’

Björn nodded and began to speak, but Henrik silenced him witha gesture. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

Anders ran his hand over his stomach, over the snowsuit. ‘I want my daughter back. And I think you two have the key.’

The distorted smile returned to Henrik’s lips. ‘The key?’

‘You’re the ones who can help me.’

Henrik and Björn looked at one another. The knife swung to and fro in Henrik’s hand. Anders couldn’t work out what silent decision had been reached between the two of them as they sat down side by side on the step below him. Since it had worked the last time, Anders thought quickly and said, ‘Please, please, please…

It was like a game in a minefield. Once again Henrik’s face relaxed. The three of them sitting close together, huddled on the steps, passing Smiths’ references back and forth. It could be normal, it could be tender. Anders didn’t know if it was.

Close together…

He tried not to let it show on his face as a cold shiver of fear ran down through his chest, filling his stomach with anxiety. His eagerness had made him miss out an essential part of the plan, to say the least. He hadn’t drunk any of the wormwood. Not today, not yesterday. And they knew it. Otherwise they wouldn’t be sitting so close to him.

Björn was looking at Henrik as if waiting to see what he would say. Henrik remained silent, looking at a point just below Anders’ chin. Then he raised the knife and brought it slowly towards Anders’ face. Anders jerked back a fraction.

The wormwood. How could I…

‘Wait,’