Death By Water

September 1996

MEDIUM DANGER. THE yellow flag flying. The breakers pound high up the beach though it’s only twelve o’clock. He throws his towel on to the sand and runs in, keeping his yellow T-shirt on. Wades out until the water reaches his navel. Starts swimming, diving into the wave that breaks right in front of him, swimming on out towards the buoys, continuing past them. The water starts a tickling and a bubbling inside his chest, as though something nasty is about to happen. But even with the red flag up, he would still have gone swimming. Red flag means hazard.

No other swimmers this far out today. He turns towards the shore. Truls is holding Nini by the hand, the way he’s been told to. Out here, past the buoys, it’s just possible to hear her shriek each time a giant of a breaker throws itself at her feet.

Further out, the troughs between the waves are deeper. They open up suddenly; he falls down into them, is lifted up and tossed over the next peak, then falls again. Has to use his strength to keep his head up, not to get sucked under. His mouth and nose fill with salty foam. He spits and snorts, gets tossed up again, down again. The waves keep coming, and when he’s up on a peak he can see the horizon where the water meets the grey-blue sky, and he knows that the sea continues long past that line, all the way down to Africa. How far would he get if he carried on in the direction of the coast he can’t see? With every wave that pulls him down and tosses him up again, he twists his upper body and feels that it is he who is strongest. How far out can he get before he has to give up and let the waves do what they like with him?

Not even when they arrived on the plane that morning, with the sky clear and bright, could he see land on the far side. He had turned to his mother, sitting in the middle seat, to ask her how many hundreds of miles she thought it was over the sea. He could tell from her eyes that she was no longer in a condition to answer a question like that. Had known it before anyway, even before they boarded the plane. They were sitting in the café right next to the gate. They’d got up at three in the morning in order to reach the airport in time. He sat there staring out at the runway. Nini was lying in her pushchair asleep. Truls was out too, curled up in a chair.

– Want something to drink, Jo? Arne asked, winking and acting like a pal, which meant that Jo could have a Coke if he wanted. He knew there was a reason for it. Sure enough, Arne returned with a Coke and some crisps and a doughnut. That was okay. It didn’t bother Jo that he’d bought a beer for himself. What he didn’t like was the red wine for his mother. It’s quarter to six in the morning and there’s his mother sitting there drinking wine. No normal grown-up does that. She hadn’t touched a drop for several days, and Jo was hoping that this trip, with the sunshine and the swimming and all those things she was always longing for, might mean she didn’t need to drink. But before they’d boarded the plane she’d knocked back three glasses and was already at the stage where she wanted to put her arms around him and ruffle his hair. She didn’t say ‘plane’ any more, she said ‘pwein’, and suddenly Arne’s jokes were so funny she was leaning her head back and clucking with laughter.

Once the pwein was up in the air and those blue-striped shirts appeared pushing the drinks trolleys along, Arne went right ahead and ordered a cognac for her, even though he knew perfectly well how it would end. Maybe that was why he did it. Jo huddled up by the window and pretended to be asleep. Thought how he should have had a parachute and opened the emergency exit and jumped out over Germany or Poland or wherever they were; landed in some strange town where no one knew who he was nor who his mother and Dickhead Arne were.

A few hours later, they were both sitting on sun loungers by the pool with a drink each, and Mother dropped hers so it smashed on the flagstones. Jo thought he didn’t want to be there any more and got up to head down to the beach.

– Take Truls and Nina with you, Arne ordered.

Jo made his way down the stony slope with his younger brother beside him and his baby sister in the pushchair. A little family. He could take Truls and Nina and just leave, go back home again. Not home. Move somewhere else, where he could work and get them food and whatever else they needed. That way they wouldn’t have to see Arne again. They wouldn’t have to see Mother drinking herself legless and breaking glasses and making a show of herself in front of a crowd of people they didn’t know.

But that isn’t the worst thing that happens on that first day of the holiday. The worst thing is what happens in the evening. Jo puts Nini to bed after he’s given her the allergy medicine and the sleeping draught. Forces it down her, in spite of her protests. Over and over again Mother has repeated that he must remember to give her all four pills before putting her to bed. And then Arne suddenly says that Mother gave them to Nini herself before she went out, only she forgot to mention it to Jo. That means Nini’s had twice as many pills as she should have. No wonder she’s sleeping so soundly. Lying there without moving.

Jo sits in the room with them for a while. Truls has brought along a pile of Phantom comics that Arne gave him. Truls thinks Arne is cool for giving him his old comics. It’s like a thing between them. Arne collected these comics when he was a kid. Was a member of the Phantom Club and had the ring with the Sign of Goodness on it. Truls has inherited that too. Jo never accepts anything from Arne any more. Accepts it maybe, but hides it away at the back of a cupboard and never uses it. A Man United shirt, or a football card, whatever it is.

He leans over Nini yet again to hear if she’s still breathing. Slowly and deeply, he notes, so it probably wasn’t that dangerous with the double dose. All the same, it occurs to him to pop down to the restaurant to ask Mother. Just to be sure. Even though the thought of being near her the way she is now makes him feel sick.

The music pounds towards him from the speakers up by the stage. Some disco stuff. Neither Mother nor Arne will let him play loud music at home, but the rules here are different. That’s what being on holiday means. Rules are changed, or dropped.

He sees only strangers when he looks around the restaurant. Hopes that Mother and Arne aren’t there. That they’ve gone for a walk and taken another way home and are back in the apartment… Then he sees Mother at a table next to the wall in the far corner. She’s sitting with her head on the shoulder of a man Jo has never seen before. Arne’s carrying on out on the dance floor. Him and that guy Mother is hanging on to have probably changed partners. Mother for that dark, skinny thing Arne is necking with. Arne likes skinny women and always grins whenever he grabs Mother by the stomach and yanks it over the lining of her trousers.

Jo stands there by the terrace doorway. He can still feel the sea in his body. He could sneak back down there again before the grown-ups catch sight of him. Throw himself into the waves again, not see them rolling up in the darkness, just feel them surging and twisting around him. But if he doesn’t stay here in the bar, something will happen to Mother. She might trip on the steps. Get raped, or drown in the pool. Arne doesn’t care a shit about things like that.

Suddenly his mother tries to stand up and collapses forwards. The stranger grabs hold of her before she upends the table. Two or three glasses glide over the edge. Everyone turns and stares. The woman dancing with Arne comes hurrying over. She holds Mother up and shouts to her. She and the stranger drag her up the steps towards the bar; they pass right in front of Jo. Mother is deathly pale and doesn’t seem to recognise him. Her skirt is hitched up so half her knickers are showing. She staggers on, held up by the skinny woman. When they disappear into the toilet, Jo follows and stands waiting outside the door. Hears funny sounds. Suddenly Mother screams. He’s seen her drunk, but never heard her scream like that. As though she’s in the process of dying in there. He takes hold of the doorknob. Then he feels a hand on his shoulder.

– Don’t go in there.

Jo jerks, trying to free himself, but it’s an adult that’s holding him, a stranger. At first he thought it was the man his mother was making out with, but it’s someone else.

– Someone’s in there with your mother. You don’t have to look after her.

Something or other makes Jo let go of the handle on the toilet door. Maybe it’s because the voice seems familiar. He glances up at the stranger. A man about Arne’s age. Unshaven, with sunglasses pushed up on the top of his head, even though it’s evening.

– No need for you to care, barks Jo, but he isn’t angry.

– No, there isn’t, the man replies.

But then he acts exactly as though he does care. – Come with me, he says. – I’ll treat you to a Coke.

He heads out towards the terrace without turning round. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a short-sleeved black shirt. His hair is quite long and combed straight back and hangs over the collar of his shirt. Jo doesn’t hear his mother screaming any more. He stands there, hesitating. Then he slips out after the man.

They sit at a table at the end of the terrace. Far below them the waves are breaking. Louder now, it seems, and Jo still thinks about what it would be like to go down there and throw himself in. The water should still be warm. The night colours it black.

The stranger is drinking a Coke as well. Jo realises why the voice seemed familiar. He’s heard it on TV. And not long ago this man was on the front page of Aftenposten.

– Seen you in the paper, he says. – And on TV.

– You’re probably right there.

– Do lots of people recognise you?

