John Lindqvist - Harbour

A wall of yellowing lilacs hid Anna-Greta's house from view. The only thing visible above the hedge was the metal roof of the tower, covered in verdigris. When Anders was a child he used to think it was a real tower, the kind you found in castles where knights lived, and he was frustrated because he could never find the way to it, and no one would show him.

Later he had realised that the pointed tower was purely decorative and the window on the gable was painted on. A hundred and fifty bygone years slumbered in that wind-battered wooden panel, and the impression of a haunted house lost in its own memories would have been complete, had it not been for the woman who opened the front door and came running down the garden path.

Anna-Greta was wearing jeans and a check shirt. On her feet she had rubber boots. Her long, white hair was woven into a plait that thudded against her back as she rushed up to Anders and threw her arms around him.

'Oh, Anders!' She hugged him, she shook him. 'It's so good to see you!'

She squeezed him so hard that for a moment Anders thought she was actually going to lift him off the ground, the way she used to do when he was little. He didn't dare respond with the same force-she was eighty-two, after all-so he stroked her back and said, 'Hello Gran.'

Anna-Greta suddenly let go and stared closely at his face for five seconds. Only then did she appear to notice Simon. She tilted her head to one side. Simon leaned over and kissed her cheek. Anna-Greta nodded as if to indicate that he had behaved correctly, and grabbed Anders' hand.

'Come on. The coffee's ready.'

She led Anders towards the house, and Simon lumbered after them. It wasn't that his gait had actually altered, but next to Anna-Greta most people looked as if they were lumbering, regardless of age.

It was as if she lived only on clear, salty air, and when the day came for her to pass away, she would probably do exactly that. Just take a step to one side. Dissolve into a north-westerly wind as it whirled around the lighthouse at North Point, then out across the sea.

The table was laid in the parlour: anchovy sandwiches with egg, delicate biscuits and cinnamon whirls. The hunger which Anders had refused to acknowledge suddenly caught up with him. Simon pretended to be offended, and said to Anders, 'I see, we're in the parlour because you're here. I have to sit in the kitchen. When I'm invited.'

Anna-Greta stopped and raised her eyebrows. 'Is that a complaint?'

'No, no,' said Simon. 'I'm just saying there seems to be some sort of preferential treatment going on here.'

'If you stayed away for almost three years, I'd probably set the table in the parlour for you as well when you came back.'

Simon scratched his chin. 'Well, perhaps I'd better do that, then.'

'In that case I'll walk straight into the sea and drown myself, as you well know. Sit down.'

Anders' father had once said that Simon and Anna-Greta were like an old comedy double act. They had their set routines, polished over the years; by this stage they knew them so well they were no longer routines, but rather a basis for improvisation. You recognised the theme, but the words were different every time.

Anna-Greta watched Anders as he gobbled two sandwiches. She pushed the plate towards him.

'I don't suppose you've got any food down there in the cottage.'

Anders paused with his hand half way to the plate.

'I'm sorry, I…'Anna-Greta snorted.

'Nonsense. That's not what I meant. You help yourself. But we need to sort out some kind of arrangement.'

'Wood,' said Simon. 'Have you got any wood?'

The problem was discussed, and it was decided that Anders would take home a bag of provisions, that he and Simon would go shopping the following day, and that Anders' boat needed to be put in the water as soon as possible. He could help himself to wood if he ran short.

Anders excused himself and went out on to the porch for a smoke. He sat down on a stool, lit a cigarette and looked at Anna-Greta's plum tree, weighed down with overripe fruit. He thought about Holger and about Holger's wife, about the sea, which seemed to demand its dues at irregular intervals, about the anchor in the churchyard in Nåten, Maja.

It still seems strange… that there wasn't… that no one…

When he went back inside, the table had been cleared and the coffee pot topped up. Simon and Anna-Greta were sitting at the table leaning towards each other, their heads close together. Anders stood quietly, watching them.

That's what love looks like. It can happen. Two people can find one another, and then work together to sustain that amorphous, incomprehensible third party that has arisen between them. Love becomes an entity unto itself: the thing that determines how life is to be lived.

How does that happen?

Anders sat down on his chair, heavy and damp. Simon and Anna- Greta moved apart.

'It's nice to get a bit of fresh air, isn't it?' said Anna-Greta.

Anders nodded. Anna-Greta had never actually nagged him about smoking, but the barbs were many and varied.

'I was thinking about something,' said Anders. 'About Holger. The fact that he thought it was me.'

Anna-Greta pursed her lips. 'If you ask Holger, he'll tell you it's the Stockholmers' fault that there's no more cod.'

'Yes. But it wasn't that. It was more this business with…this business with Maja.'

Simon and Anna-Greta looked at him without moving a muscle. The atmosphere dropped like a stone, but Anders went on, 'It seems strange that…when I think about it now…that nobody suspected me. Or Cecilia. I mean, that's the obvious thing, isn't it? Two parents, one child. The child disappears without a trace. It's obvious the parents are guilty.'

Simon and Anna-Greta exchanged glances. Anna-Greta reached across the table and rubbed Anders' knuckles. 'You mustn't think like that.'

'That's not what I mean. I know, you know that's what happened. She disappeared. I still don't understand how that was possible. But why…'

Anders held up his hands as if he were trying to grab hold of a ball that wasn't there, something he just couldn't grasp. He saw it all again. The faces, the tone of voice, the questions and the condolences. And nowhere…nowhere…

'Why didn't, why doesn't one single person suspect me? Why does everybody seem to regard it as…something natural?'

Simon rested his head on one hand and frowned. He too seemed to have realised this was strange. Anna-Greta looked at Anders with an expression that was impossible to interpret. She said, 'I imagine they have some respect for other people's grief.'

'But what about Holger?' said Anders. 'His wife drowns and Simon told me that lots of people suspected him straight away. Despite the fact that it's sort of…natural, somehow. Drowning. It happens. But Maja…I mean, the police asked questions, of course. But nobody here. Nobody.'

Simon finished his coffee and put his cup down very gently, as if he didn't want to break the silence. A gust of wind sent a flurry of aspen leaves whirling past the window.

'It is rather strange,' said Simon. 'When you put it like that.'

Anna-Greta passed the coffee pot to Anders, pressing him to have another cup. 'I expect it depends on who's involved,' she said. 'Everybody here has known you since you were little. And everybody knows you wouldn't do such a thing. Unlike Holger.'

Anders poured himself half a cup. He wasn't convinced, he still thought it was hard to understand. But he said, 'Yes. Perhaps.'

They talked about other things. About possible repairs at the Shack, what they would do if Anders' outboard motor proved unwilling to start, about village gossip. Anders had no desire to get up and go home. There was nothing waiting for him but a cold house.