The bell above the door of the confectioner’s on Bergsundsgatan jingles like a cowbell as I walk in. The sales assistant is a young woman, lost in the dream of some weekly ladies’ magazine and hardly even visible behind a counter piled high with jars of colourful pastilles, burnt almonds, sugar goodies and candied apples. There’s a pleasant smell of cinnamon and Seville oranges.
I clear my throat: ‘Telephone?’
‘Twenty-five öre.’
She points at the wall-mounted telephone in the corner and holds out her hand, but scarcely looks in my direction. Maybe the close proximity of the shop to the prison has hardened her to the presence of brutes like me.
I notice she’s wearing an engagement ring as I put the coin in her hand, then I go over to the telephone. I lift the receiver and ask for Standards. Elin answers at the other end. She’s quiet for a second, then speaks: ‘Thank God, it’s you, Harry. How are you?’
‘Bearing up.’
‘I’m afraid.’
‘Not bloody surprised.’
‘My nerves are in a state. Didn’t get a wink all night.’
‘I caught the odd nap now and then.’
‘Are we in danger?’
‘Don’t think so, but I’m not sure.’
‘Nothing. But if you run into me in our neighbourhood, act like I’m invisible.’
‘Is that really necessary?’
‘I don’t know.’
We stay silent for a moment. My mind is still is in a daze from all the violence. I get out my pocket watch.
‘Elin?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I read that in America they’re not wearing waistcoats any more.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘It’s not fashionable any more.’
‘If that’s right, it’s more than I know anyway.’
‘Okay.’
Again there’s a silence. From the crossed lines comes the echo of many voices, almost like ghosts speaking, and then, loud and clear: ‘Take care of yourself, Harry.’
I nod to myself: ‘Tonight you can sleep well.’
I break off the call, make a farewell gesture at the shop assistant and step back out into the street. A hundred metres away, I can see the dirty yellow walls through the bare trees. The screws patrolling the walls aren’t visible from here.
At the Bridge of Sighs I hang Doughboy’s new Italian suit over the red railings and go down to the reed-covered water’s edge at Pålsundet. The willow trees bend over the little canal. Bream used to spawn here not long ago, before the motorboats took over the waters.
I wash my hands in the ice-cold water; then wet my dirty handkerchief, rub it against my face and wipe the sweatband inside my hat.
Judging by the water’s surface it’s raining a little heavier now, but the weather will hardly make much difference tonight, when Doughboy and I lie tucked up in my big bed at home on Roslagsgatan. I pick up the suit from the railing and wipe the collar with the handkerchief. Again I check the manufacturer’s label, smiling to myself. It should be good enough and more. I hurry across the arched bridge.
I hobble up to the door of the prison reception with a few minutes to spare. After tucking my watch into my waistcoat pocket, I light another cigar from the embers of the old one. I flex my feet. It feels easier to breathe now. Maybe the broken bones have settled into place in my chest; or it’s just that the excitement of my expectation is stronger than the pain. I managed to get revenge for Beda and Petrus, as well as making it back here in time with the suit and all. My bottom lip trembles. I’m good at waiting, but a week never felt so long to me.
I take out my pocket watch again. It’s stopped, maybe some damp got inside the mechanism. Just as I’m checking it the clock strikes midday in the prison courtyard. The last strike ebbs away, and is followed by a silence. From the shipyard on the other side of the island comes the sound of the odd hammer-stroke. From the bridge, a distant drone of traffic. I stare fixedly at the door of the guard room.
I step over a puddle and bang on the wooden door.
Steps come closer. I close my coat collar and straighten my shoulders. An observation hatch is opened, and I stare into a large beard and a pair of evil eyes, belonging to Jönsson, the same screw who let me out seven days ago.
‘Kvist? What a bloody mess you look!’
‘I’m here to meet Doughboy. Gusten Lindwall.’
‘Lindwall, you say? One moment.’
