light during the night now. Hjalmar curses the light, and tells himself that’s why. But he knows the truth. His heart is racing. Sometimes he’s afraid it will be the death of him. But he’s started to get used to it. Knows his heart will calm down after a while.
Just think: I shall never, ever sleep again.
Hjalmar dreams about me sometimes. How I hacked a hole in the ice from underneath. He dreams about the water squirting out through the hole when I stuck my hand through it. In his dream more and more water comes spurting out, and he drowns in it. He wakes up, gasping for breath.
Sometimes he dreams that my hand clamps itself like a vice round his, and that I drag him down into the water.
He dreams about thin ice. Ice that gives way beneath him. Black water.
He doesn’t have the strength to look after himself properly. He looked a right mess at my funeral. He hadn’t had a shower for ages, and his hair was greasy.
Hjalmar Krekula checked the time on his mobile: 7.10. He ought to have been at work ages ago. But Tore had not phoned to ask where the devil he was.
But maybe it was only fair to have a day off when you had helped to… No, he dismissed all thoughts and images involving Hjorleifur Arnarson. Pointless. The whole business was so bloody pointless.
I’m used to doing whatever Tore wants me to do, Hjalmar thought. I was forced to do it at first. But then it became a habit. No doubt it all goes back to when we got lost in the forest. I stopped thinking for myself. Making my own mind up. I just did as I was told.
It is October 1957. A Saturday. The older boys from the village are playing bandy on the ice covering the lake.
Tore Krekula asks his dad if he can go and watch. Yes, of course he can. He takes his bandy stick and sets off. Hjalmar is also going to watch, but first he has to carry firewood and water to the sauna down by the lake. Isak makes the sauna so hot that there is a danger of burning the whole place down. Tonight they are going to have a bath. He has sawn through the ice down by the jetty and made a hole so that Hjalmar can carry water up to the big tub that is heated by a wood fire.
Hjalmar does all the heavy stuff. Tore is excused, even though he has started school this autumn. On the first day of term Isak took Hjalmar by the ear and told him: “It’s your job to look after your brother, is that clear?”
It is just over a year since the incident in the forest. Tore is still receiving letters and parcels – but less often, of course. His new satchel is a present from the Friends of the Forest Club in Stockholm.
Hjalmar looks after Tore. That means that Tore rules the roost over his classmates, even the older pupils. Tore steals their money, threatens them, fights and decides which of his classmates is going to be beaten up after school every day. He concludes that it is going to be a skinny little lad with glasses by the name of Alvar. If anybody objects, or even hits back, Tore calls Hjalmar. Alvar has an elder brother, but nobody wants to get involved in a fight with Hjalmar Krekula, so he doesn’t intervene. Besides, their dad drowned a couple of years back. Tore and his mates have a lot of fun with Alvar. During the last lesson of the day, one of them might put up his hand and ask permission to go to the toilet. When the bell goes, Alvar finds that his shoes are full of water. Or perhaps the sleeves of his jacket are crammed full of wet paper. After P.E., they sometimes steal his trousers so that he has to go home in his underpants. Alvar is frightened all the time. He runs home from school. He begs his teacher to let him go before the bell rings. Tells her he has stomach-ache. That is no doubt true. He comes home to his mother with his clothes and school books in a mess, but he does not dare tell her who is responsible. His elder brother says nothing either.
That is what Tore Krekula is really like, the little hero of the forest from Piilijarvi. But needless to say, the Friends of the Forest Club in Stockholm know nothing at all about it.
Hjalmar has carried all the necessary water and firewood to the sauna, ready for the evening’s ablutions, so he can run to the other end of the village and watch the bandy match. They are using birch branches as goal posts. Not all of them have skates, some just have to run about in their ordinary shoes. Most of the bandy sticks are home-made.
Tore cheers up when he sees Hjalmar approaching, although he pretends he has not seen him. Hjalmar has the feeling that something stupid is about to happen. Something tells him he ought to go back home right away. But he does not.
Hans Aho shoots at the goal, but Yngve Talo makes a save. Someone tries to intercept the pass out, and there is a scrum inside the penalty area.
Tore takes the opportunity to jump down onto the ice with his stick and bandy ball. He hits the ball into the empty goal at the other end.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” shouts the goalie, who has been upfield in support of his team’s attack.
“Pack it in, Tore,” one of the girls in the crowd of spectators shouts.
But Tore does not pack it in. The goalie skates back and tells him again to clear off.
Tore grins and leaves the pitch, but he soon returns, dribbling the ball.
The game comes to a halt. The lads tell Tore to go home and stop messing about. Tore asks if they own the lake. Nobody has told him that they do.
“Hjalmar,” he shouts. “Does this crowd own the lake? Have you heard anything about it?”
When the big boys are playing, the little lads keep out of the way. That is an unwritten law.
The bandy players look over at Hjalmar. A few are about the same age as him; most are older. They want to see if he is going to join in the sabotage. Everyone knows that the Krekula brothers stick together. Not that Hjalmar would stand a chance against the combined bandy teams, but the fact that he is outnumbered does not usually put him off. Everyone is wondering how serious the fighting is going to be.
Hjalmar is furious. That bloody Tore! Why does he always have to stir up trouble unnecessarily? But this time he can sort things out for himself. Hjalmar turns away and gazes out over the lake.
The bandy players register the signal. Hjalmar is not going to get involved.
One of them, Torgny Ylipaa, who has been sick to death of Tore Krekula’s antics for a long time, gives him a dig in the chest.
“Go home to Mummy,” he says.
Tore hits him back. Hard. Ylipaa falls over backwards.
“Go home yourself,” Tore says.
Ylipaa is soon back on his feet. Tore raises his bandy stick, but one of the other lads grabs hold of it and prevents the blow. Ylipaa seizes his chance and punches Tore on the nose.
“Clear off home, I said.”
Tore starts crying. Maybe his nose is bleeding. Nobody is able to see. He runs away, clutching his face. He leaves his stick on the ice. One of the players picks it up and moves it to one side.
“Shall we get going, then?”
They resume playing.
It only takes a quarter of an hour. Isak Krekula appears. He walks straight across the bandy pitch to Hjalmar. White with fury. The game stops again, and now all the players and spectators watch as Isak grabs hold of his eldest son and drags him away without a word. He holds him firmly by the collar.
Isak utters not a word as he drags his son along the road through the village. But his heavy breathing reflects his fury as they reach the house. Hjalmar is scared stiff as his father frogmarches him down to the sauna. What on earth is he going to do?
“Father,” he says. “Wait a minute. Father.”
But Isak tells him to hold his tongue. He is not interested in explanations.
