Harbour

paralysed, and he managed to slur, 'Didn't taste very nice.'

The heat coursed through his veins and reached the very tips of his fingers, then turned around and raced through his body once again. With lips that were still curling from the vile taste, he asked, 'Can I have another?'

Anna-Greta refilled his glass, then put the top back on the bottle and replaced it in the cupboard. Anders emptied the glass, and since his palate was already numb from the first shock, it didn't taste half as bad this time. When he put down the glass and smacked his lips, he even got a hint of an aftertaste that was…good.

He got to his feet, using the table for support. 'Could I borrow a pair of trousers? I have to go down to the Shack to check if Elin's there, otherwise…1 don't know what we're going to do.'

Simon went to check in the 'hidey-hole', the little storeroom where clothes and belongings from past generations were kept. Anders was left alone in the kitchen with Anna-Greta. He looked longingly at the empty shot glass, but by putting the bottle away Anna-Greta had made her point.

'Protection from the sea,' said Anders. 'What does that mean?'

'We'll talk about it another time.'

'When?'

Anna-Greta didn't answer. Anders examined the photograph of Elsa. She looked angry; angry and disappointed. If the people in the other pictures looked as if it were hard work being photographed, Elsa looked as if she regarded it as an insult. Her furious gaze reached him through seventy years, making him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

'Was she always alone?' asked Anders. 'Elsa?'

'No, she had a husband who was quite a bit older. Anton, I think his name was. He had heart problems, and…he had a heart attack and died.'

'When he was out fishing?'

'Yes. How did you know that?'

'And she was the one who found him in the boat. Some of the fish were still alive, but he was dead.'

'I don't know about that, but she was the one who found him, that's definitely true. Who told you all this?'

'Elin.'

Simon came into the kitchen with a pair of flimsy trousers that looked as if they might have had something to do with the army. He gave them to Anders along with a belt, and said, 'I don't know if these will do, but they're all I could find.'

Anders pulled on the trousers, which were much too big, and fastened the belt around his waist. The wide legs felt good, because they weren't tight over his cuts. Simon stood looking at him, his arms folded.

Are you really going out again? Is that a good idea? Shall I come with you?'

Anders smiled. 'I don't think there's much you can do, and besides…' he nodded at the kitchen cupboard '…I'm protected now, aren't I?'

'I don't know about that, and I don't think Anna-Greta does either, not really.'

'That's true,' said Anna-Greta. 'It's only hearsay.'

'I'll go down and check,' said Anders. 'I'll call you. Whether she's there or not. Then we can decide what to do.'

He borrowed a torch, hoisted up the trousers and grimaced as his wounds pulled. On his way to the outside door he stopped and turned around. He had suddenly realised something. He had been carrying the knowledge with him for quite some time, but it wasn't until that moment it became obvious and possible to say out loud.

'Ghosts,' he said. 'There are ghosts.'

He nodded to Simon and Anna-Greta and went out into the darkness.

Before he switched on the torch he gazed at the sky. 'Wasn't that a tinge of orange in the thin clouds over Kattudden? Yes, it was, and he couldn't have cared less. However, he turned, went back into the kitchen and said indifferently, 'I think there's a fire over by Kattudden again.'

If Simon and Anna-Greta wanted to do something about it, they were welcome. He just couldn't. It had been a long night, and it was almost three o'clock. He wanted Elin to be fast asleep in bed when he got home, as if everything that had happened to her had happened in her sleep, and could be forgotten.

As he approached the Shack he veered off to the toolshed and picked up an axe. It might well be as useless as the fence post he'd used but it felt good in his hand, and perhaps a sharp weapon would work better.

The fire alarm up in the village went off just as he pushed down the handle of the outside door. The door was locked. He thought about it. No, he hadn't locked it when he went out. And there was no light in the kitchen window. It had been on when he left.

'Elin!' he shouted through the closed door. 'Elin, are you there?'

The door was old and in poor condition; many winters of patient work had made it settle in the frame. He pushed the blade of the axe into the broad gap above the lock and prised the door open with a cracking sound. He stepped into the hallway and said tentatively, 'Elin? Elin, it's only me.'

He took off his shoes and locked the door, which was now even more warped, behind him. Despite an exhaustion that felt much too big to be accommodated in his skinny body, fear kicked the adrenaline into action once again as he crept through the hallway, clutching the shaft of the axe.

No more now, he thought. No more.

The beam of the torch made the perfectly ordinary kitchen furniture look ominous, creating shadows with unpleasant shapes.

'Elin,' he whispered. 'Elin, are you there?'

The kitchen floor creaked beneath his feet and he stopped, listened. The fire alarm could be heard less clearly indoors, but still covered all the small noises that might indicate the presence of another person.

He went on into the living room. A little warmth was still emanating from the Roslagen stove, and he swept the beam of the torch around him without noticing anything strange, apart from the fact that the bedroom door was closed. He licked his lips. His tongue was still stiff from the wormwood, and the taste seemed to have penetrated so deep into the flesh of his palate that it would never be possible to wash it away.

When he pushed down the handle, the door was barricaded from the inside. But it had been done badly, and the chair that had been placed behind the door fell over when he pushed.

Elin was sitting in the bed, leaning against the bedpost. She had wrapped the quilt around her so that only her head was sticking up. The sheet at the foot of the bed was streaked with blood and covered in lumps of mud.

'Elin?'

Her eyes were staring at him in terror. He didn't dare go into the room or switch on the light, because he didn't know how she would react. He became aware of the axe in his hand, and put it down next to the door. He shone the torch around the room, listened to the fire alarm. He looked at Elin, and a shudder ran through his body.

She's dead. They've killed her and put her here.

'Elin?' he whispered. 'Elin, it's Anders. Can you hear me?'

She nodded. A faint, faint nod. He made a gesture, just hang on, and turned away. Behind him he heard Elin say, 'Don't leave me.'

'I'm just going to make a phone call. I'll be right back.'

He went into the kitchen, switched on the light and rang Anna- Greta's number; he told her Elin was back, and they would deal with everything when they'd had a couple of hours' sleep. When Anna- Greta had hung up, Anders stood with the receiver in his hand, staring at the grubby tape on the table.

The music you play, would you say it was…just between ourselves… cheerful music?

He wanted to ring somewhere and ask for help. He wanted to ring Kalle Sandare. Sit at the kitchen table with the phone pressed to his ear listening to Kalle's gentle Gothenburg accent, like balm to the soul, talking about little things and laughing from time to time.

How can the world be like this? How can what happened tonight exist at the same time as Kalle Sandare exists?

He put the phone down and felt a strange pain in his chest. It wasn't Kalle Sandare he missed, but his father. Kalle was just a simpler and more manageable substitute. Because they had had so much fun together with Kalle, Kalle had come to mean Dad, but without the difficult associations.