Harbour

Maja's face, Maja's eyes. Yes, it was just as he had thought. Her attention was drawn to something over in the east, by that empty band.

Daddy, what's that?

Anders looked out of the window. Beyond the carpet of gulls covering the bay he could just see the tiny white lighthouse. No more than a glint in the morning light, a dot on the sky.

Ten minutes later he had pulled on his outdoor clothes, fetched his tools and mounted the outboard engine on the plank of wood. The temperature had fallen by several degrees and was now close to zero, but after yanking on the starter cord several times he was quite warm.

He checked everything that could be checked, sprayed lubricant on all the moving parts and starter fluid into the air filter, took out the spark plugs and dried them even though they were already dry, put them back, pumped up the petrol and slapped the engine with the palm of his hand.

'Now start, you bastard.'

He yanked the cord five times without the engine making the slightest effort to start, not even a cough from the carburettor.

He yelled, 'What the fuck's the matter with you, you evil fucking bastard!' and pulled on the cord as hard as he could. He put his entire body weight behind it, and when the cord ripped off in his hand he fell backwards and hit the bottom of his back on the hard ground.

A red mist descended in front of his eyes and he leapt to his feet, lifted the engine off the plank and staggered down to the jetty, where he pushed from the shoulder and hurled it as far out into the water as he could.

A few gulls bobbing close to the jetty panicked and flapped away as the engine hit the water and sank from view. Anders was panting with the exertion; he bent over, his hands resting on his knees, and whispered, 'That'll teach you. You weren't expecting that, were you?'

The gulls settled back on the surface, watching him with their black eyes.

When he came to his senses he realised that what he had just done wasn't particularly clever. It could have been a simple fault, and there were people in the village who knew about these things. At the same time he had a sudden urge to run away and hide. He had done something wrong, and now he needed to go and sit in a dark place where nobody would be able to find him.

The woodshed flashed through his mind. If he crept in beside a pile of wood and pulled a sack over his head, nobody would be able to see him.

Quick! Before somebody comes!

He turned and was halfway along the jetty, taking short, creeping steps before he pulled himself up. He shook his head and wrapped his arms around his body.

What am I doing?

He knew what he was doing: he didn't know what he was doing. One hound didn't know. They were circling around each other, sniffing at each other's tails. He hugged himself, said in a gentle, reassuring voice, 'It's OK. Everything's fine. I'm not cross. Nobody's cross.'

Sure?

'Yes, yes. Quite sure. The engine was stupid.'

Don't say that about the engine. It'll be upset.

It wasn't Maja's voice he was hearing, it was just his own thoughts, but they were being…guided. He was being led into patterns, ideas that were not his. He pressed his wrists against his temples.

This is driving me mad. That's the sort of thing people say, but this… this really is driving me mad.

He straightened up and took a couple of deep breaths. He was in control, he was Anders. He heard the faint soughing of the wind in his ears, the lapping of the waves and voices from over on the steamboat jetty. Agitated voices and the sound of children screaming. For a moment he thought it was something to do with him, but it was too far away. There were a lot of people standing on the jetty and there was some kind of quarrel, but he couldn't tell what it was about.

It's nothing to do with me.

He pulled himself together and walked away from the sea. Simon had said he could borrow his boat whenever he wanted, and that was precisely what he intended to do.

The confusion left him; with every step he took towards Simon's jetty, more and more of the morning's decisiveness and clarity returned. He knew what he had to do, he had a direction.

Now all he had to do was follow it.

Horrid children

Seven children in years 1 to 6 lived on Domaro. Seven children who stood on the steamboat jetty at quarter to eight every morning, waiting for the tender to the mainland, to Naten and school. Adults and high-school children travelled earlier in order to get to their school in Radmanby or to their jobs in Norrtalje.

Despite the fact that the children's ages ranged from Marten and Emma in Year 1 to Arvid in Year 6, there was a sense of community in the group. The smaller ones were taught the routine by the older ones, and they travelled together, waited together and made sure everything happened as it should.

Up to a point this sense of community extended into life at school as well. If a younger Domaro child was teased or bullied in the playground, it could easily happen that one of the older children from the group would step in and put a stop to it. Perhaps it was for the honour of Domaro, perhaps it was so that they could look each other in the eye, perhaps it was due to a spontaneous empathy, acquired during those mornings in the rain and cold, or brilliant sunshine.

At any rate, they were a group, and they knew it. There were seven of them, and they were from Domaro.

On this particular morning, several of the children were preoccupied with the large number of gulls gathered in the bay. The temperature had fallen by several degrees during the night, and the birds looked frozen as they sat there drifting along with the currents, shaking themselves from time to time as if to try and keep warm.

The children were more warmly dressed. Marten and Emma wrapped up in snowsuits, Maria in Year 5 wearing an enormous hat and scarf, Johan and Elin in Year 3 somewhat more modestly but still warmly clad.

Arvid was inside the shelter, shivering. He had inherited a leather jacket from his grandfather and it was his most treasured possession, but it didn't provide much warmth on a day like today. His grandfather had worked for the coastguard and was immune to both the cold and the heat. He pulled nets out of holes in the ice with his bare hands and extinguished his cigarettes between his thumb and forefinger. He had been Arvid's idol, but he had died of cancer a few months earlier. Arvid had taken over his jacket and had discovered that it was much too big and provided little warmth. But it was Grandfather's and-if the truth were told-it also looked pretty good.

That made six children. There was no sign of the seventh yet. Sofia Bergwall, the daughter of Lasse and Lina. She was late this morning.

Maria gazed up towards the road. Despite the fact that Sofia was a year younger, she was Maria's best friend, and they had been together since they went to day care together. Waiting for the boat was boring when Sofia wasn't here. Maria turned towards the sea, and saw the tender approaching just beyond the carpet of gulls. It would be a few minutes before it hove to, but Sofia was always there in plenty of time. Maria chewed on her lip and spotted Sofia, walking up from the shop.

Maria waved, but her best friend didn't seem to notice her. There was something stiff and odd about the way she was walking; she was dressed in thin clothes and seemed preoccupied by some difficult problem. Maria knew what had happened to her father, Lasse, the previous day, and thought it probably had something to do with that.

Sofia didn't even say hello when she reached the jetty, she simply went and stood at the far end and stared at the gulls, which had begun to take off in disorganised flocks as the boat came closer.

'Soffi, what is it?' Maria placed a hand on her friend's shoulder, but Sofia merely snorted and turned away. Maria inspected her clothes and shook her head. It didn't make any sense. Sofia's mother always made sure Sofia was suitably dressed, but today she had no hat, no gloves, and only a thin anorak that wouldn't provide much