Read Online The Spring Tide by Cilla Börjlind, Rolf Börjlind - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cilla Börjlind, Rolf Börjlind
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outside all the safety nets that they become inhuman.’
‘And how can we remedy that, in your opinion? Is it possible to remedy it?’
‘It’s a political issue, it’s about how society uses its resources. I can only describe what is happening, why it is happening, and what it leads to.’
‘Repulsive films on the Internet?’
‘Among other things.’
At this point, the youth clicked the remote. When he put it down on the table, a little tattoo could be seen on his lower arm.
Two letters inside a ring: KF.
‘What’s the bitch called?’ his mate asked.
‘Carlsén. We’ve got to push off to Årsta now!’
* * *
Edward Hopper would have painted it if he had still been alive, and Swedish, and had found himself east of Stockholm in a forest area next to Jarla Lake, that night.
Painted that scene.
He would have captured the light from the only narrow lantern, high up on a metal pole, the way the soft yellow light fell upon the long, deserted road, the asphalt, the emptiness, the muted green shadows from the forest, and on the very edge of the field of light the solitary figure, a man, worn-out, tall, slightly stooped, possibly entering the field of light, possibly not… he would have been pleased with the painting.
Or not.
Perhaps he would have been bothered by the way his model suddenly deviated from the road and disappeared up into the forest. And left behind him, to the artist’s disappointment, a deserted road.
The model who disappeared couldn’t care less which.
He was on his way to his night shack. The shack with the partly caved-in roof behind what had once been a depot for large machines. Where he had some sort of roof to shield him from the rain, walls from the wind, a floor from the worst cold. No lighting, but what would he need that for? He knew what it looked like in here. But what he himself looked like, that was something he had forgotten several years earlier.
He slept here.
At best.
But at the worst times, like tonight, it crept up upon him. That which he did not want to come creeping up. This wasn’tabout rats or cockroaches, or spiders, animals could crawl however much they wished as far as he was concerned. That which came creeping, came from inside him.
From what had happened long, long ago.
And that was something he couldn’t deal with.
He couldn’t kill it with a stone or frighten it off with sudden movements. He couldn’t even kill it by screaming. Although he tried, tonight too, tried to scream away that which came creeping and knew that it was useless.
You can’t kill the past with screams.
Not even with an hour’s continuous screaming. You simply destroy your vocal cords. When you have done that then you make use of the very last thing you want to make use of, because though you know it helps, it destroys you at the same time.
You take medicine.
Haldol and Stesolid.
Which kill that which creeps, and silence the screams. And mutilate yet another bit of your dignity.
Then you pass out.
5
The bay had the same shape as it had then. The rocks lay where they always had lain. The beach followed a wide arc along the same thick forest edge. When it was low tide, it was still dry quite a long way out, right down to the sea. In that respect nothing had changed at Hasslevikarna, twenty-three years later. It was still a beautiful and peaceful place. Anybody who came here to enjoy it today could hardly imagine what had happened then.
Just here, on that particular night when there was a spring tide.
* * *
He came out from the arrival hall at Göteborg’s Landvetter airport wearing a short leather jacket and black jeans. He had changed in the toilet. He wasn’t carrying anything, and went straight to the taxi rank. An immigrant, looking as though he would rather have been in bed, slipped out of the first taxi and opened one of the back doors.
Dan Nilsson climbed in.
‘The Central Station.’
He was going to take a train up the coast to Strömstad.
* * *
You
‘And how can we remedy that, in your opinion? Is it possible to remedy it?’
‘It’s a political issue, it’s about how society uses its resources. I can only describe what is happening, why it is happening, and what it leads to.’
‘Repulsive films on the Internet?’
‘Among other things.’
At this point, the youth clicked the remote. When he put it down on the table, a little tattoo could be seen on his lower arm.
Two letters inside a ring: KF.
‘What’s the bitch called?’ his mate asked.
‘Carlsén. We’ve got to push off to Årsta now!’
* * *
Edward Hopper would have painted it if he had still been alive, and Swedish, and had found himself east of Stockholm in a forest area next to Jarla Lake, that night.
Painted that scene.
He would have captured the light from the only narrow lantern, high up on a metal pole, the way the soft yellow light fell upon the long, deserted road, the asphalt, the emptiness, the muted green shadows from the forest, and on the very edge of the field of light the solitary figure, a man, worn-out, tall, slightly stooped, possibly entering the field of light, possibly not… he would have been pleased with the painting.
Or not.
Perhaps he would have been bothered by the way his model suddenly deviated from the road and disappeared up into the forest. And left behind him, to the artist’s disappointment, a deserted road.
The model who disappeared couldn’t care less which.
He was on his way to his night shack. The shack with the partly caved-in roof behind what had once been a depot for large machines. Where he had some sort of roof to shield him from the rain, walls from the wind, a floor from the worst cold. No lighting, but what would he need that for? He knew what it looked like in here. But what he himself looked like, that was something he had forgotten several years earlier.
He slept here.
At best.
But at the worst times, like tonight, it crept up upon him. That which he did not want to come creeping up. This wasn’tabout rats or cockroaches, or spiders, animals could crawl however much they wished as far as he was concerned. That which came creeping, came from inside him.
From what had happened long, long ago.
And that was something he couldn’t deal with.
He couldn’t kill it with a stone or frighten it off with sudden movements. He couldn’t even kill it by screaming. Although he tried, tonight too, tried to scream away that which came creeping and knew that it was useless.
You can’t kill the past with screams.
Not even with an hour’s continuous screaming. You simply destroy your vocal cords. When you have done that then you make use of the very last thing you want to make use of, because though you know it helps, it destroys you at the same time.
You take medicine.
Haldol and Stesolid.
Which kill that which creeps, and silence the screams. And mutilate yet another bit of your dignity.
Then you pass out.
5
The bay had the same shape as it had then. The rocks lay where they always had lain. The beach followed a wide arc along the same thick forest edge. When it was low tide, it was still dry quite a long way out, right down to the sea. In that respect nothing had changed at Hasslevikarna, twenty-three years later. It was still a beautiful and peaceful place. Anybody who came here to enjoy it today could hardly imagine what had happened then.
Just here, on that particular night when there was a spring tide.
* * *
He came out from the arrival hall at Göteborg’s Landvetter airport wearing a short leather jacket and black jeans. He had changed in the toilet. He wasn’t carrying anything, and went straight to the taxi rank. An immigrant, looking as though he would rather have been in bed, slipped out of the first taxi and opened one of the back doors.
Dan Nilsson climbed in.
‘The Central Station.’
He was going to take a train up the coast to Strömstad.
* * *
You
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