I dragged the boat ashore on the skerry and moored it by the same rock I had favoured when I was a boy. I put up the tent in what had been my usual spot. I spread out the sleeping bag and lay down. The uneven ground beneath me was instantly familiar.
I got up, gathered twigs and branches in the semi-darkness and piled them up in a crevice in the rock. However, as I knelt there with a box of matches in my hand, I decided not to light my fire. I had had enough of flames. I left the branches where they were and went back to the tent. I hadn’t brought any source of light with me, so I lay on top of the sleeping bag, had a cup of coffee and ate a couple of sandwiches. The wind came and went in sudden gusts. I was filled with a sense of liberation. For the first time since I rushed out of my burning house, I was able to think clearly once more.
I had made up my mind to move the caravan, but I didn’t want to make a decision about the house until my daughter came home. It was more about her future than mine.
I thought about Lisa Modin and her impending visit. I pleaded with her in my thoughts. I didn’t hurt her, didn’t cross the line with my hopes of perhaps experiencing love again in my old age.
These pleasant reveries carried me slowly into the diffuse landscape where reality slips into sleep and dreams.
I woke up shivering. Before I crawled into the sleeping bag I went outside. The sky was full of stars, and there was hardly a breath of wind. There are flight paths directly above this part of the archipelago, but after eleven o’clock at night it’s usually quiet.
I couldn’t see the moon. There had always been autumn nights, and there would always be autumn nights even when I was no longer around. I was a temporary guest in the darkness, and I would never be anything else.
I slept badly. If a stray gust of wind shook the tent flap, I was immediately awake. I would lie there for a long time before nodding off, only to be woken again a little while later.
I thought about Louise, wondered what she was doing. I wondered when she would come home. I thought back to the time when I had been a doctor and to the years after the disaster when I had lost all sense of direction in my life. I passed one crossroads after another.
It was a night of broken sleep and shattered contemplation. At dawn, when the first ray of light appeared over the sea, I got up and left the tent. I jumped up and down to shake some life into my body, frightening a lone swan on the shore. It flew away on heavy wings. I looked at my watch. Fourteen minutes to seven. It was a cold morning. Far away on the horizon, a cargo ship was ploughing northwards through the waves.
I left the tent where it was and simply folded up my sleeping bag. I took the flask, the bottle of water and the greaseproof paper my sandwiches had been wrapped in down to the boat. I pushed it off the rock and jumped in.
The engine didn’t start. That had never happened before. I had no tools with me, nothing I could use to adjust the spark plugs. I doubted that any water had got into the fuel tank.
I made several more attempts to start the engine, then I flipped it up and took to the oars. I decided to call Jansson. I don’t know anyone who can deal with a recalcitrant engine better than him, apart from the professional mechanics on the mainland, of course. I didn’t like having to contact him, but I couldn’t see any other option. There was no way I could ask him to pick up Lisa Modin, take us out to Vrångskär, then pick us up a few hours later.
I rowed home, moored the boat and made a dozen or so further attempts to start the engine. Still nothing. I sat down on the bench and called Jansson. He promised to be there within the hour. He asked a few questions about what the engine sounded like when I pulled the cord, in much the same way as I asked questions when he came to me with his imaginary aches and pains.
‘It won’t start,’ I said. ‘It sounds perfectly normal. There’s just one problem. It won’t start.’
‘I’m sure we can get it going,’ Jansson said.
He arrived an hour later, to the minute. I went into the boathouse with him. He pulled the cord several times; the engine didn’t start.
‘I’m sure we can get it going,’ he said again.
‘Come up to the caravan if you want a cup of coffee,’ I said.
Jansson probably wanted me to stay and keep him company. While I was grateful for his help, I couldn’t cope with the endless, unrelenting stream of his words, particularly if he started talking about macabre execution methods or something else that lay buried in his bizarre store of knowledge.
I went through the drawers in the caravan and found a pack of cards. The only form of patience I know is Idiot’s Delight. I played a few games, and of course it didn’t come out. After an hour or so I went to see how Jansson was getting on. He had removed the protective housing, unscrewed the spark plugs, and was shining his torch on the internal workings of the engine.
‘Have you found out what’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘Not yet. But I’m sure it’s nothing serious.’
I didn’t ask any more questions. He carried on working, and I watched him in silence for a little while. I was just about to go back to the caravan when I thought about my phone.
‘Can you set the clock on my mobile? I don’t trust these cheap watches.’
Jansson switched off the torch, put down the tool he was using and took my phone. In less than a minute he had set the time, calibrating it with his own watch.
‘I’m not very good at the technical stuff,’ I said.
‘It’s very simple. If you like I can show you what else it can do.’
‘Thanks, but the time is really all I need.’
‘You can use it as an alarm clock, but maybe you know that already.’
‘I don’t need anything to wake me up.’
I stayed a little while longer, watching as Jansson continued his meticulous examination of my recalcitrant engine. Then I went back to my cards.
Even though Jansson insisted it was nothing serious, it took him another three hours to identify and fix whatever was wrong. I was having a cup of coffee when he knocked on the door.
‘All done,’ he said.
‘What was it?’
‘Nothing, really. But those are the trickiest problems to solve.’
‘Coffee?’
‘Thanks, but I’ll get off home. It took a bit longer than I expected.’
We went down to the boat. The housing was back on, the tools all put away.
‘Start her up,’ Jansson said.
I clambered down into the boat. The engine started straight away. I switched it off and tried again. Same result.
I climbed out and walked along the jetty with Jansson. I asked how much I owed him. He looked offended and said I didn’t owe him anything.
‘There was nothing wrong,’ he insisted.
‘There must have been something — it took you hours!’
He mumbled something unintelligible, got into his boat and started her up. I cast off his mooring ropes and he reversed away from the jetty, one hand raised in farewell.
I wondered if he sang in his beautiful voice when he was alone in his boat, speeding across the waves.
A bank of cloud was approaching from the south. I went over to the mainland to shop for food and also put an A4 pad of lined paper in my basket. The rain arrived when I was about halfway home, hammering against the boat. I was soaked to the skin by the time I reached the boathouse.
Back in the caravan I changed into the remaining unused Chinese shirt. I had no dry trousers so I hung the sodden pair over the edge of the table and wrapped a blanket around my legs.
I fell asleep early that night.
The following day the rain had gone. I went over to the mainland again and bought more clothes from the same shop.