– Quite a few. They stare and seem to find it hard to believe that someone who has been on TV is made of flesh and blood and eats dinner and goes to the toilet. The stranger smiles. – But Norwegians are polite. Once they’ve finished staring, they’ll generally leave you in peace. Actually everyone’s shy and scared of making a fool of themselves, same as you and me.

Jo drinks his Coke, glances towards the restaurant. – Not Mother. She makes a fool of herself all the time.

The grown-up leans back. – She is drunk, he agrees. – Everyone changes when they drink.

Jo tries to find something else to talk about. – Don’t you drink? He points to the Coke. – I mean, like wine and spirits and stuff?

– Only when I have to. Your name’s Jo, isn’t it?

– How do you know that?

– Heard your father calling you as we were getting off the plane.

– Arne isn’t my father.

– I understand. You don’t know my name?

– Heard it lots of times. Don’t remember.

The grown-up pats his shirt pockets and takes a squashed cigarette packet out of one of them.

– You can call me Jacket.

– Jacket? That ain’t a name.

The grown-up lights his cigarette. – Got it when I was about your age. How old are you? Thirteen? Fourteen?

– Twelve, Jo answers, with a touch of pride.

– Some of my old friends still use that name when we meet up, the grown-up tells him.

– Did you like it? Jo grins. – Being called Jacket?

Jacket runs a hand across his unshaven chin. – Where I come from, everyone had a nickname. Often we got names from the jobs our fathers did. My dad ran a clothes shop, or gents’ outfitters as they used to call them back then, and Jacket was an okay name. Actually, I like it even better now. Better anyway than Staples, or Laces, or Scissors. Not to mention Condom.

He laughs, and Jo has to laugh too.

– Jo isn’t my name either, only the beginning of it.

– Really?

– But no one dares use the whole of that stupid name. Or I’ll kill them.

– Cripes. Then I guess I’d better stick to Jo too.

– I’m not kidding. Some kids at school tried to give me a nickname. They’re sorry for it now.

The grown-up takes a drag on his cigarette. – Agree with you there, Jo. You gotta make people respect you.

Arne’s up. He’s in a foul mood, and that’s good, because he doesn’t say much when he’s like that and Jo gets left in peace. And he won’t have to see Mother for a while, maybe not for the whole day. He can hear her whimpering as he sneaks past the bedroom door. There’s a bad smell all the way out to the kitchen.

Outside, the sun glows white. The stones burn beneath your feet. Go back and fetch sandals? Then he’d have to knock. He carries on walking, keeping to the narrow strip of shadow along the walls of the houses. It must look stupid. People who see him probably think he’s trailing someone. Or that he’s a thief. He runs the last bit, past the bar, up the steps to the pool. Most of the sun loungers are already taken. He feels the people staring at him from the beds. Almost as though he can hear them whisper as he approaches: There’s the son of that woman who…

Two girls at the edge of the pool. Jo noticed one of them on board the plane. She was waiting to use the toilet right after him. She has a thin, pointed nose and brown hair hanging wet down her back. Could be older than him. She has tits. Bigger than some of the girls in his class. Her bikini is white with dark red hearts on it. He looks in the other direction as he walks past. Without taking off his yellow T-shirt, he suddenly dives in from the edge even though there’s a sign saying it’s forbidden. He’s a good diver. He once dived in from the top board.

He swims up and down a few lengths. Then he dives and glides underwater past the two girls. He’s better at this than any other boy in school, swimming underwater. He can feel their eyes on him, watching him. They’re wondering when he’s going to surface. Is it possible? He doesn’t have to surface, not until his hand touches the wall at the end of the pool.

He pulls himself up on to the edge and sits there dripping some distance away from the two girls. Doesn’t look in their direction, looks everywhere else. At least twice he feels certain that one of them turns and sneaks a look at him; not the short, slightly tubby one, but the dark one, the one with the tits. The heat is suffocating. The sun makes a heavy pounding inside his head, and if he goes on sitting there, that pounding is going to get louder and louder and something will happen, though he’s not sure what. He jumps to his feet. The soles of his feet hurt, as though they’re covered in blisters. He walks on tiptoe past the two girls, who have maybe noticed something’s happening to him; quickly round the corner and down the steps. Once out of sight, he starts to run. Doesn’t stop until he reaches the little children’s playground with the swing and the slide. His breathing tears at his throat, and still there’s this heavy thudding inside him, as if someone’s standing in the dark and beating away with a sledgehammer. He slumps down on the swing. Cats all around him. Counts them. Six of them, in and out of the bushes. Counts them again. He’s never liked cats. They sneak around and pop up without a sound; you never know where you are with them.

One of the smallest, a young one, has lost an eye. He noticed it when they arrived the day before. It was sitting in front of their apartment door and meowing. Grey-brown and skinny as a worm. Where the eye had been, a thin rag of eyelid hangs over the empty space. Now it follows him out of the gate when he opens it and walks after him back to the apartment. Must be because the people who lived there before used to give it food. According to Arne. There must be millions of cats in the world. This skinny creature with just the one eye wouldn’t have survived for long unless someone looked after it. Does every kind of creature have a right to live? Jo turns abruptly and makes a sharp whistling noise along the outside of his teeth. The animal gives a start and dives under a bush.

Of course it’s Arne that opens the door. He scowls at him and disappears into the crapper. Before Jo has got his sandals on, he sticks his head out and with his face full of shaving foam mumbles:

– When you go out again, take the kids with you.

– They haven’t eaten yet, Jo protests. But Truls is already hanging on to his arm. He can’t stand the thought of dragging Truls around. Should do, though, so he doesn’t have to be around in the apartment when Mother wakes up. Doesn’t have to see his mother roll out of bed and creep into the bathroom to puke up. That’s what she’s been doing all night, but Truls has slept like a stone. Nini too, naturally, after her double dose of sleeping pills.

It’s a half-hour before his baby sister has eaten up her Cheerios and her yoghurt. Mother is still sleeping. Arne’s wandering about the place scowling, but as long as Jo is looking after the kids, he keeps his mouth shut. Then he squashes water wings and a beach ball and Truls’s diving mask into a plastic bag and presses it into Jo’s hands and bundles them out.

– Boiling, shrieks Nini, hopping up and down as though on a hotplate, and he has to put her in the pushchair and go back in again and fetch her sandals.

By the kids’ pool he parks them in an empty deckchair. Wiggles the water wings on to Nini’s chalk-white arms. Suntan lotion, he thinks. Dismisses the thought of going back to the apartment yet again.

– Now you’ll take good care of her, he urges Truls.

– Where are you going?

– Trip down to the beach.

– I’m coming with you.

– No you’re bloody well not. You stay here and look after Nini. You think you’re here on holiday or something?

Truls gets that hangdog look that Jo can’t stand.

– Hey, pull yourself together, right? Can’t you take a joke? I won’t be long. Make sure her water wings are on properly.

He picks up his towel and starts to leave, turns and repeats what he said about the wings: – Blow them up properly. If she drowns, it’s your fault.

He runs down the steps. The sun is insanely hot. He hates the heat. Slumps down in the shadow of a stone at the end of the beach. Even there the sand is baking. Sit there like that till he boils. Until everything becomes intolerable except hurling himself into the water. Green flag today. The sea’s not moving.

Some people his own age are playing volleyball. They’re pretty good, he can see that, especially the tall lad with the fair curls. He watches them. The tall lad notices and waves. Jo doesn’t realise at first that the wave is to him. Gets up from the shade, takes a couple of steps out on to the glowing sand.

– Wanna play, the boy shouts in Norwegian.

Jo isn’t sure. He’s okay at volleyball. Football’s what he’s good at.

– Haven’t you got anything to wear on your head? the boy asks. – Your brains’ll burn up.

– Forgot my cap.

The other boy has a look round.

– Wait a sec.

He sprints up to the first row of straw parasols. Talks to some grown-ups lying there. Comes back with a white headscarf with gold trimming.

– Here, this’ll do you.

Jo looks up into the other boy’s face. Can’t recall having seen him either on the plane or in the restaurant. Of course he must know that Jo’s mother was stinking drunk and broke her glass by the pool and was sick in the toilet at the bar. But he doesn’t look at him with contempt, or like he pities him. Jo doesn’t know which he hates more.

– You play for us. My name’s Daniel.

The boy says the names of the others, too. Two Swedish boys, and one that sounds Finnish.

