Harbor by John Lindqvist (classic novels for teens txt) 📕

another box in time for the eleven o’clock boat, since the first box was more or less empty. There was a bit of a rush with the eleven o’clock boat, and he only just had enough fish. A small queue formed in front of the box; Anders stopped adding a couple of extra fish, and put only eighteen or nineteen in a bag if the customer was someone he didn’t recognise, who was only over for the day.

By twelve o’clock he was ready for the third box. The boat was moored by the jetty and his father, who was on holiday from work, was back from the shipyard where he had obviously got rid of the fourth box.

It was looking more than promising. Even if sales slowed down now, it wasn’t out of the question that Anders would manage to sell the contents of the third box as well. Despite the special offer this would mean that he was home and dry, that the radio-controlled boat would soon be surging through the waters of the inlet.

Buoyed up by this thought he carted the third box off to the shop and found a customer waiting by the sign. When he managed to sell two kilos once again, Anders decided to celebrate with an ice cream. He went into the shop and bought a Pear Split, then sat back down at his post.

He blew into the paper to loosen it from the ice cream, read the funny story on the collectable card, then sucked on the ice cream while counting the boats out in the bay. He could see his own radio-controlled boat storming past the lot of them, its engine roaring.

He had just got to the best part of the Pear Split, where the ice shellwas beginning to melt on his tongue and its sweeter flavour blended with the vanilla ice cream inside, when a man came walking along the track from Kattudden.

The man’s eyes looked strange. As if he were drunk. Anders’ father sometimes had the same purposeful walk when he’d had too much to drink, as if nothing existed but the goal before his eyes, as if life were merely a question of getting the body to the place it had to be.

Anders recognised him. He was the son of someone his grandmother knew—perhaps he used to live on the mainland and now he’d moved back to the island, Anders couldn’t remember. He was a bad-tempered individual. He had once shouted at Anders because his wheelbarrow was in the way outside the shop, and since then Anders had never asked him if he wanted to buy any herring.

He was wearing blue jeans and a checked shirt, like most of the permanent residents. He had wooden clogs on his feet and was marching determinedly towards the jetty.

Marching, yes. That was the word. The man was moving in a way that brooked no interference. If anything got in his way, he would ignore it or walk straight through it rather than give way. Perfectly consistent, bearing in mind how angry he had been when Anders got in his way.

When the man got near the jetty he turned off towards the thicket of sea buckthorn on the right. Anders was so fascinated by his behaviour that he forgot about his ice cream, and the sticky, melting stuff trickled down the stick and over his fingers.

The man disappeared from view behind the sea buckthorn, and Anders took the opportunity to lick the sticky sweetness off his fingers. Then he spotted the man again. He had reached the shoreline, and was on his way out into the water. He hadn’t even taken off his clogs.

Only now did Anders start to feel there was something unpleasant about the whole thing. The man slipped on the wet stones and fell, but immediately got up and carried on walking. Anders looked around,searching for some adult who could explain the situation to him, or simply indicate with a calm glance that everything was as it should be.

There were no adults in the vicinity. Nor anybody else, for that matter. Only Anders and the man who was now up to his waist in the water, forging ahead with heavier and heavier strides, heading straight for Gåvasten as if there were a secret track leading out there, a track you could only use if you had the right attitude.

When the water reached the man’s chest, he started swimming. Anders stood up, not knowing what he ought to do. He sucked on the lolly, took a couple of bites and saw the man’s head slowly moving further and further away from the steamboat jetty. He didn’t seem to be an accomplished swimmer, he was splashing about and making strange movements.

Perhaps it’s because he’s wearing clothes.

When he’d finished the ice cream and the man was showing no sign of turning back, Anders threw the stick in the bin and went into the shop.

There was nobody in there either, thanks to the midday lull. Anders found Ove, the owner, in the fridge behind the dairy cupboard, filling up the milk.

‘So how’s business?’ asked Ove without looking up from his work.

‘Good, thanks,’ said Anders.

‘Same here. Plenty of people about today.’

‘Yes.’ Anders began to feel unsure of himself. He had never spoken to Ove like this before, and he was a frightening figure, with his huge stomach and gigantic eyebrows. Anders rubbed one arm and said, ‘There’s a man swimming out there.’

Ove put the last carton of milk on the shelf and straightened up. ‘I’m not surprised. It’s hot today.’

‘Mm. But he’s still got his clothes on and…’ Anders didn’t know how to describe the feeling of foreboding that had come over him as the man walked down to the jetty, ‘…and there was something kind of strange about him.’

‘Strange in what way?’

‘Well…the fact that he didn’t take off his clothes. He just walked out into the water…and he was walking in an odd way too.’

‘So where is he now, then?’

‘Still swimming.’

Ove closed the door