Blackwater (3 page)

When he had finished with the padlock, he went back in. Now they’re having coffee, Johan thought. No, liquor. Or liquor in their coffee. Gudrun had put out bunloaf before she had left. She was in Byvången visiting Torsten’s mother at the old people’s home. All the brothers were at home, down there waiting, and Torsten was the one to decide what was to be done. So far, he had only sent out Per-Ola. But Johan’s heart was still thumping.

It took Vidart an hour to do the milking. The yard was silent. No one seemed to move or speak down in the kitchen. Johan wanted to break the silence but didn’t dare switch on the radio. Best if Torsten didn’t know he was up in his room, sitting there looking down at the enclosure. He sat there in silence and his legs, turned sideways because he could no longer get them under the desk, had long since gone to sleep.

Both the new Lajka and the Jämte hound started barking madly from the dog pen. Watching Vidart driving out from behind the barn and stopping the car was like watching a film. Johan knew everything in advance. Now he would find the chain and padlock. Shake it. Then look up towards the house.

And then?

Vidart walked past the gate along the edge of the ditch, where there was no fence. The enclosure began a little further on. Torsten had put the gate like a boom across the road.

As Vidart came out into the gravel yard, he slowed down. That made the dogs even more furious. Then Torsten came into Johan’s line of vision. He had a rake in his hand and started raking the yard gravel.

‘Open the gate!’ Vidart shouted.

‘Quiet!’ Torsten yelled. The dogs abruptly fell silent. The only sound now was the scraping of the rake’s teeth in the gravel. Then Vidart called out:

‘Open the gate! I’ve got the car.’

But Torsten didn’t answer. Johan got up. He had no desire to listen any more. He stood leaning against the door. Vidart was talking loudly and shrilly outside, but when Torsten finally answered, only his words could be made out.

‘I can’t see no man to open up for.’

Shrill talk again, the goat voice Vidart’s. If only he would keep his mouth shut. Why didn’t he understand that the only thing he could do now was to go away? Leave the car there. Fetch the milk with the tractor from the other side.

Johan heard a strange noise. Something cracked. He ran over to the window and looked down. Torsten had half the rake handle in his hand, splintered and sharp at the broken end. He must have broken it across his knee. Vidart was standing quite still, glaring at him. When he said something in that high chattering voice, Torsten took two long steps towards him and thrust the handle against his throat. The goat voice bleated, then they both ran into the enclosure, Vidart ahead, dragging his polio-damaged leg, Torsten following stiffly. Yet it all happened very quickly. They ran past the barn and disappeared behind it.

The dogs had started barking again and didn’t stop until Torsten came back, now without the rake handle. He disappeared out of Johan’s sight as he reached the veranda, yelled at the dogs to be quiet and they obeyed. Vidart should have done the same if he’d had any sense. Then the glass in the veranda door rattled.

Through the floorboards, Johan could hear Per-Ola asking something and Torsten answering. Then Per-Ola said something that made the others laugh. Vidart had been cowardly and fled. That was why they thought it funny down there. But if he headed homewards, he ought to have come out into the part of the enclosure not hidden by the barn. He would be visible all the way as he slanted across the hay meadows on his way home.

Or had he hidden? It was quiet in the kitchen again and Johan had a feeling that, like him, they were all waiting for Vidart to appear. It was quite still in the heat, the dogs silent. Through the window, Johan could smell the grass as well as the birch leaves from the branches Torsten had put on the steps.

Johan sat quite still, glancing occasionally at his watch. Eleven minutes had gone by since Torsten had come back. Then the veranda door rattled and his father came out with Per-Ola behind him, followed shortly by Björne and Pekka and finally Väine. They didn’t walk towards the enclosure, but vanished behind the house. After a while Johan heard two cars starting up.

As soon as the sound of engines had died away, without thinking, Johan ran down, simply racing down the stairs and out. He was behind the barn in less than two minutes. Vidart was lying on his back in the sun, blood on his throat. It had run down into the hollow of his throat, where he had a disc or a coin on a silver chain, now resting in a shallow pool of blood, glinting like a small crescent. A little way off, the entire flock of goats stood staring at Johan. After a while they started grazing.