They win three sets. Mostly because Daniel gets the most difficult balls and has such an amazingly hard smash.

– Do you play for a club? Jo asks.

Daniel wrinkles his nose, like volleyball isn’t worth talking about. He pulls off his vest and shoes and sprints down to the water’s edge, and then on out so the water foams around his knees. The others follow, Jo too. All of them seem to have been there for a while; they’re tanned. He hasn’t had the sun on his body for months. He keeps his yellow T-shirt on.

– First one out to the buoys, Daniel shouts.

Jo reacts at once and dives in, crawling as fast as he can. Halfway out, he notices a shadow beside him, like a dolphin, or a shark. It glides past and away.

Jo reaches the buoy first and turns to wait for the others.

– You’re a good swimmer, says Daniel from behind the buoy, waiting, hanging on by an arm. He doesn’t seem even slightly out of breath.

– I’m better underwater, Jo pants, annoyed, gripping the buoy; so close that their faces are almost touching.

– Then let’s try that going back, Daniel suggests.

Jo spits. – On out, he says. – Let’s keep on going out.

Daniel glances at the horizon, then laughs. – Say when.

Jo listens to his own breathing. Waits until it’s slow and deep enough. Takes a few big breaths and makes a sign with his hand. They dive.

He lets Daniel swim in front. It’s like gliding through a room of molten glass. The turquoise light gathers in unstable bunches, then disappears down into the darkness. He swims easily. Don’t use up all your energy. At school they used a stopwatch to see who could hold their breath the longest. No one got even close to his record. Over two minutes. One of the doubters held a hand in front of his nose and mouth to check if he was cheating. He wasn’t cheating. He quite simply stopped breathing. Could stop for ever if necessary…

Daniel’s some way ahead of him; Jo sees his feet kicking through the columns of light. Keep going between the chilly currents, down even deeper, down towards a stream of tiny black fish, feel the blood begin to pound in his head. You might burst a blood vessel in your brain, his mother shouted once after he surfaced, and now he starts thinking about blood bursting up out of his brain and folding round it like a warm cloth. He feels dizzy. Must have air, his urgent thought, but he carries on, and that willpower comes from something that is not him, something that has started to appear in him, something he might be… Far ahead: Daniel’s feet. They’re pointing straight down, so he has given up. You must surface, your brain will explode, he hears his mother’s voice scream, but he doesn’t come up. He passes Daniel’s feet and keeps going until the pillars of light around him start to dim. Only then does he kick out and his head bursts through the surface of the water.

– You’re completely crazy, Daniel shouts over to him. The voice is distant, coming from the far side of a wall. Jo can’t answer. A mass of small black fish are still swirling round in the white light, and his stomach is on its way up through his throat. He floats back in towards land, towards Daniel, just about managing to move his arms. Tries to force a grin that says he agrees: That’s right, I’m crazy.

Mother and Arne have gone out by the time he lets himself back in. They must have taken Truls and Nini, because Jo didn’t see them by the kids’ pool as he ran past. Not too long since Mother was here, he says to himself, because there’s still that rancid smell in the toilet. He finishes quickly, sits down in the living room, which is also where he and Truls and Nini sleep. The sofa hasn’t been made up and the mattresses are on the floor. He turns on the air-conditioning, switches the TV on. The news in Greek. A bus accident, people crawling out of a broken window, some of them with blood all over their faces. He pulls back the bedclothes and stretches out on the sofa, his whole body still aching from the beating he gave Daniel at underwater swimming. Drops off for a few moments. Wakes to a sound. A cartoon on TV. He switches off, pads out on to the balcony. It’s like walking into a baker’s oven. The sun is directly above the roof of the house. He locates the thin grey line that divides sea from sky. If he swims out towards it and keeps going on and on, he’ll reach land in Africa. Meet warriors on camels there, robed in white against the sandstorms.

He leans forward and peers on to the neighbouring balcony. Exactly like their own. A plastic table and four chairs. The only thing different is the clothes hanging up to dry. A vest, a green towel, bikini bottoms. White with dark red hearts. Water dripping from it. The girl from the pool is his neighbour.

The balcony door is ajar. Maybe she’s alone in the apartment too. If her bikini’s hanging out here, what is she wearing? What if she’s in the shower… He listens out for the sound of running water. No sounds coming from there. Go and knock. Ask to borrow something or other. Matches, for example. Why would he need matches in the middle of the day? Steal one of his mother’s cigarettes. The two cartons she bought at the duty-free before boarding the plane are on her bedside table. She won’t notice if one packet is missing. Ask the girl next door if she wants one.

A door banging on the other side. He races through the room, opens up, sticks his head out.

It is her. Further down the path. On her way to the pools. She’s wearing a skirt, and a top. If he’d been just a little bit quicker…

The dining room is full. He has to search for the table. They’re sitting next to the stage. A bottle of red wine on the table, half full. Arne’s drinking beer, so Mother’s the one that’s been knocking back the wine. She’s sitting with her back turned, but he can see that she’s already a bit tipsy. Head on one side. The more she drinks, the more of an angle to her head. Nini in the baby chair is asleep. Truls is munching on a sausage. His face lights up when he sees his big brother. At that same moment Jo catches sight of her two tables away, the girl from the next-door apartment. He refuses to be seen with his mother and Arne, the way they show themselves up; stops a few metres away from them. Luckily the girl hasn’t seen him.

– Aren’t you going to have shomeshing to eat then, Jo? Mother says, and she’s further gone than he thought.

– Ain’t hungry. Just had a hot dog.

It’s true. Apart from the bit about the hot dog. His stomach is still churning from having swum halfway to Africa underwater. His head, too. His whole body.

– What rubbish, says Arne.

– Let him decide himself, Mother says, defending him, as if that was any help.

– Off to meet some friends.

– On you go, Mother waves.

– Come back here afterwards and take Truls and Nini with you, Arne commands.

– What are you going to do?

Mother tries to smile. – You look after them this evening, so Arne and I can have some time off. It is our holiday, you know.

– Time off so you can get sloshed, Jo mutters.

– What was that you just said? Arne growls.

Jo glances over towards the girl’s table. The fat girl with the fair hair is sitting there too. And two grown-ups. They’re busy eating. It’s much too hot in the dining room. Jo has never liked the heat. Feels as though something is about to happen. When he closes his eyes, it gets pitch dark. Opening them again, the shadow reappears. It’s carrying something that looks like a sledgehammer… He turns and leaves before anyone else notices it.

– He-ey, Joe.

Someone calls to him in English. Jo stops by the edge of the pool and looks round. In a deckchair over by the wall he sees the man he spoke to yesterday evening. The one who wanted Jo to call him Jacket. A candle burns on a table beside him. He’s sitting reading a book.

– Hi, says Jo, and feels his breath calming down out here in the dark.

– Busy? asks the man, who obviously wants to talk to him today as well.

Jo takes a step closer. Jacket is still wearing the khaki shorts and short-sleeved black shirt.

– Everything okay now? The business with your mother and all that?

Jo doesn’t answer.

– Why not sit down for a few minutes? Jacket waves his hand towards the neighbouring deckchair. Jo perches on the edge of it.

– What are you reading? he asks, just for something to say.

Jacket holds up a little sliver of a book. – A long poem.

– Poem?

– Actually a story. A journey through a dead world. Or a world of the dead.

– Like a ghost story?

– Exactly, Jacket exclaims. – I’ve read it lots of times. But I still don’t know what’s going to happen in the end.

Jo wonders what he means by that.

– The part I’m reading now is called ‘Death by Water’.

– So maybe it’s about drowning, Jo guesses.

– Yes. A young man. A Phoenician.

– Phoenician? Jo interrupts. – You mean the people who lived here thousands of years ago?

Jacket’s eyebrows rise and form twin arches. – Well I must say, Jo, you sure do pay attention in school.

Jo does. He’s as clever as he can be bothered to be.

– So he drowns, this Phoenician, he affirms, trying to make his voice sound as if it doesn’t matter. – A soldier, maybe?

– Actually a travelling salesman, it would seem. He’s been floating in the sea for fourteen days already. Not much left of him; skin and muscles have stripped away from the bone. He was probably quite rich, but that’s not much use to him now. Lying down there in another world in the depths, can’t even hear a seagull cry.

Jo suddenly feels cheered up. Jacket likes to talk to him. He isn’t just pretending.

