THE WATER LAY BLACK, AND FAR AWAY YOU COULD HEAR THE buzz of the city like a distant tone. A man was walking along the Hornsberg waterside path with his dog, and a drunk was sleeping it off on the deck of one of the boats down by the water. No one else could be seen. It was silent and there was almost no wind. The Weasel and Kenta tied up their little motorboat and went ashore. The stars lit up the road.
“Fuck, what a mess, like. The power cut came just at the right time,” said Kenta looking around. The dark facades of houses could be made out along the street.
“Yeah, at last we’ll get rid of that barge.”
“But, seriously, are you OK with that?” Kenta wondered, pointing at the Weasel’s bandaged right hand. The bandage was a bit loose, was frayed and not properly fixed around his wrist.
“I can damn well strike a match! The wound is almost healed.”
“OK,” mumbled Kenta, although he wasn’t really convinced. His friend had got sepsis and had been forced to spend a few nights at Saint Göran’s Hospital. Now he claimed his hand was all right, but even so. They could have waited another week. But the Weasel had been impossible to talk with and had become totally fanatical. They had to get rid of the barge, and that was all there was to it. They passed the jetty and when they came around the corner, they felt the adrenaline rush. There lay the barge. No lights, no sounds. The Silver Punk restaurant was enveloped in darkness.
“Fucking nice!” said Kenta and he prodded the Weasel in his ribs. “We just need to light the fuse. Not a soul will see us go on board.”
“And then we leave in our boat with no lights on either.”
They were really close now. You could see all the stars and the light from them was enough for the two to see where they were going. When they reached the mooring place they stood close to the barge’s starboard side. The Weasel held his finger in front of his lips and they stood completely still while they kept watch. But they saw nothing and heard nothing either. Even so, they waited a little while, but since they still saw no sign of life they snuck along the gangplank and out onto the deck. They made their way cautiously toward the bow and looked in through the dark windows. They could see some tables and chairs but that was all. No sign that anybody had stayed behind. The Weasel gave Kenta a thumbs-up and they continued in the same direction. When they reached the bow, Kenta took off his backpack and pulled out a lighter.
“We’ll use this,” he whispered.
The Weasel didn’t answer but instead went up to the blue-and-white fenders. He gave them a squeeze and smiled when he felt the cotton waste inside. Even the small holes they had drilled in the sides were still there. Everything seemed to be under control. The seniors had set up their little present with the tarred ropes and the prepared fenders just as they had hoped. Perfect! A pity about the retirees, perhaps, but the old bitch and her friends had simply asked for it! He was just about to light the lighter when he caught sight of a cupboard and an old-fashioned jerrican next to a large wooden box. What the hell? He picked up the jerrican and shook it.
“Almost full.” To make sure, he leaned forward, unscrewed the top and sniffed. “Yep, it’s gas all right!”
“Just what the doctor ordered! The cotton waste could do with a little extra!”
“Talk about lucky boys! This is going to be a treat!”
The Weasel smiled nastily, went a few steps forward and spilled gas onto the nearest ropes and fenders. Exhilarated, he put the jerrican down so that it splashed over. He screwed the top back on, noticed he had got gas on his hands, and wiped them on the back of his pants.
“Right, gimme the lighter!” he said.
“Shouldn’t we go through the boat and check there’s nobody still on board?” Kenta asked.
“But it’s damn obvious. Not a fucking soul here!”
But Kenta shook his head and, to be on the safe side, went up to the entrance and felt the main door. It was locked. Then he went toward the door to the stairs nearer the bow, but that too was locked. Having done that, he gave in and held up the palms of his hands as a sign that everything was quiet.
“OK, off we go!” said the Weasel and he took the lighter. “Action!”
“Yeah, yeah, but aren’t we going to check the box first?” whispered Kenta, pointing at the large wooden box next to the generator cupboard. “You never know. Best to check.”
“Is it so fucking important? Bound to be life jackets. But all right then!” Muttering, the Weasel fumbled with the lid but couldn’t find the lock. Perhaps it didn’t have a padlock, but something else. Irritated, he felt with his hand along the lid but his bandage fastened on a nail and pulled on his wound. Without thinking, he quickly drew his hand back to get loose, which resulted in the bandage unravelling completely. Swearing, he wrapped it around his hand again. They had better be quick; what if somebody saw them? The power could come back on at any time.
“Forget the fucking box. You don’t think the old ladies have dynamite on the barge! Nope, we’ll light it now!”
The Weasel took two Marlboros from his cigarette packet and Kenta reluctantly handed over the gas lighter.
“No bastards are going to compete with us. It’s going to end now!” he muttered. He lit the cigarettes and put them next to the coiled rope on one of the fenders. Then he took a step back and watched with satisfaction as the rope started to glow. Now they had a few minutes to calmly leave the barge. There was a nice smell of tar and the next second a small flame flared up. Then Kenta couldn’t wait any longer, but wanted to have a last try to open the wooden box. There could be something dangerous inside. He got out his sheath knife and managed to loosen the hinges. He quickly got his fingers in, and lifted the lid, but at the same moment the fire went out.
“Oh, what the hell, we’ll have to splash a bit more on,” the Weasel announced. He opened the jerrican again.
“No, hang on a second, I’ll just—”
“No, forget that, action time now,” said the Weasel. He squirted and splashed gas onto the rope and the nearest fenders.