blood left him. He was a wrung-out rag, and like a rag he allowed himself to tumble helplessly down the steps, only just managing to put out his hands to save himself as he landed.
He crawled forwards. The steam from Bjorn's clothes rose up and evaporated into the night sky, and as Anders crawled past them he could feel the heat from inside the heap, like a little dormant volcano. Henrik was lying flat on his back on the grass, staring up at the sky. Anders crawled over to him as quickly as he could, feeling Maja's snowsuit sliding over his stomach.
Henrik's face was in the process of melting away. His chest was collapsing. The thin skin around his eyes had already dissolved into liquid, and his eyeballs looked like painted porcelain marbles placed in a hollow of inflamed flesh. Henrik's fingers were moving slightly over the grass, as if he were stroking it.
As Anders made his way over to Henrik, the process of disintegration slowed down as the heat of the boiling water diminished. A few final curls of steam rose from what was left of Henrik's face, and the attack was over.
It was not a human being lying there on the grass. A human being cannot fall apart in the way that Henrik had done. The water had sliced through him without distinguishing between the hard and soft parts of a human body. The left side of his chin and neck were gone, his cheeks were perforated with a series of large and small holes that went right through his head.
A human being who had recently sustained such injuries would give off a stench of blood or burnt skin, but there was no smell coming from Henrik. A face sculpted in sand that had had a bucket of water thrown over it. Some parts had been washed away or fallen off, others were intact.
'Henrik…'
Anders leaned on his elbow so that he could look into Henrik's eyes, which were still there, but were staring in an insane, pop-eyed manner since the skin around them had disappeared. Henrik's pupils moved in his direction. It was impossible to tell if Henrik was smiling, since his lips had more or less gone.
'Can I see…' said Henrik. His voice was unclear, gurgling, as if he were speaking through a film of liquid. 'Can I see…what you've got…'
Anders didn't know what he meant, but just at that moment Spiritus moved in his hand, twisting like a finger trying to escape from his grasp. He held his hand up in front of Henrik's eyes. Opened it and closed it quickly.
Henrik's head moved almost imperceptibly. 'Thought so-' he said.
'Henrik,' said Anders. 'You have to tell me-'
Henrik interrupted him with his inhuman, bubbling voice. 'Are you feeling bad for me? Don't. Deep down, you know, I really want to go.'
'Asleep,' said Anders. 'I know. We listened to it in your cottage We were sitting on your bed. Please, please, please, Henrik. Tell me.'
'The key…' said Henrik.
'Yes. What do I have to do?'
Henrik emitted a puff of steam or air that was transformed into steam by the cold, it was impossible to tell which. His chest collapsed a few centimetres more. His voice was now no more than a faint hiss, and Anders placed his ear close to Henrik's mouth so that he could hear.
'It's in your hand.' There was a brief silence, then Henrik added, 'Dickhead.'
Anders' extra finger was burrowing and bumping against the palm of his hand as if in response, and he pulled himself forward so that his mouth was right next to Henrik's completely undamaged ear, but before he had time to ask anything more, Henrik let out a final, whispering sigh, 'There must be another world. A better one.'
Then he said no more. Anders gave in to his neck muscles, which were insisting on rest, and sank down with his forehead on the grass next to Henrik's head.
The loss of blood and the exertion had finished him. All he could do was lie there, just managing to turn his head to one side so that he could breathe. The minutes passed and the chill of the ground began to make the right side of his head go numb. Spiritus was crawling around in his hand but not trying to escape. Anders could feel the streams and veins of water in the ground beneath him, and was barely able to distinguish them from his own weakened circulation.
The only heat that existed was coming from the burning, agonising wound in his throat. The warm wound remained on the surface, while he sank down into the coolness of the earth and it grew dark around him. He lost contact with his body and fell.
He no longer knew what was up or down, he was in freefall, unaware of anything beneath him or any approaching conclusion. He was floating. He was in dark waters, and he was drowning.
His lungs contracted as he tried to breathe in air that did not exist. He had only seconds left to live. But the seconds passed and still his consciousness drifted in the formless darkness, refusing to die away and thinking: I have been here before. I know what happens next.
The horror of what was to come made a heart begin to beat quickly somewhere out in the darkness. It could be his own heart, but such distinctions were meaningless here. There was a beating in fear, and there was something coming closer.
The darkness grew thicker, a shadow began to form inside a shadow. He was nothing against this shadow and he was being sucked towards it like krill about to be strained through the baleen plate of a whale. It wasn't interested in him, it was too immense to bother about him, but he was in its way and he was being drawn into it.
A hand crept into his, a little hand. It tugged and pulled. Maja's hand.
No. I am Maja. Daddy's hand is so big. When we go for a walk I just hold on to his forefinger. His forefinger is in my hand. Why doesn't he come?
Her hand is in mine, it's so tiny and slender, it's as if I'm holding a finger, come on Daddy, now Daddy, we have to go!
He followed the hand that was pulling him, he pulled on the finger that was following him and the darkness shifted in shades of aluminium as the finger and the hand turned into an insect and the salt-laden sea air was drawn into his lungs in a single deep breath.
He was able to see once again. He was able to breathe. His body was lying on a grassy slope. The wind sluiced across his face. Beside him lay wet clothes, as if laid out to dry in the moonlight. Judging by the position of the moon in the sky, he had been gone for a long time, perhaps several hours. Ten metres away from him lay the boat, pulled up on the shoreline.
He saw before him the effort required to push the boat out into the water, to get the engine started. He didn't think he could do it. He wanted to carry on sleeping, but without dreams.
'Yes, yes…' mumbled Anders, getting unsteadily to his feet and tottering over to the boat. The wind had picked up and was helping him. The little waves had been working on the boat, and had started to draw it towards them. In a little while longer it would probably have drifted away. He only had to give it a gentle nudge, and it was floating out on the water, then he followed it, scrambled up and fell over the rail.
He tried to open the hand holding Spiritus, but his fingers were locked. With the help of the other hand's slightly more flexible fingers, he managed to force the hand open and tip Spiritus back into the matchbox. He stared at the engine.
He was on the point of giving up again when the engine didn't start first time, but he gritted his teeth, prayed