– Pretty good way to die, he says quickly, with a glance across at the grown-up in the flickering candlelight.

Jacket sits there and studies his face. – I’ve been thinking about the conversation we had last night, he said finally.

This man has been on TV lots of times, and now he’s sitting here one metre away, in the flesh, and thinking about things a twelve year old said to him. Suddenly Jo is on the alert.

– Was there all that much to think about?

Jacket lights a smoke.

– How about one for me too?

– What do you think Mother would say if a grown-up stranger started you smoking?

Jo snorts. – It’s got nothing to do with her. She’d never find out. If she did find out, she wouldn’t give a damn. Anyway, I’ve smoked lots before.

Jacket hands him the cigarette. – You’ll have to make do with one drag. If you squeal, I’ll be in trouble. Wouldn’t take a lot more than that to get me on the front page of VG and Dagbladet and Seen and Heard and you name it.

Jo grins. – I’d get well paid for it. The thousand-kroner reward.

– Exactly, says Jacket. – Celebrity on sunshine holiday lures child with cigarettes.

Jo has to laugh. He takes a deep drag on the cigarette and holds it down, feeling at once that delicious dizziness.

– I always see you alone here, he observes after another puff.

– I am alone here.

– You go away on holiday on your own? Don’t you have a family and all that?

Again Jacket looks at him for a long time.

– I needed to get away for a while, he answers, leaning back in the deckchair. – Made up my mind the night before, jumped on board a plane, ended up here by chance. Surprisingly good place. Might buy a house here.

Not many grown-ups live like that. Suddenly just up and off on a plane. Buy a house on Crete if they can be bothered to.

– So that business with your mother, it’s all okay now?

For some reason or other Jacket returns to the subject Jo least of all wants to talk about. He doesn’t answer, and maybe Jacket finally understands; at least he stops going on about it. Instead Jo begins to talk about the girl in the next-door apartment. She’s got long legs and tits and she’s a real looker. Just the right haughtiness, a bit of a princess like.

– What are you going to do? Jacket wants to know, and offers Jo the cigarette again.

– Do?

– To get talking to her. Don’t just sit here having fantasies about her.

Jo doesn’t have any plans and is open to advice from someone who probably knows a lot about this kind of stuff.

– What’s her name?

Jo shrugs his shoulders.

– You want to find that out, says Jacket. – It’s important to know the names of things. It gives you a head start. Which apartment are you in?

– 1206.

– And the girl’s, is that further down? Wait here.

Jacket gets up and disappears in the direction of the hotel. It’s good to be sitting there after he’s gone. On the far side of the wall, way down below the terrace, he hears the breakers. A light blinking out there in the darkness, a ship making its way through the night. And if he leans his head back, he can see constellations he doesn’t recognise, with a satellite gliding in and out between them.

Four or five minutes later Jacket comes back. He’s carrying two Cokes, gives one to Jo and flops down into the deckchair again.

– Her name is Ylva.

– Who?

Jacket grins. – The girl you were talking about. Her name is Ylva Richter. All I had to do was ask at reception.

Jo’s eyes narrow to two slits.

– Thought maybe I could get things started for you, Jacket adds, in a slightly different voice, maybe noticing how uneasy Jo looks. – Girls are a healthy interest. Better than the Boy Scouts and sport and schoolwork.

Jo relaxes again. Jacket’s a cool guy. Hard to figure out how he can be bothered to take an interest, to sit and talk like that with a twelve year old. Not pretend conversation, but the real thing. About stuff that matters. Jo doesn’t need to think about Mother and Arne making fools of themselves in there in the restaurant. He isn’t them. Doesn’t give a shit about them.

He’s walking in the sand. It’s burning, but he doesn’t feel it. The white light forces its way in everywhere. Ylva Richter is walking alongside him. She’s wearing the bikini with the red hearts on. I know a place where no one can see us,she says. A cave where we can be on our own. They carry on towards the end of the beach. Around them are flowers growing straight up out of the sand. How can anything grow in a place like this? asks Ylva. Jo doesn’t know the answer to that, so maybe she doesn’t ask that after all, but snuggles up to him as he puts his arm around her naked shoulder.

Just then he hears the chinking of keys outside. He grabs a towel and pulls it over himself.

Mother is standing there. Leaning up against the door post.

– Hey, sweetie, she smiles as she peers into the room at him. She’s spilt something red on the strap of her dress. – Sitting in there in the dark, are you?

He makes a face in reply.

– I felt a bit tired, me, she explains as she steps out of her high-heeled sandals.

She gets a bottle of water from the fridge, fills a glass, drinks. It dribbles from the corners of her mouth and down into the red, sunburnt gap between her breasts.

Afterwards she comes into the living room, strokes his hair as she passes, bends over Nini, listens to her breathing, turns again, standing right up close to him.

– Wonderful to have such a smashing big brother.

Her voice is woozy at the edges, and overflowing. But she isn’t sloshed. She gives him a hug, kisses him on the cheek. Her breath smells of wine, and the perfume is like lilac. He turns away, but not completely.

She goes to the toilet. Pees for a long time. Flushes, washes her hands. Directly after, she opens the door slightly.

– Are you going to sit here like this in the dark all evening?

He shrugs his shoulders. – There aren’t any more rooms.

– Come in here with me for a bit. We need to have a chat now and then.

He follows her. She clears clothes away from the double bed, knickers and tops and a wet bikini, hangs it over the suitcase lid in the corner, lies down on the blanket. Jo leans up against the wall.

– Sit down here, she says, patting the edge of the mattress.

He does as she says. Can’t be bothered telling her what he thinks about her drinking and making a fool of herself so that everyone laughs at her.

– You’re a nice boy, Jo, she says, and he wants to ask her to shut up. Or explain what she means by that. – You know, things haven’t been all that easy recently, she says. He knows all about that. And nothing about it. Doesn’t want to know either. He’s afraid of what will happen if she starts discussing it. – It’s not always easy for me, she says, and he wants to get up again, can hear in her voice that any moment now she’s going to start whimpering again. – There’s a lot you don’t know, Jo. She strokes the back of his head. – I need a proper cuddle, she says. He can’t face the thought of bending over her. But he can hear her snivelling, in complete silence. He moves his legs, about to stand up; she probably thinks he’s doing it to turn towards her, and she pulls him down on to the bed. One leg remains on the floor, the other is on the covers. – You’ve always been my best boy, you know. I’ll always take care of you. She’s lying, he thinks, and the lilac smell is so strong he feels he’s going to puke at any moment. And behind it, the smell of her skin, sweat and onions, and something that reminds him of the kitchen cloth when it hasn’t been wrung out for several days and he finds it under the dishes in the sink. His leg is aching; he has to pull it up into the bed, lies there with his whole body next to her. She has one arm round him. The other is lying along his thigh. He feels something happening down there, something she mustn’t notice, but he can’t manage to turn away, and she holds him even tighter. – You’re a nice boy, Jo. So nice… so nice.

Mother is whimpering in the bedroom. Drowned out by Arne’s snoring. Jo has seen something about snoring on TV. They said people who snore don’t live as long. They get bad hearts before other people and can die without warning.

– I’m hungry, Nini whines.

– I’ll get something for you.

– Mum should do it.

– She’s sleeping.

– Mum should do it!

– Then you’d best do it yourself, Jo snarls. – There’s a yoghurt in the fridge.

She has tears in her eyes.

– Don’t like yoghurt.

He feels like lashing out at her, standing there moaning. Or throwing open the bedroom door and grabbing hold of Mother by the hair and dragging her out of bed. Nini is hungry, do you hear, you fucked-up cow? She’s three years old and hungry. And if Arne wakes up and starts throwing his weight around, getting a beer can from the shelf in the fridge and smashing it down on his sleepy, bad-tempered face.

– Let’s go and eat breakfast, Truls suggests as he pulls on his shorts. – Then afterwards take Nini down to the beach.

Jo spins round, lifts his arm to give him a clout. Truls starts and jumps back. Jo leaves him alone. Kid brother is always having bright ideas about what to do. Irritating, but he means well.

– Okay. Jo’s anger slips off him. At least some of it. – Help Nini on to the toilet. I’ll go over and save a table for us.

