If he hadn’t gone out that night, he wouldn’t have seen what he did. And he wouldn’t be having the nightmares that a ten-year-old should never have.
Kurt felt an illicit thrill as he twirled the cigarette in his young fingers. He thought it looked like a miniature magic wand. It was the first time he’d ever touched a cigarette. He knew they weren’t allowed in the house. Mamma and his big sister wouldn’t countenance them, yet he knew his dad sometimes sneaked outside and lit up at the end of the garden. Mamma must turn a blind eye to the garden visits, as it never came up in conversation, certainly not while he was around anyway. So to Kurt, cigarettes were the forbidden fruit which had to be tasted. He knew where Dad kept his secret stash – at the back of the drawer in the garden shed. There was a cheap plastic lighter there too. He would have time to put the lighter back before his dad returned from his fishing trip with his friends; he always had a drink in Simrishamn before coming home.
He knew he should be in bed at this hour, but Mamma was more lax during the school summer holidays. The beach, a local haunt, had been quite busy during the day, as it always was when the weather was sunny. Now it was a fine, warm evening; dusk beginning to hug the landscape. The beach was deserted except for a solitary man staring out to sea. Kurt recognised Linus, one of that rowdy group of young people that had spent most of the summer in the village. This was the second summer they’d come to Knäbäckshusen. Mamma wasn’t keen on them. They made too much noise at unsocial hours – they stayed up too late and often didn’t emerge until after midday. His mother couldn’t abide the waste of summer days when, as she was always ready to point out, the winter would be on them soon enough. Mamma had a way at looking at the gloomy side of life. Dad called them “bohemians”, though Kurt had no idea what that meant. But Kurt liked them. They were fun. And they would talk to him occasionally, which is more than his snooty sister did – she thought he was too young to be of any interest. And now she had a boyfriend in Hammenhög, she hadn’t been around much these holidays. At least Kurt had been left more to his own devices during the long, hazy days. He’d played with his pals and got up to the usual mischief that boys do, but even he wouldn’t tell his friends about the cigarette until he had tried it. If it worked, he would boast about it; if not, he would keep quiet. Anyway, he didn’t trust John not to blab. The consequences of his mother finding out were too dreadful to contemplate.
Now he was safely in the cover of the trees above the beach. He couldn’t be seen, even by someone taking a late stroll. He could hear the sea caressing the sand below. He was about to take the final exhilarating step and light the cigarette, clamped awkwardly between his trembling lips, when he noticed a light from the chapel’s tiny window. The chapel was a converted fisherman’s hut; a small stone building with a timber frontage and a thatched roof. Built into a high bank of sand, it perched snugly above the beach, next to a similar but smaller hut. It was only used for special occasions and visited by the odd tourist or seeker of a few moments’ peace. Kurt checked himself. If he flicked on the lighter, anyone coming out of the chapel might see the flame. It was strange for anybody to be there at this hour. He retreated further back into the trees. He lit his cigarette and sucked for all he was worth. For a moment, there was a tingle as something tickled the back of his throat. Then he started to splutter, and he found himself coughing violently. As he tried to suppress the noises he was making, his head began to swim. He felt nauseous. This was horrible. He flung the cigarette away and it hit a tree and fell to the ground, the end glowing leeringly at him from the shadows. He quickly realized that he must extinguish the ember, and he scuffed it with his sandal. All he wanted to do now was put his dad’s lighter back in its drawer and forget about smoking forever.
As he made his way back to the edge of the trees, he heard the creak of the chapel’s wooden door, followed by someone padding quickly up the steep sandy path which led, past the bell tower at the top of the bank, to the village. Kurt gazed down at the chapel. It was then that he noticed a thin slit of quivering candlelight coming through the door, which had been left ajar. He didn’t have the courage to investigate who was still inside. They would probably be praying or meditating. But the path past the chapel was the quickest and easiest way home, and now he wanted to get back as quickly as possible. He crept up to the door; he couldn’t hear anything from inside. He scrambled up the path. At the top, where the building almost disappeared into the hillside, there was the small window he’d glimpsed before, which in the daytime illuminated a narrow brick altar. Kurt’s curiosity got the better of him. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the light as the candles flickered through the grimy pane. At first, he couldn’t see much. The rough wooden benches against the side walls appeared unoccupied. He expected to see someone kneeling before the altar. Then, as he strained his eyes, he realized that a crumpled figure was lying on the floor. This was a funny way to pray. The person wasn’t moving. He knew the chapel attracted all sorts of peculiar people, yet some sense was telling him that this wasn’t right. Then he recognized the man. It was one of the “bohemians”. By the long dark hair, he knew it to be the unfriendly one: Göran. Was he drunk? With his heart thumping against his chest, Kurt made his way back down the path and stood in front of the door. It wasn’t like a church door at all – it was panelled like the one on his grandfather’s barn. He peered through the slit. His mouth was dry. The door opened further with a loud creak as he swung it gently outwards. Göran was still there. He was curled up and was clutching his chest. Kurt tentatively took a couple of steps closer. He thought he detected a slight moan. This goaded him into action, and he approached the prone figure.
‘Are you OK?’
There was no reply. Kurt now felt frightened. What was happening? He plucked up the nerve to go right up to Göran and he knelt down on one knee beside him. He saw the man’s lips twitching. Was he attempting to say something? Kurt leant over as close as he dared and strained his ear. Then there came a muffled whisper. He wasn’t sure if he heard the words correctly. It was at that moment that he noticed Göran’s hands were all red, blood dripping through his fingers onto the brick floor.
Kurt staggered back. He thought he was going to be sick. He had to escape. He jumped to his feet and ran out of the chapel as fast as he could.