Read Online The Living and the Dead in Winsford by Håkan Nesser - Free Book Online
Authors: Håkan Nesser
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traceable? But I don’t know.
Martin’s mobile as well. I ought to force myself to do that, the sooner the better, no doubt. And I mustn’t forget our computers. For that’s the way it is, despite everything: I must make contact with people, face up to facts, send the occasional e-mail, show signs of life. Our children, Eugen Bergman. My brother. Christa . . . Yes, of course, I really must see to that. Pretend that we are still going strong in the good old sense of that term, and that there’s no need to worry about us.
Perhaps contact Christa first of all, that would seem logical.
But I decided to put it off until tomorrow. There is no great hurry yet. It takes time to get to Morocco. I started the car and began driving back to Darne Lodge.
I ran through the plan for the day again and adjusted it as necessary: an afternoon in front of the fire. Tea and a sandwich. A thick book – I had bought an old copy of Dickens’s Bleak House at that antiquarian bookshop. Nine hundred pages, that seemed about right.
Then, as evening approached, down to The Royal Oak Inn.
Decisions and action. To the end of time.
But they are not easy, those times spent in the car without having decided where to go to. Dulverton, Exford or Withypool. Or to the sea.
Or to any bloody place, come to that. They would all be equally sensible or senseless. And it wouldn’t matter one way or another, it wouldn’t matter at all. Perhaps it would be easier if we were in jail, I wondered this inhospitable morning. If we had narrower horizons, and there was somebody taking care of us. We need a plan, I thought, both me and my dog. We need a path to be following during the whole of the winter.
Or a jigsaw puzzle with five thousand pieces. Why not?
I had anticipated these bleak moments, of course I had: during the whole of that hazy journey through Europe I had been aware that this would happen – but what good did foreseeing it do? We know we are going to die one of these days, but how are we helped by knowing that as a fact?
And I must stop judging Castor in accordance with the same criteria I use for myself. No doubt there is a difference in our ways of thinking about which I haven’t the slightest idea. Or perhaps this is exactly what dogs spend all their time thinking about?
Muddy Paws Welcome
Castor stood up on his hind legs and sniffed at the notice. It was a quarter past seven. Voices could be heard from inside the pub, a man and a woman – a bit casual, slow, tired, like an elderly couple who have been talking to each other for very many years. We went inside and looked around. The woman’s voice was that of the barmaid: a copy or perhaps a sister of the woman I had met in the village shop the previous day, rosy-faced and as tough-looking as a kettle-holder. The man, also in his sixties, was sitting in front of a steaming plate of dinner and a glass of beer at one of the window tables.
Checked flannel shirt. Thinning hair and somewhat skinny, an Adam’s apple like a bird’s beak. The most noticeable thing about his face was his spectacles.
‘Aha, a stranger!’ he said.
‘Welcome,’ said the barmaid. ‘Both of you. It’s a bit rough out there.’
I felt a quick rush of gratitude. For the fact that they started talking to me. But that’s what people do in this country, and my existence was thereby confirmed. Castor’s as well. He wagged his tail a few times, walked over and rubbed up against the man with his nose, who stroked his head gently. The way one should – no hard pats: it was clear that he’d dealt with dogs before. I felt grateful for that as well.
‘My dog Winston died last spring,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got round to acquiring a new one.’
‘You have to finish mourning their loss first,’ said the woman. ‘They are worth that kind of respect.’
‘Absolutely right,’ said the man.
‘Absolutely right,’ I said. The image of Martin on the beach flashed before my mind’s eye, but I shoved him
Martin’s mobile as well. I ought to force myself to do that, the sooner the better, no doubt. And I mustn’t forget our computers. For that’s the way it is, despite everything: I must make contact with people, face up to facts, send the occasional e-mail, show signs of life. Our children, Eugen Bergman. My brother. Christa . . . Yes, of course, I really must see to that. Pretend that we are still going strong in the good old sense of that term, and that there’s no need to worry about us.
Perhaps contact Christa first of all, that would seem logical.
But I decided to put it off until tomorrow. There is no great hurry yet. It takes time to get to Morocco. I started the car and began driving back to Darne Lodge.
I ran through the plan for the day again and adjusted it as necessary: an afternoon in front of the fire. Tea and a sandwich. A thick book – I had bought an old copy of Dickens’s Bleak House at that antiquarian bookshop. Nine hundred pages, that seemed about right.
Then, as evening approached, down to The Royal Oak Inn.
Decisions and action. To the end of time.
But they are not easy, those times spent in the car without having decided where to go to. Dulverton, Exford or Withypool. Or to the sea.
Or to any bloody place, come to that. They would all be equally sensible or senseless. And it wouldn’t matter one way or another, it wouldn’t matter at all. Perhaps it would be easier if we were in jail, I wondered this inhospitable morning. If we had narrower horizons, and there was somebody taking care of us. We need a plan, I thought, both me and my dog. We need a path to be following during the whole of the winter.
Or a jigsaw puzzle with five thousand pieces. Why not?
I had anticipated these bleak moments, of course I had: during the whole of that hazy journey through Europe I had been aware that this would happen – but what good did foreseeing it do? We know we are going to die one of these days, but how are we helped by knowing that as a fact?
And I must stop judging Castor in accordance with the same criteria I use for myself. No doubt there is a difference in our ways of thinking about which I haven’t the slightest idea. Or perhaps this is exactly what dogs spend all their time thinking about?
Muddy Paws Welcome
Castor stood up on his hind legs and sniffed at the notice. It was a quarter past seven. Voices could be heard from inside the pub, a man and a woman – a bit casual, slow, tired, like an elderly couple who have been talking to each other for very many years. We went inside and looked around. The woman’s voice was that of the barmaid: a copy or perhaps a sister of the woman I had met in the village shop the previous day, rosy-faced and as tough-looking as a kettle-holder. The man, also in his sixties, was sitting in front of a steaming plate of dinner and a glass of beer at one of the window tables.
Checked flannel shirt. Thinning hair and somewhat skinny, an Adam’s apple like a bird’s beak. The most noticeable thing about his face was his spectacles.
‘Aha, a stranger!’ he said.
‘Welcome,’ said the barmaid. ‘Both of you. It’s a bit rough out there.’
I felt a quick rush of gratitude. For the fact that they started talking to me. But that’s what people do in this country, and my existence was thereby confirmed. Castor’s as well. He wagged his tail a few times, walked over and rubbed up against the man with his nose, who stroked his head gently. The way one should – no hard pats: it was clear that he’d dealt with dogs before. I felt grateful for that as well.
‘My dog Winston died last spring,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got round to acquiring a new one.’
‘You have to finish mourning their loss first,’ said the woman. ‘They are worth that kind of respect.’
‘Absolutely right,’ said the man.
‘Absolutely right,’ I said. The image of Martin on the beach flashed before my mind’s eye, but I shoved him
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