Johan lightly touched Vidart’s hand and cheek. His stubble was grey and he looked older than usual. His peaked cap was behind his head, a large sweaty brown patch on it. He had just milked the goats – that was obvious. His body and clothes smelt strongly.

There was no point in going back for help. The house was empty. If Gudrun had been at home, she would have seen to Vidart. Again he touched the pale-grey cheek and thought it was like touching a big ewe.

He ran off again, taking the route across the hay meadows towards the nearest farm, Westlund’s. Elna met him on the steps, caught him up, and he didn’t know whether he was crying or vomiting. It felt as if he were doing both.

Birger had set off for Blackwater together with Åke Vemdal with the idea of going fishing. Midsummer was the time to start. But somehow it had become the usual from the very beginning – raising the man’s eyelids and looking at the cloudy globe, its iris turned upwards. Feeling his pulse at his wrist. He couldn’t touch the man’s neck until he had washed.

Anyhow, there was no flow of blood to be stemmed. That had run down into the hollow of his neck and coagulated. He showed Åke how close to the artery it had come. The wound had ragged edges as if it had been made by some jagged tool.

Vidart regained consciousness after a while. He had been knocked down, he said. By Torsten Brandberg.

‘What did he hit you with?’

‘His fist.’

They helped him to his feet, and he had some difficulty standing. ‘Head’s going round,’ he said. ‘Everything going black.’

Birger got him upright. He had a feeling Vidart was acting up a bit, hoping to show Åke Vemdal how bad things were, since he had been so bloody lucky that the police chief in Byvången had just happened to be there. The doctor, too. But he had been unconscious for quite a while, so Birger was taking no risks.

‘You must go to hospital,’ he said.

Vidart had no objections, but he was worried about the milk. The sharp look had come back into his eyes and he looked cunning, apparently himself again as soon as he got his cap back on. Hell, why did I have to be here right now? Birger thought. He said as much as soon as they had got Harry Vidart into the Westlund kitchen. They had dropped in on the Westlunds because Birger wanted to hear how Elna was. He had sent her to Östersund for her gallstones two weeks earlier. Assar Westlund had phoned for Ivar Jonssa. No ambulance was needed. Ivar’s big taxi would do.

While they waited, they went out on to the veranda for a smoke. Birger had thought of telling Åke something about Vidart and Torsten Brandberg, but Vidart’s wife came while they were there. They had phoned for her, of course, and she had her hair in big curlers and was sobbing as she ran When Ivar had come with his Mercedes and they had helped Vidart lie on the lowered seat, she called out:

‘But what shall I do about the milk? And the car?’

Assar Westlund said he would take the milk back for her with his tractor.

‘Best to leave the Duett there for the time being,’ he added. ‘But I’ll have a word with Torsten.’

Then the taxi left and Birger and Åke went in to the boy lying on the dark-red sofa in the parlour. Elna had pulled down the blinds and the bluish light made his face look even whiter. He was no more than sixteen and had coarse black hair and narrow brown eyes. When he got up, he turned out to be tall and gangling. Otherwise he looked more like Gudrun than Torsten. They shook hands and once they had sat down, the boy glanced at the bucket Elna had put in. He had vomited a little into it and now he shoved it behind the sofa, looking both frightened and embarrassed.

‘How are you feeling?’

He made a movement but didn’t reply.

‘Vidart’s gone to hospital,’ said Birger. ‘But he’s in no danger. He can stand.’

The brown eyes widened. Had the boy thought Vidart was dead?

‘This is Åke Vemdal. Do you know who he is?’

The boy shook his head.

‘I’m the new police chief in Byvången,’ said Åke.

‘Who . . . who reported it?’ said Johan.

‘No one. We were here in the Westlunds’ kitchen when you came. We were going fishing.’

‘What happened?’ said Åke.

‘I don’t know.’

He had his arms propped on his thighs, his head forward, so they couldn’t meet those brown eyes.

‘But you ran for help?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you see him being knocked down?’

He shook his head.

‘But how did you know he was lying there?’

‘I saw when he came.’

‘And Torsten went after him?’

The boy didn’t reply, but looked round for the bucket, swallowing several times as if wanting to show them he was nauseated. It was certainly hot in the room, but Birger wondered whether he was really feeling sick. Maybe he was acting up to avoid answering. Åke waited a moment, then spoke again.

