Sunlight shimmers over the bay. A thin mist floats above the water, like smoke from a distant fire.
There is no sign of yesterday’s storm; the rainwater has receded, rocks have dried and the tall grass has stood back up during the night and is once again reaching for the rising sun.
I stand next to my little VW Golf, brushing my teeth with the toothbrush that was in my backpack.
Sometimes being outdoorsy pays off – even if you are playing hooky from the hike. It turns out your kit can come in handy at the most unexpected moments.
I spit into the grass and put the toothbrush back in its case.
My head aches and my eyes sting. I feel as if I haven’t slept a wink. But then again an almost ten-year-old Golf isn’t very comfortable, no matter how much you twist and turn. But I’d rather sleep in it than in my tent because I forgot my sleeping mat.
Samuel didn’t come yesterday.
I had no problem finding the little inlet that Samuel had marked on the map and I actually made it before the designated time.
But he never showed up.
I sit down in the grass and shut my eyes against the sun. Think about what Samuel wrote under the poem.
‘Messed-up shit’. What did he mean by that? Messed-up as in dangerous, or just a bit crazy?
Messed-up as in being chased by a murderous drug dealer, or messed-up as in dropping your phone in your coffee cup?
I massage my temples with my index fingers, trying to think clearly. Brush off a shiny blackish-green beetle crawling across my dress. Then I look at my watch.
Quarter to eight.
I should go home. The damn blackbird needs food and water. And in a little over an hour I am supposed to be at work. But how can I work when my child is in danger? How can I stand there ringing up cans of peas and corn for old ladies when my son – the only living person I truly love – has encountered ‘some messed-up shit’ and has disappeared?
The question is what to do.
I don’t even know where Samuel is.
I take my phone with me and go out onto the rocks. Sit down and find Stina’s number. She answers on the third ring and sounds just as happy as ever. As if she just won the lottery or became a grandmother or maybe both. As if the world weren’t an evil and dangerous place where ‘messed-up shit’ happens all the time.
I explain. Tell her about Samuel who seems to have vanished into thin air.
As expected Stina isn’t annoyed with me at all for being forced to call someone else to fill in for me at work, she is full of empathy and offers to help if there is anything – ‘anything, anything at all, sweetie’ – that she can do.
‘That is so nice of you,’ I say. But I don’t know where to start.
‘It’s time for you to go to the police now,’ she says sounding absolutely certain. As if her children and friends disappear all the time and she knows exactly how long you ought to wait before getting the authorities involved.
‘Yes, I guess so. But I don’t even know where he’s been living lately.’
‘Didn’t you say he was working for a family?’
‘Yes, he’s been working for a family who have a disabled son. They live somewhere around Stuvskär, but I don’t know exactly where.’
‘So how did Samuel find the job?’ Stina asks and I can hear the rustling of paper and a scratching sound, as if she is taking notes.
I search my memory, try to recall what Samuel has told me.
‘I think he found some kind of ad online.’
‘Hmm,’ Stina says, then there is more scratching. ‘And he didn’t tell you the name of the family?’
‘No. Only that the mother’s name is Rachel and that the son, who has some kind of brain damage, is called Jonas. Oh, and the dad, or Rachel’s partner, is apparently an author. I think his name is Olle, or something like that. But that’s all. I don’t have a surname.’
Stina pauses, as if she is considering what I just told her. Then she continues, in a quieter voice: ‘And he didn’t send you any photos from there?’
‘Nothing. And now his mobile is off again and I don’t know what to do. We were supposed to meet at ten o’clock last night, but he never came.’
‘Go to the police,’ Stina says in an authoritative voice. ‘Go straight to the police and then get back to me. Of course we will find him. Do you hear that, sweetie? We will find him!’
*
I drive past maypoles dressed in grass and flowers that have already dried in the heat. Beer cans and wine bottles strewn along the side of the road are testament to the party that was happening in parts of the archipelago during the night.
