Brains had ended up in the men’s section of the Sollentuna remand prison among bank robbers, murderers and fraudsters. Brains was used to his calm and well-mannered friends at the retirement home so he found this situation all very new. But, he persuaded himself, you mustn’t judge people. Everyone is good in their own way. It was a matter of thinking positively, even though some of the most fearsome types could easily kill him. The whole thing was a little unpleasant, and it had been a great deal safer at the retirement home. Also, the cell he had been placed in was so small that there was hardly room for him at all, and he hadn’t been allowed to take any of his tools with him either. He thought about Martha. The old gal had really got them into a mess. She had wanted them all to have a better life, but now the outlook was grim indeed. Oh well, it would be better in the proper prison where they had a workshop. Then it wouldn’t be so boring. He was stretching out on his bunk to have a snooze when somebody knocked on the door. A warder came in.
‘A clergyman is waiting for you in the visiting room.’
‘A clergyman?’ Brains shook his head and was just about to ask what the hell the guy wanted when he remembered what Martha had said. Don’t forget to demand a visit from the clergyman. It is not only God who talks to him.
‘Oh, yes, the clergyman …’ said Brains, getting up and following the warder to the visiting room. Martha must be behind all this and she must have something very important to say. He smiled to himself and politely greeted the spiritual adviser. The warder withdrew, and Brains and the clergyman sat down on the sofa. The clergyman pulled something out of his pocket.
‘I have a poem with me. A woman I visited wanted you to have it. She hoped it would help you to find the light.’
‘The light?’
‘Yes, the inmate Martha Andersson was very anxious about this. She writes poems every day, and this is evidently one of her best. She particularly wanted you to have it.’ The clergyman handed over a sheet of white paper. Brains recognized Martha’s handwriting. He unfolded the paper and started to read.
He, the one high above,
Stretches out his hand,
Gives you life –
Like water in a drainpipe,
Riches of freedom;
Together we travel
Far away
Never forget me.
Perplexed, he fingered the paper.
‘I don’t really understand this sort of thing,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t poems rhyme?’ He handed the poem back to the clergyman, who read it silently and then stroked the paper several times with the back of his hand.
‘I think this woman cares for you,’ he said after a while. ‘Look at this, “Together we travel” and “Never forget me.”’ He gave the paper back to Brains.
‘Does she like me, do you really think so? But couldn’t she just say so—instead of my trying to interpret this?’ He read the poem again.
‘People express themselves in such different ways. This is perhaps her way of formulating her feelings.’
Blushing, Brains refolded the piece of paper and put it in his pocket. With Martha no longer close to him he had felt himself abandoned, and nothing had seemed fun any more. But now, what a poem! He turned to the clergyman again.
‘She’s a lovely woman, that’s for sure. We thought we would be together in prison, but it hasn’t turned out like that. I hope we get let out soon. My good friend, Rake, misses his lady friend too.’
‘But doesn’t she come to visit?’
‘No, his Christina can’t visit him either. She has been remanded in custody too.’
‘Goodness me. So there are four of you pensioners who have committed a crime?’
‘No, five. Anna-Greta, who sings in the same choir, was also in the gang.’
‘Five sinful souls—well, that is quite a haul.’ The clergyman discreetly pulled out a Bible. ‘Perhaps we can read something together?’
‘That would be nice, but first I must reciprocate those fine words from my Martha. Can you give her a greeting from me?’
‘I don’t really know.’
‘A Bible quote, perhaps?’
‘That sounds nice, perhaps something about Moses wandering in the desert—or maybe I should try to write a poem myself. Then she will understand that I am making an effort for her sake.’
‘That is a very beautiful thought.’ The clergyman pulled out a pen and ripped out a page from his diary. ‘Here,’ he said, handing the page over. Brains thought about what he was going to write for a long time while the clergyman sat still without saying a word so as not to disturb him. Slowly and with deliberation Brains wrote down his poem:
Martha, I stretch out my hand
To those secret places, my dear –
I welcome the Light in this alien land.
When you think of me, have nothing to fear;
Together we can a new spring see –
Together, you and me.
That was about as cryptic as he could manage; the clergyman wouldn’t fathom anything, but Martha would understand. He considered what she had written about the money in the drainpipe. The money that would give them a better life the day they got out of prison. But there had been a hidden agenda, too, in her poem. “Riches of freedom/Together we travel.” She was planning something …
‘Like I said, I’m no good at writing poetry,’ Brains confessed, handing over what he had written. ‘But do you think she will like this?’ The clergyman had a quick look at the poem and smiled encouragingly.
‘They are beautiful words. I am sure she will be touched.’
After the clergyman had left, Brains was in the best of spirits. He and Martha had found a way to communicate, and sooner or later he would get to know what this wonderful woman was planning next.