‘Did you see your father going after him?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t think about it.’

‘Did you see him? Had he any tool in his hand?’

Johan said nothing.

‘We found one,’ said Åke. ‘A kind of sharp stick. Broken off.’

The boy made an almost catlike movement with his long body and the next moment was lying curled up on the sofa with his back to them.

‘Wait,’ said Birger quietly. ‘Let’s go out into the kitchen, and I’ll tell you what’s behind all this.’

‘Do you know?’

‘Everyone knows.’

But they hadn’t time. Loud voices came from the kitchen, then the door opened and Gudrun was standing on the threshold with the light from the kitchen behind her so that her face looked almost black.

‘What are you doing?’

She went over to Johan and touched him.

‘He’s got nothing to say about this,’ she said. ‘He just went to get help for Vidart.’

‘We have to ask him what happened.’

‘To hell with that,’ said Gudrun. ‘Nothing’s happened that he’s seen.’

She was small. It looked odd as she pulled the tall youth off the sofa and hustled him out with her. He walked with his head down. Åke followed.

‘You must know there’ll be an investigation into this.’

‘You carry on and investigate. But Johan’s not testifying against his father.’

She shoved the boy out, slamming the kitchen door behind her. Åke took a step as if to stop them, but Birger said:

‘Leave them. You can’t question him now, anyhow.’

They heard Gudrun’s car starting up and driving away. Elna and Assar were sitting beside each other on the sofa, looking like guests in their own kitchen.

‘Let’s go outside,’ said Birger.

It wasn’t all that easy to tell Åke, who knew nothing, about Torsten Brandberg and Vidart. Åke had not even been to Blackwater until now, but he belonged to the district. He had come to take up the post a month or two earlier. They had been out together once, a case of suicide up towards the border. Åke had had no one to send and no car available. An alcoholic living with his parents had gone up into the attic and killed himself with a shotgun. As they were going back in the car a few hours later, Birger thought he heard a bird screeching. He hadn’t realised until later that it had been the mother.

Birger had looked in on them earlier in the summer when he had been out on a call nearby. The mother had been admitted to the Frösö clinic at the time, and he had found the father sitting in the kitchen. He had been living on coffee and cigarettes for some time, and he collapsed when Birger came. That was the first time he had wept since the son’s death. Birger had gone up to the attic to see if they had cleaned up. But the stains were still there, and dried brain matter and marks from the shot could be seen on the ceiling, a shattered light bulb still hanging from the flex. He cleaned up as best he could with a scrubbing brush and scraper, then arranged for a home help to go in to cook for the father, now on his own.

Åke and he had got to know each other on that first visit and the long car journey back.

‘I know Johan,’ said Birger. ‘He’s at senior high in Byvången in the same class as my boy. He’s bright. But his mother Gudrun is the only one who thinks he should go on. The other boys are sons of Torsten and his first wife, Mimmi. She died of a cerebral haemorrhage giving birth to Väine. Then Gudrun came and helped him with the boys and the household. She’s one of a large Sami family. But on the poor side. She worked for Torsten, then became pregnant and Johan was born. That was hardly a year after Mimmi’s death. So Väine and Johan are practically contemporaries.’

‘Are they all Sami?’

‘No. Only Gudrun. And Torsten has never been a friend of the Sami. Lapps shouldn’t live in the village, he says. That’s his opinion and he is not alone in that. Torsten’s been a damned great fighter in his day. When he was younger and got drunk, he went and asked people: ‘Anyone here want beating up?’ He could go all the way to Byvången to knock a man down. I don’t think things have ever been good between Johan and the half-brothers, nor really any good between him and his father, either. But you saw Gudrun. They daren’t touch a hair on the boy’s head when she’s looking. So you see Johan may have trouble if they start thinking he’s told on Torsten.’

‘That can be explained, can’t it? He didn’t know we were here.’

‘I’m not sure they’d listen,’ said Birger.

When they got into the hall, she indicated with a movement of her head that he should go straight up to his room. A quarter of an hour later, she brought him bread and cheese and a glass of milk. Johan was sitting on the bed and hadn’t even dared go to the lavatory, he was so afraid Torsten might hear him. But she told him they hadn’t come back home yet. Then he went to the toilet on the landing and peed for what seemed to him a quarter of an hour.