The time is 8.30. As usual, the dining room is packed. He stands in the doorway and looks round. Fortunately everybody’s bound up with their own business. Only a few old people near the door stare at him. A woman with a white headband round her grey hair whispers to an old bloke, and Jo is certain it’s something about him. About Mother, and Arne. He turns, about to leave. Someone calls his name. Daniel stands up at a table out on the terrace and waves to him. When Jo doesn’t respond, he comes over.

– Do you want to sit with us?

Daniel’s wearing a Metallica T-shirt and dark-red shorts, and cool sunglasses that look like they cost a lot. – We’ve got room.

Jo glances across. A woman in a thin dress sitting with her back to them. Her hair is darker than engine oil. Next to her a powerfully built man, and at the end of the table a boy about Nini’s age. Family. Having breakfast together. Got an extra place out on that blistering hot terrace. Someone could go over to that table and start smashing at it with a sledgehammer.

– The others’ll be here any moment, Jo manages to blurt out. – I need to find places for all of us.

– Wanna play beach footie afterwards?

Daniel doesn’t give up, stands there waiting for him to say something. It mustn’t happen now, he hears the thought race through him. Not right in front of Daniel and his family and a pack of staring faces. He spots a vacant table and makes his way over to it. It hasn’t been cleared after the last guests. Plates with bits of egg, bacon fat, and grape pips in a serviette. Coffee dregs in the cups. Truls arrives with Nini trailing behind. Jo orders him to clear the table. Goes and fetches a huge bowl of cornflakes for Nini.

– I want Honni-Korn, she protests.

– You’ll take what you’re given, he growls, and for once she realises there’s no point in complaining any more. – Look here, four spoonfuls of sugar. That’ll taste good.

Truls laughs loudly. He’s managed to fix himself up with fried potatoes, bacon and a whole lot of ketchup.

– This place is cool, he says happily.

Jo chews down a slice of bread and jam. He keeps an eye on the table where Daniel’s family are sitting. The mother gets up and heads towards the exit. She’s slim, and the black dress clings to her. Reminds Jo of a film star whose name he can’t recall. The father has finished too, but sits there listening to something Daniel is talking about. He has curls on the back of his neck and looks like he does a lot of training with weights.

The girl he’s been waiting for comes in, accompanied by the fat, fair-haired one. They hang their bathing towels up by a table just inside the open sliding doors, not far from Daniel’s. They pass by less than two metres away on their way to the buffet. Jo doesn’t look at her, but she looks at him, he’s certain of it. Jacket advised him not to show too much interest. And then suddenly strike. Jo is massively relieved he’s alone there with Truls and Nini. Maybe the girl hasn’t seen him with Mother and Arne. Maybe she doesn’t have to know about them at all.

Less than three minutes later, she’s heading back, carrying a tray. She’s just been swimming; her bikini makes a wet patch on her bottom. It’s the one with the hearts on, Jo can see that through the thin yellow skirt she’s wearing, the one that was hanging to dry on the balcony the day before. Her name is Ylva, Ylva Richter. If Jacket is to be believed. Why shouldn’t he believe Jacket? He’s funny and he’s famous. And for some reason or other, interested in what interests Jo. Jo looks round to see if Jacket is there. But it strikes him that Jacket isn’t the type to take an early breakfast. More the type to sit up all night smoking and reading over and over again poems about drowned Phoenicians.

Before Jo has finished his first slice of bread, Ylva stands up. Between the yellow skirt and an even shorter top, her stomach is visible. She has a ring in her navel. Jo has never seen that before. He can’t stop himself from staring at it. And beneath the top her breasts jig up and down when she walks. He forces himself to look away. Girls don’t like it if you slobber over them, Jacket might have said.

As she disappears around the corner, Jo gets up. – Stay here with Nini.

– Where are you going?

– Toilet. You don’t go anywhere, got that?

Truls chews away on a stub of sausage and doesn’t look to be in any hurry at all.

– Back in a few minutes, Jo calls over his shoulder.

He leans forward and peers at the neighbouring balcony. The door is closed and the curtain drawn. But she’s in there, he doesn’t doubt it for a moment. All quiet in the bedroom. Can’t even hear Arne snoring. Maybe his heart’s stopped; maybe he’s lying in bed blue in the face, with his fat tongue poking out of his gob. Maybe he’s turned over in his drunken stupor and smothered Mother as well. In that case Jo will have to take Truls and Nini and leave there. Sit next to Ylva on the plane. You can live with me, she says. What about Truls and Nini? he asks. I have to take care of them. They’ve got no one else. She leans up against him. My parents can adopt them. They’ll be well looked after.

He does it without any more thought. Sneaks out, over to the neighbouring door. Knocks. No answer. Is he maybe not meant to speak to her? Knocks again. Suddenly shuffling footsteps inside.

– Who is it?

Ylva’s voice. He’s struck again by something he noticed at the pool the other day. She has a sort of Bergen accent. The thick way she rolls her rs. Bergen or somewhere round there. He feels a desire to say her name, but controls himself.

– It’s me… I live next door.

She opens up. She’s wearing a tank top and shorts. A towel round her head, like a turban.

– Hi, says Jo.

– Hi?

– I live next door, he says again.

– Yeah?

She says it as though she’s never seen him before. I live next door, he’s about to say for the third time. Can I come in?

Sit on their sofa. Hold her hand. The look in her eyes doesn’t suggest anything like that.

– Can I borrow a tin opener? he says, rescuing himself, relieved at how natural it sounds. Tin openers are things anyone might need, any time. A common thing to borrow from a neighbour.

– Tin opener? She glances towards the kitchen. – Let’s see if we have one.

She pushes the door to. Doesn’t ask him in. No wonder, considering how surprised she was.

Next moment she’s back again, holding out a metal thing, a combination bottle opener and tin opener, with a corkscrew you fold out. Exactly like the one that was in their own kitchen drawer when they arrived and which is now on Mother’s bedside table.

Suddenly he feels brave. Looks into her eyes for a long time. They’re brown, with black flecks.

– Be right back, he says, and turns away.

– No rush, Ylva says. – You can bring it back later.

He stands there in the half-dark of the kitchen and squeezes the opener in his hand, the little point against his palm. He presses it so far down it goes through the skin and the pain shoots up through his fingers.

Then he hears Mother’s voice from the bedroom. Snuffling and full of sleep. Next moment she emerges stark naked on her way to the toilet. He slips back out into the light. Ylva’s bathroom window is open. Maybe she’s standing in front of the mirror. Combing her long wet hair. He knocks again. This time she opens straight away, without asking who it is.

– Finished already? she says with a little smile.

– Tin of tuna, he explains, couldn’t think of anything else. – Nice place, he adds quickly, because he can see she’s about to close the door again.

– Very, she says.

– Good beach, he says.

She nods. – I’m going down in a minute. Just need to get ready first.

He feels his face prickle. What she says is nearly Shall we meet down on the beach? He raises a hand to touch her, can’t bring himself to, rubs his lip.

– See you, he says.

She raises her eyebrows, mostly the right one, he notices.

– Sure… yeah, she says, and closes the door.

He stands outside her door and realises he has forgotten to give her the tin opener. She forgot too. Too busy talking to him. But it would be a mistake to knock again. Jacket would advise against, Jo feels certain of that. Instead he puts the opener in his pocket; it gives him the chance to go back later. He jogs away. The cats are still there in the little playground with the swing and the slide. Some slinking round, some climbing the trees. The one-eyed creep is by itself over by the fence. Jo lets himself in. The creep recognises him, slinks across and starts to rub itself against his bare leg. The fur is scruffy but still feels soft. The pitiful little thing looks up at him with its one eye and gives a complaining meow, like maybe it’s asking for something. He wants to do something or other with it. Not sure what. Lift it up and feel the fur against his cheek. Feel with his finger inside the empty space below the eyelid. Squeeze this kitten so hard it stops its whining.

He contents himself with kicking at it, so that it won’t follow him out through the gate.

Just past the kiosk, he stops and sweeps the beach with his gaze. The parasols are made of straw and make him think of the Hottentot Hoa who bangs away on his drums at night and saves the village from enemy attack. He sidles over to the big tree. She must be somewhere or other on this beach, Ylva, because he’s already checked out the other beach, about a hundred metres further away.

