Read Online A Fairy Tale by Jonas Bengtsson - Free Book Online Page A

can’t believe you’re letting him drill holes. Have you gone completely . . .”
    The boss’s fists are clenched.
    My dad comes over to us; he doesn’t stop stirring the coffee grounds in the jam jar.
    â€œJust take a look at it,” my dad says.
    â€œYou’re going to pay for the damage that little shit has done.”
    â€œJust take a look at it.”
    The boss takes a deep breath and finds his reading glasses. He leans over the chair. I just manage to get out of the way before I’m squashed.
    The boss traces the holes with his finger, he growls under his breath.
    â€œNot bad,” he mutters and straightens up, taking off his reading glasses. He scrutinizes me as if he can’t quite believe that I did that. He goes inside the workshop without saying another word.
    My dad smiles. “Back to work,” he says. “These woodworm holes won’t drill themselves.”
    My hands shake when I put the drill to the wood again.
    The next couple of days the boss visits. Every time he stops and looks over my shoulder. I try to carry on as if I haven’t noticed. The boss then grunts a little before moving on.
    At the end of the week the boss buys us lunch. Again he doesn’t say anything; he just puts a small parcel in front of me, greaseproof paper with an elastic band around it. I don’t dare unwrap it before the boss and my dad have started eating. The mayonnaise on top of my potato sandwich is too yellow; the meatball is a little burnt. I’m full after the first sandwich, but force myself to eat up.

T hroughout the day my dad has said: “Sleep. Go to sleep. What are you doing up? Go to your room and sleep. It’s going to be a late night.”
    We eat beef burgers with soft onions. Once the plates are in the sink, my dad reads a book and I paint on my easel. I try to paint a horse, but I can’t get the legs right; they hang under its belly and look like boiled spaghetti.
    My dad looks up at the wall clock and says it’s time to go. But first I need to put on my clothes. All of them.
    â€œAll of them?”
    â€œYes, all of them.”
    I put on sweatshirts on top of T-shirts on top of other T-shirts. Three pairs of socks.
    â€œWhere are we going?” I ask.
    My dad just smiles and pulls the woolly cap over my ears. His bag makes a metallic sound when he picks it up.
    The women in the street wear high heels and dresses that stick out under their winter coats. The men wear shirts and ties or bow ties. Some look like they’re in a hurry; others are laughing, drinking, and shouting. I waddle down the street with my arms sticking out from my body. I wish I could lie down so my dad could roll me.
    After a few streets we stop. I follow my dad’s gaze to a red-brick building across the street.
    â€œJump on the spot so you don’t get cold.”
    A man and a woman are standing in a first-floor window, drinking wine. I can hear music coming from the building, and through the ground-floor windows I can see a man with a party hat on his head jumping up and down. The cold creeps through my woolly mittens; I curl up my toes in my shoes and count the cigarettes my dad smokes. He finishes his fourth one and flicks the cigarette butt away; it lands in a snowdrift.
    He fumbles in his pocket for his next cigarette when the front door opens. My dad grabs my hand and we cross the street.
    â€œTake off your cap and pretend you’re going to a party,” he says.
    A man comes out of the door. He stumbles and slumps across a parked car. Another man follows him, he has a bottle in his hand. They grin at each other. My dad is just in time to catch the door before it slams shut. We walk up the stairs. I can hear music and loud voices through the doors in the stairwell. I can smell the food they’ve eaten. On the third floor a man is asleep on a doormat. We step across him and carry on walking up.
    At the top of the stairs is a single door. My