Harbour

the water to leave it. A burst of steam rose up towards his face.

I can do it.

When he had emptied the bucket and put the matchbox in his pocket, he went and fetched the shotgun. He stood for a while weighing it in his hands, wondering whether it might be of any help to him. Its metallic weight was reassuring, its polished wood; a weapon.

But it wasn't a weapon he needed, at least not one like this. He removed the cartridge, replaced it in the drawer where he had found it and rubbed his hands. He was clean.

A pair of Simon's well-worn boots from the army surplus store stood in the hallway. They were only slightly too big for Anders. He pulled them on, fetched Maja's snowsuit from the kitchen and went out.

Regardless of what kind of creatures Henrik and Bjorn might be these days, whatever they were composed of, however they lived, one thing was clear: the moped was an ordinary moped. It had weight and solidity, it could be damaged or destroyed. And it had to be somewhere.

When Anders reached the village road he could feel how cold it was. The air was raw, the temperature around freezing. He wrapped Maja's snowsuit around his neck and tucked the ends down inside his top to keep himself warm.

He looked around. The ramblers' hostel was on his right, the path down to the jetties on his left. Unlikely

A place where nobody goes.

The western side of the island was more or less uninhabited, with just a few isolated, newly built villas on the side facing the mainland. It struck him that he had virtually never gone that way, not since he was little. At that time he and the others in the gang had occasionally embarked on an expedition into the unknown. The western part of the island was simply not part of their world, because no one they knew lived there.

Anders pushed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, and was immediately aware of the water as his hand brushed against the matchbox; he moved his hands to his back pockets instead. It wasn't the most comfortable way of walking, but he could only cope with that heightened awareness for short periods at a time. It was there anyway, because the box was so close to his body.

He passed the Bergwalls' house and stopped. There was no sign of life from inside the house; perhaps the family had been moved to the mainland. The outside tap was shining.

Who's there?

The house lay on top of a little hill and had a view of the sea, but it was a hundred metres or more to the water's edge. Anders lit a cigarette and tested his feelings. He couldn't see the water down inside the rock, but it must be there, must have found its way with its long fingers until it was able to look out through shining taps and enter into the people.

He made his way along paths where people seldom went, he found some of the overgrown foundations of the houses that had once made up the western village. He finally reached the rocks and looked over towards Naten, almost indistinguishable in the fog over the sea. He continued on into the forest, walked across uncultivated agricultural land. When he found an old barn that was even more crooked than the Shack, with the roof on the point of collapse, he thought he had found the right place, but the barn contained nothing but rotten wood, rusty tools and a few piles of slates meant for a roof that had never been built. Anders sat down on one of the piles and blew out a long breath.

Where are you? Where the hell are you?

His plan was simple. If he found the moped, he would also find Henrik and Bjorn. He would wait for them, and when they turned up he would…that was where the plan came to an end. But he had Spiritus, and something would be done.

He was exhausted and hungry after searching for many hours. He would have to go home for something to eat if he was going to be able to carry on.

When he reached the village road again he considered going back down to the Shack to wait, after all they might come looking for him again. Yes, that's what he would do. He would spend the night at the Shack and wait for them, whatever happened.

Since there was more food in his grandmother's house he went there first and made himself a couple of roast beef sandwiches, which he ate gazing out across the sea. It was almost twilight, and he was waiting for the lighthouse at Gavasten to start flashing.

He took a few swigs of what he had started to think of as Maja- water and ran his fingers absent-mindedly over the telephone dial. Anna-Greta had never bothered to get a phone with a keypad, despite the fact that this made any contact with computerised organisations so much more difficult. She wanted to talk to a real person, that was how she put it.

Before he had even considered how and why, he found himself dialling Cecilia's number. Just because it was such fun to use a phone with a dial, and he couldn't think of another number to ring.

He didn't think Cecilia would be at home, and as the signals rang out an immense desolation began to echo in his ears. He felt so horribly and irrevocably lonely. This wasn't a feeling of panic, or the fear that had seized him so many times in the past; this was a great sorrow, and the overwhelming feeling that he was totally alone in the world.

'Hello?'

Anders took a deep breath and forced back the sorrow as much as possible, but his voice was weak as he said, 'Hi, it's only me. Again.'

There was the usual pause as Cecilia switched from anticipating a pleasant chat to expecting a difficult conversation.

'You shouldn't call here, Anders.'

'No, I don't suppose I should. But at least I'm sober.'

'Well, that's good.'

'Yes.'

There was a silence between them, and Anders looked down towards the Shack, waiting in the twilight.

'Do you remember that time when you gave me a lift on your bike? After I bought you an ice cream?'

Cecilia gave an exaggerated sigh. However, when she replied her voice was slightly less dismissive than in previous conversations. At least he was sober, as he had said.

'Yes,' she said. 'I do.'

'Me too. What are you doing?'

'Now?'

'Yes.'

'I was having a little sleep.' She hesitated before adding something a little more personal, 'I didn't really have anything else to do.'

Anders nodded and looked out over the sea; his gaze had just reached Gavasten when the first flash came.

'Are you happy?' he asked.

'Hardly ever. What about you?'

'No. What happened with that bloke you met?'

'I don't want to talk about that. How about you?'

'What do you mean?'

'What are you doing?'

One flash, two flashes, three flashes. It was still much too light for the intermittent beam to build a pathway across the sea. Four flashes.

'I'm looking for Maja,' he said.

There was no reply from Cecilia, just a click in Anders' ear as she put the receiver down. He waited. After a while he could hear her crying some way off.

'Cilia?' he said, and then louder, 'Cilia?'

She picked up the receiver, her voice thick, 'How…how can you be looking for Maja?'

'Because I think I can find her.'

'You can't, Anders.'

He had no intention of starting to explain everything, it would take hours and Cecilia wouldn't believe him anyway. One flash, two flashes. Something happened. He suddenly felt as if the flashes from the lighthouse were