The hatch closes firmly. I cough and grimace, running my hand over my stubble and looking around. A little further off, a small girl comes walking down the road. She’s wearing a cornflower blue dress and has tied a white pinafore apron around her waist. Her coat with its rounded collar is unbuttoned all the way down. As she gets closer I realise she’s the same girl I met here a week ago when I was released. Maybe her parents work at the prison.
With a scraping sound, Jönsson’s face reappears in the opening. He grins broadly at me, the gaps between his teeth blackened with snuff.
‘Kvist is running a bit late. Lindwall was released five days ago. Last Friday, in fact.’
My heart staggers to the corner of the ring, and slumps onto the waiting stool. All the pain shooting round my body hits me at once. My brain spins in circles like a raffle wheel, the rigged type, which never lets you win.
‘That’s not right. The given day was Wednesday.’
‘What’s that? Speak up!’
‘It was supposed to be Wednesday.’
‘Don’t you think we know where our prisoners are? Lindwall was released last Friday. Go to hell, will you.’
The hatch bangs shut once again. I flinch at the sound, stagger and lose my balance. I sit down on my arse in the puddle behind me. I drop Doughboy’s suit. My cigar is extinguished with a hiss in the dirty water.
The water splashes over my hands and quickly seeps through my layers of clothes. I shiver, and bend double: ‘Lies… all lies…’
An overwhelming tiredness streams through all the aching limbs of my body. I try to lift my arms but they stay limply in my lap. The rain makes little dimples in the water between my parted legs.
I look at the boots and woollen socks of the lass, standing half a metre away at my side. She’s carrying the same one-eyed rag doll as last time. I frown with the effort and raise my eyes. She’s bareheaded. The gentle rain is clinging to her brown locks.
‘Must have got the day mixed up. I was planning on a Saturday bath.’
The girl laughs. With a shaking hand, I take a cigar from the cigar case in my inside pocket and put it in my mouth. A wave of pain runs through me when I turn and spit out the end.
‘When you’re finished with that puddle, you can feel my tooth.’
The girl sticks out her chin and shows me her lower jaw. One of her front teeth is wonky.
‘I can do that. Do you know how to count to ten yet?’
‘Course I know. Want to hear?’
‘Take it slow.’
While the girl starts counting, I strike a match and puff some life into the cigar. The rainwater runs all over me when I haul myself onto all fours. My head’s spinning. I groan with pain.
When she gets to five, I get up on one knee. A wave of nausea passes through my body; everything is spinning. I blink and breathe in.
I gather strength and put my hand on the girl’s shoulder. Her little hands grab my arm and try to help.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
I get up on the ninth count. The ground is swaying, like when your feet first feel solid land after months at sea. My legs are trembling and I almost lose my balance, but I stay on my feet. I look down at the girl, who keeps counting. Her hair is unbelievably soft under my scarred hand.
‘Fifteen, sixteen…’
I gaze up for a while at the iron-grey sky and let the raindrops fall over my face. Then I pat the lass on her head. She’s reached twenty-fourteen now.
‘Harry Kvist in a magnificent comeback,’ I mumble, taking a pull on the cigar that makes my ribs shake.
‘What did you say, uncle?’
‘That things don’t always work out the way you planned them.’
‘If it was Saturday we could have some fudge.’
I make a croaking sound, put my hand on my chest and grimace.
I get out my wallet, pull off the elasticated strap and find a twenty-five-öre coin: ‘Do you know another name for Wednesday?’
The girl’s eyes are glittering. She stands on her tiptoes to get closer to my ear, and with great effort I bend down. She cups her hand around her mouth and whispers: ‘The maid’s Saturday.’
I straighten my back, put my left hand in my trouser pocket and smile at her.
‘And you must be your mother’s best maid, I suppose?’
The lass nods eagerly. I point with my cigar towards the bridge: ‘I think there’s a sweet shop there, just up Bergsundsgatan.’
‘Mother says I’m not to leave the island.’
‘I know exactly how that feels.’
‘But maybe if you go there with me, and then I come straight back?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
I give her the twenty-five-öre coin and she curtsies neatly. I put my hand on her shoulder again. The gravel crunches under our feet as we start walking.
Leaning on the little one I leave Långholmen behind.
