Хеннинг Манкелль - After the Fire

‘I didn’t burn down my house!’ I shouted. ‘If that’s what you’re accusing me of, then I suggest you arrest me right now!’

I held out my hands in a pathetic gesture, inviting him to slap on the handcuffs. Which he didn’t do, of course.

‘I’d like you both to go to hell now,’ I said. ‘Carry out your investigation, but let me know when you’re coming so that I can make sure I’m not around.’

I took out my mobile and read out the number. Alexandersson put it into his own phone. Hämäläinen just stood there staring down at the bare boards of the jetty.

Silence fell, and I could feel my anger turning to despair. The road from failed doctor to suspected arsonist was not long.

‘Is there anyone you can think of who might have set fire to your house?’ Hämäläinen suddenly asked.

‘Someone who knew I was asleep in there, and was prepared to risk my being burned alive? Or maybe that was the aim — is that what you mean?’

‘There can be many reasons for starting a fire.’

‘Don’t a lot of arsonists simply enjoy seeing the fire spread, consuming everything in its path?’

‘That’s pyromaniacs. Arsonists have a motive, even if it is obscure.’

‘I have no enemies out here in the archipelago.’

‘What about elsewhere?’

I thought about it. Harriet had hated me for many years, but she was dead and I didn’t believe in ghosts. I couldn’t come up with anyone else.

‘Not that I know of,’ I said. ‘But of course there could be people after me that I’m totally unaware of.’

The conversation foundered. Hämäläinen returned to the site of the fire, while Alexandersson and I remained on the jetty and talked about the autumn weather. If it had been spring, we would have talked about the spring weather. I sometimes wonder how many hours of my life I have spent conversing with various people about the wind and the weather. Hämäläinen came back carrying several plastic bags containing samples of burned material.

Alexandersson was keen to make a move. Pålsson, who never said a word, started the engine.

‘What happened to Alma?’ I asked. ‘Your blonde companion?’

‘She’s got flu,’ Alexandersson said. ‘She’ll be back when she’s better.’

‘Well, if she needs a doctor you know where I am.’

I immediately regretted my comment. Alexandersson stared at me in surprise. I could understand why. What use would I be to a young woman suffering from flu?

I stood on the jetty and raised my hand in farewell. It felt as heavy as a stone. My brief outburst had worn me out.

I went back to the caravan, lay down on the bed and tried to think. But my head was spinning. That herd of bolting horses was back.

How long I lay there I don’t know. Eventually I left the caravan with a vague idea of cleaning out the boathouse. Many years ago, when I first moved to the island, I had a good clear-out, but haven’t touched it since. Even if you live as simply as I do, life seems to consist mainly of amassing a huge amount of rubbish that has no importance or value whatsoever.

There is an inner room in the boathouse where my grandfather kept his nets. It also contains the stool he used to sit on while mending torn nets. Some of them are still on the walls, but they are so fragile that they would fall apart if I so much as touched them. None of them would be any use for fishing. My grandfather made many of his own nets, and they constitute a memory of him that I have no wish to get rid of.

I began by clearing a shelf behind the old flounder nets. Under a pile of tools I found a little brown book that I’d never noticed before. The room was dark and the light wasn’t working, so I took the book outside and sat down on the bench. To my surprise I saw that it was very old. It had been printed in Stockholm in 1833, and was based on an original text in German. It didn’t say who was responsible for the translation, but the author’s name was D. J. Tscheiner. The Swedish title was Anwisning till Sångfåglars Fångst och Skötsel — A Guide to the Capture and Care of Songbirds . I flicked through the pages, wondering how such a thing had ended up with my grandfather. It was very difficult to read.

My curiosity was aroused, and I went back inside. After a while I found what I first assumed was part of a discarded eel trap, but then I realised it was the remnants of a plaited birdcage. It was as if I had discovered some totally unknown aspect of my grandparents’ lives. A birdcage and a 181-year-old book?

I carried on searching until I had gone through the entire room and there was only a box of old glass jars left. I found a mummified mouse in there, but the jars were empty. I sniffed them but couldn’t determine what they might have contained. They weren’t labelled.

Apart from one — virtually the last one I picked up. I took it outside. It contained something grey, a congealed jelly-like substance. It gave off a faint smell that I thought I recognised, but I couldn’t put a name to it, and it was hard to make out what was written in ink on the white sticky label. After much pondering I decided it said Fågellim — Birdlime. I wasn’t sure whether it was my grandfather’s or grandmother’s handwriting. To be honest, I don’t think I’d ever seen anything they’d actually written.

Birdlime?

I tried to put together the old book, the jar and the birdcage to form a whole. The key clue was of course the title of the book: A Guide to the Capture and Care of Songbirds . The remnants of the cage fitted in with this. But the jar and its contents? Had I read the label correctly? Was birdlime something that was used to trap larks and finches?

I had no recollection of a birdcage in the house when I was a child. Nor could I remember any talk of birds apart from the eider ducks and velvet scoters my grandfather shot when he was out hunting.

I decided to wait until my daughter arrived before trying to find the answers to my questions. She has a computer that helps her solve most problems that arise.

Songbirds and birdlime.

I carried on rummaging around in the boathouse. I found plenty of dead swallows that had got caught up in various discarded tools and been unable to free themselves. The place was like a swallows’ graveyard. Some were adults, others little more than fledglings. They must have barely flown the nest before becoming trapped, never to escape.

Then I found my old tent from my childhood, with an equally ancient sleeping bag lying next to it. I took both items out onto the jetty, assuming they were rotten and would have to be thrown away. However, the tent and the sleeping bag were intact and the pegs were still there. I couldn’t resist the temptation of pitching the tent on the grass. The process came back to me straight away. When the tent was up, I was surprised at how small it was.

I threw the sleeping bag over the washing line to air, then I crawled inside the tent. The pale autumn light produced a greyish-green glow.

As I sat there on the green groundsheet I experienced a great sense of calm, a feeling that I had distanced myself from the disastrous fire for just a little while. The horses in my head had stopped galloping around. I made up my mind to erect the tent out on the skerry that very afternoon. I needed to get away from the remains of my house and the charred apple tree.

I set off at about six o’clock. I had tried out the sleeping bag; the musty smell still lingered, but it was usable. I had eaten dinner early, then packed some sandwiches, a flask of coffee and a bottle of water.

I dragged the boat ashore on the skerry and moored it by the same rock I had favoured when I was a boy. I put up the tent in what had been my usual spot. I spread out the sleeping bag and lay down. The uneven ground beneath me was instantly familiar.