Then he sees her. On her way up from the sea in the bikini with the dark red hearts. She takes hold of her hair, twists it round a few times then tosses it like a tail on to her back. The little fair-haired one is waddling along behind her, like a tubby pet. Jo grins and keeps his eyes on Ylva. She walks up to a parasol on the second row down, picks up a towel, dries her face and her thighs, hangs it out, lies down in the sun.

Go over there now, Jo can hear Jacket saying. Or wait till she goes for another swim. Follow her into the water and get talking to her. Not difficult to find something to talk about with the breakers washing over them and just about tipping her over.

He chooses the first option, can’t be bothered to wait. Makes his way slowly towards the end of the beach where she is. Recognises the grown-ups she was sitting with in the dining room. The man, must be her father, has grey hair. And the mother is completely unlike Ylva, small and with a bigger belly bulge than Mother.

Arne sits two parasols away from them.

Jo freezes. Naturally, Mother is there too. And the couple they were dancing and necking with that first night. Mother is wearing her pink bikini and is lying flat on the sunbed with a straw hat over her face. In the sand next to her are two big green bottles of beer. Arne has his back turned and is talking to the other grown-ups. Hasn’t spotted him yet. Jo turns and runs away, reaches the shelter of a tree. Without stopping he carries on up the hill, past the apartments and down on to the other beach.

Fewer people there. In the middle of a crowd of boys he sees Daniel, heads towards him.

– Ready for football?

– Where?

– In the shade, of course. If you don’t want your legs to burn up under you.

Daniel always seems to have a crowd of friends around him. He’s cool, Jo has to admit it. And good looking. Last night he was sitting by the edge of the swimming pool talking to some girls who looked to be quite a bit older than him.

Others come along and join them as they measure out the pitch and put down towels for goalposts. There are seven of them. The Swedes they hammered at volleyball the other day, and some others whom Daniel speaks to in English.

– Just going to see if Daddy’ll play, then we’ll be four a side.

It makes Jo smirk to hear Daniel still calling his father Daddy, but he keeps the smirk to himself. Daniel sprints across to one of the parasols by the stone staircase. Jo sees the father lay down his newspaper and get up, ambling through the sand. When he arrives, he shakes hands with them all.

– Have to know whom I’m playing with, he says with a broad smile. He’s very tall and looks strong, and with his longish hair he reminds Jo of Obi-Wan in Star Wars.

One of the Swedes is on their team. His name is Pontus. Short and thin and with very quick feet. Typical winger. Jo prefers playing in the middle. He has a good shot, and the trainer is always praising him for his ability to read the game. It’s fine by him that Daniel wants to play up front. His father plays at the back and calls himself a roaming ’keeper.

Daniel of course is good. Frighteningly good. A neat swerve, and fantastic acceleration. Once he takes a shot on the volley. Keeper nowhere near it. Like Marco van Basten. But he’s no egomaniac. He centres, runs, plays one-twos.

– Good ball, he shouts to Jo, who’s threaded a pass through the sand. And after beating a defender and the keeper, he dribbles the ball over the goal line and then gives him the thumbs-up, as though to say it was the pass that was good, and not what he was able to make out of it.

His father is the same, always encouraging.

– Great work, Jo, he shouts when Jo intercepts a long through ball. – Saved me a lot of trouble there.

After the game Daniel says:

– Come on over with us, we’ve got a cooler bag with cold drinks. But no Coke. My mother’s a health freak. Much worse than Daddy, even though he’s a doctor.

Jo hesitates. What does it mean, the way he’s always being invited along? There must be something behind it, something that he doesn’t know about yet. The whole time he’s waiting for Daniel to give some kind of clue. Show that he’s laughing at him. But that’s not what happens. Is it possible that some people here didn’t see Mother legless on the dance floor?

Daniel gives the order: – We need ten litres of juice to put back what we sweated out. Jo ran twice as far as me.

His mother is wearing a white bikini with a big leaf pattern on one of the cheeks. She’s lying on her front reading a book and not wearing a top. She glances up at them.

– Hey there, Jo, she says, in a rather deep voice, and then goes on reading.

This is the first time Jo sees Daniel’s mum up close. She has hardly any wrinkles and looks years younger than Mother.

– Help yourselves, she yawns. – I’m off duty now.

Daniel’s father has wrapped an enormous towel around himself and changed into swimming trunks. Jo can’t stop himself from taking a look between his legs. Fortunately the shorts are as big and wide as the ones he and Daniel are wearing.

They swim out breaststroke. Jo keeps his yellow T-shirt on in the water. He realises that he’s not going to go bare-chested for the duration of the holiday. Could have taken it off that first day. Now it’s too late. But Daniel doesn’t mention it.

– Don’t try to race him, he warns his father with a nod in Jo’s direction. – Especially not underwater.

– Oh really?

– He must have swum fifty metres yesterday. Against the current. Compleeetely craaazy. He repeats the phrase from the day before, in a thick accent, joking, but the respect he has for Jo is obvious.

– Is that right, Jo?

– Roughly.

– You must have a fantastic pair of lungs, Daniel’s father says. – I noticed that anyway when we were playing earlier. You ran the others into the ground, simple as that.

– Where do you get to if you keep on swimming out? Jo asks, to change the subject.

– Out? Daniel’s father peers towards the horizon. – Africa first.

– I mean, whereabouts in Africa?

– Egypt, maybe. Or Libya. If you can keep a steady course, that is. I suggest if we swim out to those buoys that’ll do us.

No more than twenty metres out there, thirty at the most. Jo dives, arrowing downwards until he reaches the sandy bottom. Follows it as it slopes into darkness. He feels a prickling in his ears, because he must be three metres below. Follows the depths outwards. Sees the others’ legs breaking the delicate surface high above him. There’s a throbbing in his head. As if someone’s standing there and keeps hitting it. If I don’t swim up and join them, he feels the thought race through him, if I just keep going along the bottom here until I disappear, then he’ll take over, the one standing in the dark with the sledgehammer.

At that moment he glimpses the buoy up in the light, spins round, cuts the surface and grabs it moments before Daniel and his father arrive.

The sun is half-hidden behind the peak in the west.

– Have you noticed how quickly it gets dark here? Jo observes. He sketches a falling arc in the air. – The sun is directly above you, and then it drops. Like that.

Daniel agrees. – But that’s nothing compared to what it’s like in Tanzania.

– Have you been to Africa?

– Yup. You have to hurry on home once it gets towards evening. There’s never a dusk. It’s like somebody suddenly turns off the light. Everything goes dark. Not a single street lamp. It’s dead cool.

The flagstones are still hot, but not burning hot, not hot enough to raise blisters under the soles of the feet. They’re walking barefoot, towels over their shoulders, shadows in front of them. If Jo stays half a pace ahead, it makes them the same height.

People are already on their way to the restaurant. He’s thinking he must get some food inside him. Avoid being seen with Mother and Arne. Have to make do with sweets.

– Just off to the kiosk.

– I’ll wait by the pool, says Daniel. – We usually meet there before we go for dinner.

When Jo returns, nibbling on a choc ice, there’s a gang sitting around the pool. She’s one of them. Half lying on a sunbed, her back turned. The fat fair-haired girl next to her.

– Pudding before dinner? Cool, says Daniel. – We thought we might do something afterwards.

Ylva turns and glances at Jo. He tosses the half-eaten choc ice into a bin.

– Where are you going?

– Up to the miniature golf. Daniel lowers his voice before continuing. – Maybe go to a café that’s a bit further up the street. You should come with us.

Ylva looks at the fat little girl, who giggles. They’re obviously up for it. Jo stands next to the end of her sunbed and from the corner of his eye, behind the sunglasses, he can see how she lifts her gaze and lets it wander over him. Suddenly he knows that it’s Ylva who has decided that they’re going to ask him along.

– I’m in, he says to Daniel, and watches to see how she reacts. She smiles and looks pleased…

All day the heat has been gathering in him. He hates it being so hot. He could bend down, take her head between his hands, do something or other with it. He takes a quick look at his watch, mutters something about having to get home, heads for the steps with easy strides. Not until he’s past the bar and they can’t see him any more does he start running. Passes the apartment, on round the last house, down to the beach, not stopping until he reaches the water’s edge and the one who stands in the shadows with the sledgehammer raised above his head is drowned out by the breakers that foam in over his feet.

He bumps into Arne in the apartment doorway.

– What have we here? His lordship deigns to put in an appearance.

– I’ve been with a pal, Jo offers.

