Blackwater by Kerstin Ekman Page A

against the stones. That was stupid, but it was done now.
     
    He ought to have realised there wouldn’t be many cars about just after four in the morning. The sun had deceived him. He sat down on the roadside grass. All he could hear was the roar of the stream, like a train, or a gigantic toilet permanently flushing. He could hardly hear the birds, which was why he was surprised when a car came along at last. He leapt into road with the pail and thrust out his thumb. It was a woman in a white Saab. She braked so the gravel spurted.
    ‘Going to Norway?’
    She said it. He just nodded, but at the same moment thought about Oula Laras on his scooter. He and his family lived in Langvasslien.
    He had to put the pail on the floor in the back. She didn’t even ask what was in it. She hadn’t said much yet, but he thought she talked like the Finns who used to come and do clearing work for Torsten. There were chocolate wrappers and rubbish all over the car and a plastic container of duty-free liquor on the back seat.
    ‘God, it’s beautiful here,’ she said, as the road ran along Blackwater. ‘I’ve never been this way before. I usually go via Östersund and Trondheim.’
    When they got into the village, everything seemed silent and sleeping, but then he spotted Vidart’s old Duett on its way down towards Tangen. He crouched down so he wouldn’t be seen.
    ‘Oh, dear, dear,’ said the woman. She had a harsh laugh, not exactly jolly. She sounded sarcastic and he felt uncertain beside her.
    ‘Good,’ she said, as they crossed the border. ‘That’s enough of Sweden. Quite enough. Or are you Swedish?’
    Of course, she hadn’t heard him say much. He shook his head.
    ‘Norwegian?’
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not that either, actually.’ And it was true. It might be true. Everything was giving way. He felt something new coming on, something other than being stuck in his room. But he had no money on him. As long as I get through the weekend, he thought. It was an ordinary Saturday here. Or wasn’t it? As soon as the weekend was over, he could get some clearing work. Or planting, anyhow.
     

When they banged on the door, it was almost half past four in the morning. Birger hadn’t slept and his head began to ache the moment he raised it from the pillow. He got out of bed with some caution. When he opened the door and the morning air poured in, he realised the smell of frying was still there in a cold and musty blend of tobacco smoke. Roland Fjellström, who owned the camping site, was standing outside saying something had happened up by the Lobber.
    Åke Vemdal pulled on his trousers and set off towards the office. Birger stood with his forehead against the windowpane. His face felt swollen. He would be able to sleep now.
    The deep, narrow bay between the Tangen and the crown lands was bright and a low cloud was caught on the mountain ridge on the other side, torn by the spruce tops and floating like milk in the water. The sun was coming from the wrong direction, the unusual light making him feel strange and exposed. He saw some goldeneye rising, streaks trembling in the water behind them. Far away, the water was moving. Then he saw it was a boat. Dark.
    It was being rowed evenly at at good speed along the east shore, towards the Tangen. He stood there for a long time watching it and he knew he could sleep soundly now, at last. But perhaps he ought to make some coffee for Åke.
    Someone was rowing with an otter board, the board visible far out on the left, the long line with its small lines and hooks a silvery thread between the boat and the board. What a nerve! But if you were fishing that way, it was a good idea to do it before five in the morning on Midsummer Day when the site was sunk in a heavy, hungover sleep.
    He could see the otter board dancing on. There was only one man in the boat and he must have been holding the line round his forefinger as he rowed. What he would do if he got a bite was hard to imagine.
    The man