Joel gazed out over the schoolyard, glittering white with frost.
Could he think up a good excuse for being late?
Should he blame it on the Miracle? Claim that it was so difficult to cope with it that his legs didn’t have the strength to move quickly?
He shook his head at his own thought. Miss Nederström wouldn’t be fooled by that. If she was really annoyed she might make him march round and round the classroom so that everybody could see his tired legs. And Otto would sit there sniggering...
The harmonium stopped playing. Joel jumped down from the window ledge. He raised his hand to knock on the door.
Inside there were beasts of prey waiting to pounce on him.
He lowered his hand.
I’m ill, he thought. The good deed I have to carry out is making me ill.
That was it. He wouldn’t go to school today.
He recovered his jacket and sneaked out through the door.
To make sure nobody would see him, he crouched down below window level until he had turned the corner.
When he emerged into the street, he felt well and truly relieved. He had made a good decision. He could afford to be off school for one day. Stomachache could strike very quickly. He could have got it after Samuel had gone to work. He’d been stricken by the gripes while he was finishing his breakfast. Nothing serious. But bad enough for him not to go to school.
Now he had a whole day to himself. The first thing he would do was to collect his bike. Then he could do whatever he liked until two o’clock. School finished then, and there was a risk that he might bump into Miss Nederström after two. But until then, he could do whatever he wanted.
He felt the ten-kronor note he had in his pocket.
He suddenly had an idea. He wasn’t sure that it would work, but it could be worth trying.
Old Man Johanson was opening his newsagent’s. Joel watched him removing the shutters from the display windows. There was a parcel of newspapers on the pavement.
Old Man Johanson spotted Joel and pointed to the parcel.
‘The placards,’ he said. ‘Pin ’em up.’
Joel squatted down and started untying the knot in the string round the newspapers. It was a granny knot and almost impossible to unravel. He noticed a rusty nail almost hidden by some stones. He stuck the nail into the knot and twisted and prodded until it came loose and he could remove the yellow placards. As he was pinning them onto the display boards he read the headlines. It said in big, black letters that an agreement had been reached.
Who had agreed, about what?
You had to read the newspaper in order to find out.
It could have said instead: ‘Joel Gustafson’s Miracle’.
‘Joel Gustafson’s struggle to do his good deed.’
‘Rolf not up to it, Gustafson decides.’
‘Will the Caviar Man come up to scratch?’
‘Who will be Gertrud’s man? Watch this space!’
Joel lifted up the parcel and put it on the counter. Old Man Johanson gave him a bottle of Coke for his efforts.
‘Can you change this for me?’ he asked, holding out the ten-kronor note. ‘I need a five-kronor note, and five one-krona coins.’
Old Man Johanson opened the cash register and counted out the money.
‘Why aren’t you at school today?’ he asked.
‘Our teacher’s ill,’ said Joel.
That was a good answer. It could easily be true, and it was difficult to check.
But no doubt Old Man Johanson had forgotten all about it already. He was busy sorting out the newspapers.
Joel hurried off to the cycle shop.
It would be exciting to see if his idea worked.
The bell rang as Joel opened the door. The owner came out from the workshop.
‘I’ve come to collect my bike,’ said Joel. ‘The red one with the broken chain.’
The man disappeared into the workshop, then came back with Joel’s bike.
There was a sheet of paper fastened to the saddle.
‘That’ll be ten kronor, please,’ he said.
‘But I’ve only got eight kronor,’ said Joel, trying to sound devastated. His voice was little more than a squeak.
‘It costs ten kronor,’ said the man. ‘That’s what it says here, on the note. I wrote it myself.’
Joel tried to look as if he were about to burst out crying.
It worked.
‘All right, give me eight kronor. But it should be ten. I wrote it myself on this note.’
Joel gave him eight kronor, and wheeled his bike out of the shop.
Two kronor wasn’t bad.
The day had started well. He’d pulled off a good deal, and he didn’t have a bad conscience about not going to school.
He mounted his bike, and tried a few test skids on the gravel road leading down to the river. The chain felt good. Now he could try to track down the Caviar Man. He pulled up next to a round iron lid in the middle of the street. Maybe the Caviar Man was down there in the Underworld, with all his rats? Joel would lift up the manhole cover and shout down to him.
Everything suddenly became very exciting.
Joel had never imagined that there was an Underworld even in this dump. Underground tunnels and great big pipes and enormous rats hissing through their whiskers.
He would be able to clamber down into a hole and disappear. All the buildings and streets and people would be up above him. Perhaps there would even be a tunnel running underneath his school? Under Miss Nederström’s feet?
He looked round. Would he dare to open the lid and climb down?
There were too many people around who could see him. You only visited the Underworld when there was nobody to see what you were doing.
Joel got back onto his bike and cycled to the red-painted Municipal Offices on the other side of the vicarage, on a slope down to the river. He parked his bike in a stand labelled ‘Visitors to the Municipal Offices’. He opened the front door and went in.
He found himself in a large entrance hall with a stone floor. A broad staircase led to the first floor. The walls were lined with pictures of stern gentlemen, all of them frowning at him. He listened. Not a sound. Behind a glass panel was a little room, and he could see a telephone receiver hanging down, and swinging slowly from side to side. Joel went to investigate and realised that it was a switchboard.
The receiver was still swinging back and forth.
Joel had the feeling that he was on a ghost ship. Somebody had let go of the handset and jumped overboard.
He listened again. Still not a sound. When he walked over the stone floor all he could hear was a faint squeaking noise from his wellingtons. He came to a corridor. A door was standing ajar — it had a sign saying ‘Head Clerk’. Joel peeped inside, but the office was empty. He continued down the corridor. The next door was closed. And the next. Then came a door that was wide open. A sign said ‘Municipal Engineer’. Joel stepped inside. The walls were covered by bookshelves and map racks. There was a large map opened out on the desk, looking like a sea chart. Joel took a closer look. It was the plan of a house.
Joel turned round to leave the room, but found there was a man standing in the doorway.
Joel gave a start.
The man was wearing a dark blue overall. Joel noticed that he was in his bare feet.
‘Is the engineer not here?’ asked the man.
‘No, there’s only me,’ said Joel. ‘I’m lost.’
The man in the dark blue overalls suddenly slapped himself on the forehead.
Joel gave another start.
‘Of course,’ said the man. ‘They have a meeting. All the local council bosses. I’d forgotten.’