– Tell people where you are. What sort of holiday is it going to be for us if we’re running round looking for you the whole time?

The question lingers for a few moments.

– Nini’s sick, Arne growls, as though there’s any need to say that. Nini is always sick. Earache and difficulty breathing. She’s always eaten something or other that doesn’t agree with her, or it’s the heat and the air-conditioning that makes her breathing so heavy. Or the kids’ pool hasn’t been properly cleaned. All the things Mother complains about without doing a damned shit about it. – You keep an eye on her while we go and get something to eat.

– Okay, says Jo, relieved not to have to sit with them, and the fact that he agrees at once puts Arne in a better mood.

– We’ll bring some food back for you. Unless you want to pop out afterwards and get something to eat on your own.

– Okay, Jo says again.

– There’s a Coke in the fridge, says Arne, almost friendly now. – But don’t touch any of the other bottles, he adds with a guffaw, giving Jo a friendly punch on the shoulder.

He sits Nini up with cushions on the sofa. She is so short of breath it’s an effort to say anything at all. But there’s a cartoon on one of the TV channels and she’s able to follow that. Mother has left the nebuliser ready. And he can run and fetch her at any time if Nini gets worse… Does she think he’s going to let himself be seen in the dining room with them? Better to go to reception and get hold of a doctor. Or Daniel’s father.

Truls returns after half an hour. He’s carrying two plastic cartons in a bag. Lasagne, and meatballs in sauce.

– Mother and Father will be back shortly, he announces.

Jo snorts. – And you believe that?

– They’re just finishing eating.

Truls is eight and doesn’t understand a thing about the world yet. Jo laughs his head off. Is about to tell him what he thinks. Checks himself. Let him go on believing in Santa Claus a while longer, he thinks, and it makes him feel like a good big brother. Again that thought of taking Truls and Nini somewhere else. Him and Ylva, because she might well come along, after they’ve been to that cave she’s going to show him. Suddenly he’s filled with a furious rage towards Mother and Arne, mostly towards Mother. No one asked him if he would mind sitting the whole evening in the apartment. And he’s no intention of doing that either. Get Nini to sleep, maybe wait for Truls to drop off too, because that never takes long. He intends to go out, no matter how bad Nini is. If she stops breathing and they find her early next morning, lifeless and blue in the face, then it’s their own fault.

He undresses in the bathroom. Stands a moment in front of the mirror, bends forward and looks down his body, down to the navel. If he closes his eyes, he can see Ylva. She’s wearing her bikini, and her bare shoulders are warm. If he wants, he can get her to put her hand on the front of his shorts. I know a place, she says very quietly, because no one else is to hear her. They come to the end of the beach and climb over the jagged rock. No, they walk round it, wade out into the warm water and in towards a bay on the other side. I know a cave, says Ylva, and she feels what has happened down in his shorts and stops and turns towards him, and then they kiss.

He hears the front door open. He freezes, slips in behind the shower curtain, turns it on. The boiling-hot water makes him groan in pain.

– Jo?

– I’m in the shower, he explains, and twists the tap over down to blue.

– Don’t you think it’s a liddle bit late? Mother snuffles. – I thought you’d gone to bed.

He can hear her sitting down on the toilet seat. Can see her outline through the thin curtain.

– Aren’t you going out again? he asks.

– Not while Nini isn’t well, of course not.

She finishes and flushes. He can tell from her voice that soon she’ll be asleep. He turns towards the wall, lets the cold water cascade down. Hears the curtain being pulled aside.

– I am showering, he repeats, quite angry now.

– I can see that, Jo. It certainly doesn’t bother me at all. We always used to shower together before. She steps in and stands behind him. He realises she’s taken off all her clothes.

– Hey, this is ice cold. Are you trying to fweeze to death?

She turns the water back up. It takes a while for it to get warmer.

– There’s no need to be shy with me, Jo. I’m your mother after all, aren’t I? I’ve always given you a good soaping and then rinsened you off and dried you, haven’t I?

She fills her palm with shower oil and begins to rub his shoulders.

– Don’t be shy, Jo. Being naked together is quite natural.

She’s still standing behind him; she puts her arms around his chest and rubs down towards his stomach. Suddenly she bends forward and kisses his neck.

– Jo, she says, as she goes on rubbing with that slippery oil that smells of lilac. He can’t stand lilac. There’s someone else standing somewhere in the shadows, beating away with a hammer, someone who appears whenever this happens, who makes him feel like it isn’t Jo who’s there, but this other boy, who goes along with everything.

– You’re a nice boy, Jo. You’re so nice… so nice.

– I’m not Jo, he murmurs as he lifts his face to the stream of water.

It’s approaching 10.30 when he puts on his shoes. Mother’s in the bedroom and lies there whimpering in her sleep, naked and still wet, because she wasn’t able to dry herself properly. Jo creeps back into the bathroom. Wipes himself clean with a towel yet again. Takes the bottle of aftershave from the shelf. It smells of Arne, and he wrinkles his nose but fills his fist and rubs it over both sides of his neck. He feels it burning, ice cold. He takes a swig of the pale blue liquid. Tastes of soap and flowers. It wants to come back up again. He forces it to stay down. On his way towards the front door, he remembers something, opens the kitchen drawer and finds what he borrowed from Ylva. The combination corkscrew, tin opener and bottle opener. Take it along and give it to her now. Because it’s still not too late to find her. She’s in a café somewhere up near the main road. Good way to get a conversation going. Joke about the opener. That it was beer he was going to open yesterday morning, or a bottle of wine. At any rate, not tuna. And she’ll laugh about the can of tuna, laugh at how he forgot to give it back to her, laugh while she pinches his arm, and then he can wrap himself around her. Pretty much the way Jacket said it would happen.

Daniel and the others aren’t at the pool any more. No grown-ups either, but from the terrace comes the sound of shouting and laughter. Jo thinks he can hear Arne’s voice, Arne telling jokes, and the skinny old bird laughing. He withdraws into the shadow, over to the steps, runs towards the miniature golf. The course is lit up. He sees the Swedish boy – Pontus – who was on their team when they played football. His hair is almost white and he has a ring in one ear. Pontius Pilate, thinks Jo… She isn’t there. Not her friend either, nor Daniel. He ambles over. Two other boys, both Swedes, watch as Pontus concentrates on the ninth hole. They give Jo a quick glance. Doesn’t seem like they want to talk to him, and that’s not why he’s there anyway.

– Where are the others?

Pontus Pilate thinks about it. – A café somewhere.

He nods in the direction of the world outside the hotel area.

Jo hurries along the main road. Suddenly furious with Arne, who made him look after the kids when he should have been out with Ylva. With Mother, who had to come home before he could leave. Two mopeds buzz by. Music from a bar. That kind of strumming on a Greek guitar that gets faster and faster, like a carousel. He curses again, this time because he didn’t ask Daniel the name of the café they were going to. Turns and heads back again. Decides to wait at the entrance to the hotel area. Sooner or later they’ll have to come this way. Passes a park on the other side of the street. Catches a glimpse of movement between the bushes. It’s them. Is about to call to them, but the shout never comes out. Daniel is holding her by the hand. There are no others with them. They disappear into the darkness.

He staggers on, round the next corner. He stops behind the building, supports himself against a container. He has to check to see if he’s made a mistake. Climbs over a fence, approaches the park from the lower side. Creeps bent double along the hedge.

They’re sitting between two bushes. Light from the café on the other side draws the shape of their bodies. They’re making out. He creeps even closer, so close he can hear them whispering to each other. Daniel has his hand up under her top. He can’t see her hands; they must be out of sight, down his shorts.

It wasn’t them he saw. Not Ylva. Not Daniel. It was too dark to see who it was. They weren’t whispering together. Go down to her apartment. Knock. If she’s home, it must be someone else sitting up there in the bushes, in the darkness. If she isn’t home, he can tell her father where she is. Then sneak back up there. Find them lying in the grass, her with the tiny little skirt bunched like a sausage round her stomach and her knickers flopping on one ankle, Daniel on top of her, because not one single sonofabitch in hell could be in any doubt about who that is carrying on up there in that park.

– Ylva, he says aloud. Repeats the name several times, knowing that he’ll never, ever say it again.

