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‘I’m busy,’ he said.

Joel could feel that he was in danger of bursting into tears.

‘It’s my father,’ he said. ‘He’s very ill.’

Joel held out the letter. Captain Håkansson beckoned to him.

Then he stared hard at Joel, who could feel the tears in his eyes.

‘I don’t want to read a private letter you have received,’ said the captain, ‘but I can see from your face that it’s true.’

‘I have to go home,’ said Joel.

The captain nodded.

‘I’ll fix it,’ he said curtly.

He stood up.

‘I’ll have a word with the chief steward and the telegraphist. Prepare to leave by this evening.’

‘Thank you,’ said Joel.

‘I’ve had good reports about you,’ said the captain. ‘You do your job well. Never any problems.’

He nodded towards the door. The conversation was over.

That same evening Joel boarded the night train to Sweden.

13

It was late when Joel got off the train that winter evening.

And it was very cold. The thermometer hanging on the station wall showed minus 31 degrees Celsius. Joel pulled his scarf over his mouth and nose. He was the only one to leave the train. The stationmaster waved his flag and withdrew to the warmth of the staff rooms.

Joel was all alone. He had bought a sailor’s kitbag in Narvik. Inside it were his clothes and the presents he’d bought in Liberia.

He set off walking. He took the old road by the river.

He didn’t know how many times he’d walked or cycled along that road. But now it felt like the first time ever.

He was in a hurry. During the long journey from Narvik he had felt his unease growing all the way. He must have read the letter from Samuel at least a hundred times. In order to grasp what it meant. He’d tried to convince himself that Samuel was drunk when he wrote the letter. Drunk and lonely, in a kitchen full of burnt saucepans. Joel had to go home now in order to clean up and wash the dishes.

But Samuel would never write a letter after being out drinking. So Joel tried to convince himself his father was exaggerating. That might be a possibility. Samuel sometimes imagined that he was more ill than he really was.

But deep down, Joel knew. He’d known even in the hotel in Stockholm, the moment Samuel came in through the door.

Samuel was so ill that he might die.

Joel walked as fast as he could. The cold air was scratching at his lungs.

He suddenly stopped in his tracks.

What if Samuel was dead already? Or was in hospital?

He set off again even more quickly. He was on the hill now. He’d soon be able to see the house. See if there was a light on in the kitchen.

The road was deserted. Snow was piled high on both sides.

There was nobody else about.

Another twenty metres and he’d be able to see the house. He increased speed even more, despite the fact that he really wanted to stop.

But now he could see the house. And there was a light on in the kitchen.

So Samuel wasn’t dead. And he wasn’t in hospital.

He was at home.

Joel slowed down. He needed to prepare himself now. What was in store for him? What would Samuel say when Joel suddenly appeared in the doorway, stamping the snow off his boots? Joel hadn’t been able to inform Samuel that he’d be arriving that very evening.

He went through the gate and into the garden. Past where he’d slept in an old bed one night a year ago. When he’d resolved to live to be a hundred, and had started to toughen himself up. He shook his head. He’d never do anything like that again. He opened the door and listened. As he did so it occurred to him that he ought to have knocked. Samuel wasn’t expecting visitors. He might think it was a burglar.

He went into the kitchen. The door of Samuel’s room was half open. The radio was silent. But the light was on.

He put his kitbag on the floor. The sink was empty, he noticed. No sign of any burnt saucepans. Or empty bottles.

He took off his woolly hat and mittens, and approached the door.

Samuel was in bed.

He was awake, and looked at Joel.

He smiled.

‘So you’ve come?’ he said. ‘I thought you would. But I didn’t know when.’

‘I came as soon as I got your letter,’ said Joel.

There were bottles of medicine on the bedside table. And Samuel was pale. Unshaven and pale. Although he was under the bedclothes, Joel could see that his dad had lost weight. He hasn’t been eating enough, Joel thought. Perhaps he hasn’t been eating properly since he got back home.

Pools of water started to form round Joel’s boots.

‘I’ll just take my boots off,’ he said, and went to the kitchen. He pulled out his usual chair. It scraped against the floor. He recognised the sound.

When he’d taken off his boots and jacket he went back to Samuel’s room. He sat down on the edge of the bed.

‘You’re growing bigger and bigger,’ said Samuel.

‘I’m five foot eleven now,’ said Joel.

‘That’s taller than I am.’

Silence.

‘I got your letter,’ said Joel.

Samuel pulled a face.

‘I had to write it,’ he said. ‘But we don’t need to discuss that now. How long do you intend staying?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘We can talk about that tomorrow.’

He always wants to put everything off, Joel thought. Samuel Gustafson has never come straight to the point. The whole of his life has been an elaborate detour.

‘I’m not really sure if there’s any food in,’ said Samuel apologetically. ‘In case you’re hungry.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘You can take a look in the pantry.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘But I’ve made your bed. As I knew you’d come to see me.’

That was an important piece of information, Joel thought.

It means he’s not so ill that he can’t stand on his own two legs.

‘I got your letter,’ he said again.

‘I had to write it.’

We can sit here like this all night, Joel thought, saying the same things over and over again. I ask and he answers, and we get nowhere.

‘We can wait until tomorrow,’ said Samuel. ‘You must be tired.’

‘We can’t wait until tomorrow at all. I want to know how you are.’

Samuel nodded.

Joel waited.

‘You remember last summer,’ Samuel began.

‘I remember.’

‘At the hotel. How I had stomach pains. And the nall that hospital business.’

‘They were going to send you a letter.’

Samuel paused again.

Joel was so frightened that he was trembling.

They were nearly there now. The reason why Samuel had written that letter.

‘They sent me a letter,’ he said slowly, as if every word was the result of a big effort.

‘What did it say?’

‘That things weren’t all that good. The tests they’d done. They said I should go to the hospital here and show them the letter. So I did. I showed it to one of the top doctors. He said I had cancer. In my liver. And that it was incurable.’

There was a thudding in Joel’s head. Samuel was dying.

He wasn’t trembling any more. He was completely calm.

‘It was incurable,’ Samuel said again. ‘So now I’m here in bed. I can’t go to work. I just lie here.’

Joel didn’t know what to say.

‘Who does your food shopping for you?’ he asked in the end.

‘Sara’s arranged for somebody to buy me the basic necessities. And a nurse comes to see me every other day. But I’ll probably have to go into hospital soon.’

‘Are you in pain?’

‘Not much. Not like it was in Stockholm.’