Simon pulled at his arm and Anders got up and followed him as if he were in a trance.
No one has such long fingers.
In his mind's eye he could see the sea groping its way across the rocks on the islands, through fissures in the bedrock, down into the ground, into the wells, and it was like a mantra running through his head as Simon led him outside: No one has such long fingers. No one has such long fingers.
'Anders, are you still with us?'
Simon waved a hand in front of his eyes, and with an effort Anders managed to bring himself back, to discover that he was standing on the porch of the community centre. His right hand was resting on the cold iron railing; he gripped it tightly, holding himself firmly in place.
'How did you work it out?' he asked.
'When I was looking for water for Göran,' said Simon, 'and I felt all the brackish water coursing through the rock-'
'Felt?'
'Yes.' Simon pulled the matchbox out of his pocket and showed it to Anders, then put it away again. Anders nodded. He did actually remember that part of the story.
And then I thought about what your water is like,' Simon went on, 'and above all what Elin's water was like. After the fire I was by her well, there was something that drew me to it, there was something there. I didn't pick up on it at the time, but I tasted the water and it was salty. More salty than yours. Since then that thought has been in the back of my mind and…today I caught sight of it.' Simon sighed and glanced at the closed door of the community centre. 'Although I don't really think I managed to convince anybody.'
'Why were you so late?'
Simon shrugged his shoulders. 'I had to check. Karl-Erik's well and the Bergwalls' well. It was the same there. Salt in the water. When they were sawing they probably had flasks of water with them, and drank as they worked. I think it reaches some kind of critical point and then…it breaks out. The other person.'
Anders leaned on the railing and looked down towards the harbour. It was an hour until the next tender crossed the sea. Was permitted to cross the sea.
No one has such long fingers. No one has such strong fingers.
Unannounced, a memory popped into his head. He was perhaps ten years old when his father put out a hoop net for fun and caught one solitary eel. Anders had stood on the jetty watching his father trying to grab hold of the eel to get it out of the boat. It had been impossible.
Eventually his father managed to push the eel into a plastic bag. It slithered out. He got the eel into the bag once again and held the top closed with both hands as he climbed out of the boat with great difficulty.
When he got up on to the jetty he stopped and stared at the bag and laughed out loud. Despite the fact that his hands were strong and he was clutching the bag as tightly as he could, the eel had still managed to brace itself against the bottom of the bag and was slowly and inexorably forcing its way past his clenched fists and out of the bag. It fell on to the jetty, hurled its body forward and slid into the water.
'Well, there's a thing,' said his father with a kind of admiration in his voice. 'That one certainly wanted to live.'
Afterwards they had laughed about it. His father so big and strong, the eel so small and tough. And yet the eel had won.
No one has such long, such strong fingers.
And yet it is still possible to slither through. If you just want to live enough.
Come in
At half-past six the tender moored at the jetty on Domarö, and a man who no longer wanted to die left the group of cheerful people getting off. He ran to the west. When he drew level with the ramblers' hostel he had to slow down, since a renewed desire to live does not bring with it new lungs.
Anders jogged to the point where the track divided in two. He was forced to walk the last stretch because his windpipe was whistling and he felt as if he was breathing through a straw. He passed the straight pine tree, pulled open the door of the Shack and went straight into the kitchen without taking off his shoes. He leaned over the sink, turned on the tap and drank like a man who has walked across the desert. He panted, breathed in deeply, drank again. Straightened up, panted, drank again.
He drank until his stomach was distended and the cold water was threatening to come back up through his throat. Then he lay down on the floor. When he rocked from side to side he could hear the water lapping in his stomach.
Come in. I will carry you.
He closed his eyes and listened, checked what he was feeling.
He had promised Simon and Anna-Greta that he would go back up to Anna-Greta's house as soon as he had done what he had to do at home. But still he lay there on the floor, waiting as the water in his stomach gradually ceased to be a cold, separate clump, as its temperature rose to body heat and became a part of him.
Are you there?
There was no answer, and doubt sank its claws into him. What if Simon had been wrong? What if Simon had been right, but it still didn't mean that Maja was on his side? The snowsuit. How had Henrik and Björn actually got hold of the snowsuit?
This was the last chance. He was balancing on the edge of a precipice, and only a touch as light as a feather, the right touch, could save him. If it didn't come, there was nothing but the downward plunge and the darkness.
Come. Touch me.
Inside his body was a hollow space that was much bigger than his body. A summer breeze off the sea wafted through the room, bringing with it a single fluffy dandelion seed that floated around on the air currents until it finally landed on the inside of his skin. It tickled and settled down. That was what it felt like. So faint. But he knew.
You are here.
After that first, microscopic touch it grew stronger. What the water had carried with it spread through his blood, into his muscles, and the tickle became a soft caress and a greater presence, as if the downy seed really had brought with it other seeds that had now taken root in his flesh, causing small dandelions to bloom. He couldn't see them, but beneath the horizon they lit up his world, and his eyes filled with tears.
Hello, sweetheart. I'm sorry I…forgive me. For everything.
He looked in cupboards and drawers and got out every bottle he could find, then filled them from the kitchen tap. He ended up with about ten litres of water in large and small bottles, which he stuffed into two carrier bags. He found room for the bottle of wormwood too.
Finally he fetched some Bamse comics from the bedroom and slipped the photographs from Gåvasten into his pocket. Then he left the house. Before he even got to Anna-Greta's house he fished out one of the bottles and took a couple of swigs.
The newlyweds were sitting in the kitchen, and had changed into their everyday clothes. Everything was as usual, and everything was different. New bonds had been formed without anything changing on the surface. When Simon caught sight of the carrier bags, he asked, 'Is that…water?'
'Yes.'
'Can I have a look at one of the bottles?'
Anders dug out one of the bottles and placed it on the table in front of Simon. It was an old plastic bottle; the label had fallen off, and the slightly cloudy water was clearly visible through the plastic. All three of them gathered around the bottle as if it were a relic, a sacred object.
There was nothing special to see, Anders had already established that when he was filling the bottles. The water in the Shack had always been cloudy because of methane gas or chemical deposits, it had always had that misty, slightly ghostly appearance; it needed to stand in an open container for a while before it cleared.
Simon pulled a glass towards him, looked at Anders and asked, 'May I…?'