There’s something in his pocket. The tin opener. He digs it out, flips up the corkscrew. It’s sharp and makes his fingers prickle when he jabs it around on his underarm. In the kids’ playground he finds a tree. Carve on it with that stiletto of a corkscrew. A couple of words he has to get one last time, not Ylva but Fucking Ylva. Ylva doesn’t give a fuck. Not Daniel. Daniel doesn’t know anything about Ylva and Jo. Cut around the whole trunk of the tree, peel off the bark in strips so it can’t live.

Something soft rubbing against his leg. He jumps. The one-eyed kitten. He bends down and gets hold of it by the skin of its neck. Yes, now you can fucking wail, you moaning bastard, always coming over here and rubbing your arse up against me, you hear me, fucking cat? It wriggles about and tries to scratch him, and that’s what makes him really angry. It’s small, not much bigger than one of Arne’s shoes, and the thought enrages him. With one hand he squashes it hard again the tree; he pulls his belt off with the other, passes a loop around the cat’s neck and pulls it as tight as he can. It hangs there, wriggling and squirming about. He fastens the belt around a branch and stares at it. Stares everything evil into that sick little cat face. It’s only got one eye, but that’s one too fucking many, it seems to him; not him, but the other one, he’s the one that’s there now, the one who stands in the dark and pounds away with a sledgehammer shouting Don’t let it see me, no one must see me. He holds the little head in an iron grip, pokes away at it with Ylva’s tin opener, holds the animal at arm’s length so it can’t reach him with its claws. It’s hissing and screeching; he squeezes harder, and something green spurts out of its tiny mouth. Spit on me would you, you little fucker. He gets a finger down in the good eye, holds it open, jabs at it with the corkscrew. The cat makes a sound like a baby, like Nini when she lies away screaming all night long. He pushes the coils inwards, twisting until the eye gives and something wet dribbles out on to the back of his hand. Twists a few more turns and pulls it out as hard as he can. The fur in his hand goes limp. He tensions the belt so much the thin neck closes up and is almost cut right through. And yet it still isn’t dead. He leaves it hanging there and walks over to the swing and finds a big, sharp stone. Throws the limp creature onto the ground, bends over and pounds the stone against the soft head until he hears it splinter like dry tinder and the tiny ear fills with blood.

Sometime later he loosens the belt and throws the clump of fur off into the bushes. Hears voices getting closer and hides in between the slide and the swings. No surprise if someone comes to see what all the noise was about. But they walk on by, disappear down the steps. He creeps over to the gate, opens it. There’s a cord hanging from it, probably from a sweatshirt. He reaches down into the bushes and pulls out the slimy fur body. Ties the cord around its neck and takes it with him. You know exactly what to do with this, the whisper in his ear says. Whose fucking door you’re going to hang this on.

Calmer now he’s done what he was told to do, he walks back up the steps and back into the playground. Sits on one of the swings. He’s too big and heavy, the whole structure sways, and this calm can’t be trusted, his stomach is still churning way down low and it won’t stop. The yellow flag was waving on the beach when he and Daniel went up in the afternoon. Bound to be still up. That’s the way it is now, he mutters. Not just medium danger any more.

Soundlessly he lets himself in. The light is on in the room. Truls must have woken up and turned it on. He’s sleeping up on the sofa beside Nini. The duvet has slipped off and is lying half on the floor. Jo stands there looking at the sleeping bodies. Truls will miss him. Truls needs you, Jo. Mother will be ashamed; she’ll start crying. She’ll feel so sorry for herself. Nini is too small to understand anything. Only Truls will miss him. He picks up the duvet and wraps it round his brother and sister.

He notices that the whole of his underarm is covered in green slime mixed with bloody goo. Slips into the bathroom and rinses it off. Silent in the bedroom. Mother needs to sleep. Arne isn’t back yet. Here’s something he can do. Go up to the bar. Find Arne slobbering over that skinny bitch who’s with the other bloke. Walk over, grab something from a table, a knife, a corkscrew. Shove it into the side of his neck so it goes all the way through whatever’s in there and the blood gushes up out of Dickhead Arne’s mouth like a garden hose. Rouse Mother. Shove her and Truls and Nini into the back of a taxi and drive to the airport. We’re finished here, Mother, never come here again, understand? With Arne lying on the floor of the bar, bleeding to death. On the plane, she doesn’t touch a drop, not when they get home either. She’ll make their packed lunches and drop off Truls and Nini and then she’ll go to work, because her head at the hospital called and said they want her back. She’ll never again spend half the day lying in bed, and she’ll be there when they come home, and there’ll be the smell of roasting meat and freshly baked bread, and she’ll stand on the steps and smile at Jo when he comes home from school. This is how it’ll be from now on, Mother. Now Dick head Arne is gone for ever.

On top of the fridge he finds an envelope, tears off the back of it. Fetches one of Nini’s crayons, a light green one. Write something or other. Hate you is how he might begin, but that’s not what he writes. When he’s finished, there are just two words on the paper: Forget me.

From the top of the steps, the breakers look like huge kittens licking milk. He takes off his trainers on the bottom step and walks barefoot across the sand. It’s cool now. Passes a group of deckchairs at a distance. From the corner of his eye it looks as though someone’s sitting there, but he’s no intention of checking. He reaches the point at which the foaming water has to give up and go back again. Follows the tideline along. The sand here is firm and hardly sinks underfoot. Keeps going to a point midway along the beach, the place he picked out a few days earlier, without having planned it. Swim out. Past the buoys. Out through the warm black water. Headed for Africa. He’ll never get there. He’ll grow tired. Afraid, maybe, but mostly tired. Swim till he can’t do it any more. The dark warmth will close around him… He feels suddenly light. Hardly even angry any more. Just happy. His disappearance will wake Mother up. She’ll leave Dickhead Arne. Truls and Nini will have a better life. What is required is that he take this swim. Ylva will never know it has anything to do with her. Or perhaps she’ll understand when she comes home and sees what’s hanging on her door.

He pulls off his trousers and underpants, keeps the yellow T-shirt on. Behind the tongue of one of his trainers he puts the note he wrote in the kitchen.

He stands just where the breakers turn. They foam around his toes, frothing so the small bubbles burst. They don’t come to bring something, he thinks. They come to fetch something. He starts to wade out.

– Hey, Joe.

He stands there without turning round. Tries to tell himself it’s his imagination. Realises that it isn’t. Realises that Jacket is standing on the sand behind him.

– Bit late for a swim, isn’t it?

No one can stop what he has started on now. Postpone it maybe, but not stop it. He has given a promise. Doesn’t know who to, if it’s not to the one who stands in the dark pounding with the sledgehammer. There is nothing in the world that can make him go back on his word.

He half turns. Jacket is wearing the same dark clothes. His hair looks dirty and uncombed. A cigarette in one hand. Jo’s trainer in the other, with the note.

– It’s going to be a long night, Joe, says Jacket, and doesn’t seem the least bit bothered. – You’ve got plenty of time.

He takes a drag on the cigarette and offers it to him.

– Come and sit down here with me for a while. I’m not leaving until you tell me how things are working out between you and Ylva Richter.

DEAR LISS,

If you receive this letter, I am no longer. I sit watching how the dust slowly sinks down through the grey light falling from the window, and outside the wind whips up the autumn leaves and lays them down on the snow again. Even now that thought seems so strange. Not to be any more. It’s not a last-minute decision; it’s been latent for years, and now I’ve woken it up again. What you do will decide whether I send you this letter I’m writing, or burn it in the fireplace and carry on down my road a while longer. I won’t contact you, won’t lift a finger to influence you. The closest I can get to a feeling of relief right now is the thought that what is to come lies in your hands, not mine. And related to this relief is another thought: if you receive this letter, then you’ll also know what happened that time.

I first saw him on the plane. He passed by on the way to the toilet. I looked up from my book, the only luggage I had with me on that trip. His glance caught mine, but I don’t think he noticed me. I still remember the lines of verse I sat reading, over and over again, by the window:

Who is the third who walks always beside you?

When I count, there are only you and I together.

But when I look ahead up the white road

There is always another one walking beside you

Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded

I do not know whether a man or a woman

– But who is that on the other side of you?

I could have written a lot about Jo and Jacket. I could have described in detail the first meeting in Makrigialos that autumn. How I saved him from drowning himself. How he saved me. Not because I need to confess, Liss, but because it matters to me, sitting here, that you understand what you condemn me for…