It only takes twenty minutes to drive to the nearest police station, but the further I get from Stuvskär, the more reluctant my body becomes. It is as if every cell can feel how the invisible band that ties me to Samuel is being stretched to the limit.
When I finally park I am drenched in sweat and my heart feels like it’s beating out of my chest.
The police officer who takes down my report is called Anna and doesn’t look to be a day over seventeen. I almost wonder if she stole the uniform somewhere or if she is actually an intern.
‘So. You want to report your son missing?’ she says and purses her oddly swollen lips a bit.
‘Yes. He is gone. Samuel. My son, that is. Well, that is his name. Samuel. Per Samuel Joel.’
The teenage police officer looks at me with a bored expression.
‘And how long has he been missing?’
‘We were supposed to meet yesterday, at ten in the evening at Stuvskär, but he never showed up. And it’s been twelve hours now. Although he has been gone longer than that. Or –what I’m saying is that he hasn’t been home for a few weeks. So obviously I have been very worried. But then he sent a text, so one can’t really say he was missing, I guess. But now he is.’
I stop and then add:
‘Missing, that is.’
I immediately regret not simply answering her question. When will I learn to shut up?
‘Twelve hours?’ she says.
A furrow deepens between her brows, making me realise, first off, that she probably thinks I am crazy, and second, she is probably not as young as I thought. This hypothesis is strengthened by a bump poking out under her shirt.
I missed that earlier. She must be six months pregnant, at least.
You have no idea what it is like to have a child, I think.
You know nothing about how much it hurts when they suffer, the super-human strength you feel when they need help, or how absolutely terrified you are when they’re in danger.
You’re sitting there with your mouth shining with lip gloss and thinking you know something about life, even though it actually hasn’t started yet.
‘Maybe we should take this from the top?’ she says.
I start telling her about Samuel and the family he works for in Stuvskär – about Rachel, Olle and Jonas. And I explain that even though Samuel is careless he always shows up. I show his note too, the one that is written on the page with the strange poem.
But before she has time to read it there is a loud crash in the corridor. The crash is followed by a sharp bang and a furious howl.
‘Don’t touch me, you fucking cunt. Do you hear me?’
The teenage police officer sighs and rolls her eyes to show just how annoyed she is.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I’ve got to help my colleagues. Be back in a minute.’
But a minute can be pretty long, and as time passes and the howling and banging outside slowly but surely moves in the direction of the exit I get increasingly uneasy.
Even though the female police officer didn’t straight-up insult me it was obvious that there would be no talk of any real police intervention at this point.
It seems Samuel hasn’t been gone long enough.
I wonder how long one has to be missing before the police care – a day? A week?
Besides, what would Samuel say if he knew that I was sitting here?
Other questions pop up in my already confused mind.
Should I tell her that her colleagues are looking for Samuel?
I start to sweat at the temples and my heart picks up speed when I begin to realise what I have started.
And the gym bag full of hundred-kronor bills, what should I say about that?
My heart skips a beat and I swallow hard.
No, this just won’t do.
I get up so suddenly that I almost knock the chair over and reach for my handbag. Then I sneak out the way I came in.
The teenage officer and her colleagues are busy calming the violent man who is currently stretched out on the floor of the corridor. He has a firm grip on the calf of a female police officer while sobbing loudly.
I leave the police station with a liberating sense of relief. Open the door to my car and sit on the boiling-hot seat.
My skin smarts from the heat, but I barely feel it. All I can think is that I got away in the nick of time and that I have to come up with some other means of finding Samuel. A way that doesn’t necessitate me needing to account for mine and Samuel’s involvement in criminal activity.
First off I am going to go back to Stuvskär – because he has to be there somewhere. Someone must have seen him.
It isn’t until I have driven almost all the way to Stuvskär that I realise that I left the poem with Samuel’s handwritten note on the teen cop’s desk.