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

looked around on the ground for something to throw, but as he spotted a stone the size of a fist, he realised it was pointless. If he managed to knock one of them down, the other one would kill theman who was down. He heard shouts behind him, and all he could do was hope that the others would get there in time.

A hint of emotion was now visible on Karl-Erik’s face. The corners of his mouth curled upwards in a nasty smile. He swung the saw backwards and took a step forward, while at the same time letting go with his left hand, so that he was holding the machine with his right hand on the throttle as he swung it in an arc towards Lasse’s head.

Mats let out a gasp, and it was all too late. But at the very last second Lasse managed to raise his blade in his defence, and the chains met a few centimetres from his ear. Sparks flew, then there was a dry snapping noise and Lasse fell back.

Later it was established that the chain on Lasse’s saw had broken and whipped him across the forehead. All they could see at the time was Lasse’s head jerking backwards as the saw flew out of his hand. With a heavy thud he hit the birch tree and slipped to one side.

Whatever Karl-Erik’s intentions might have been, he didn’t manage to carry them out. Göran got there first, closely followed by Johan Lundberg. Together with Mats they managed to wrestle Karl-Erik to the ground and get the saw off him.

But in another way it was too late. When they turned their attention to Lasse they saw that he was lying flat on the ground with a wound in his forehead, and that he was alive. But the birch tree…the birch tree into which he had thudded, its trunk now spattered with his blood—the birch tree had started to fall.

It had started to fall and it couldn’t be stopped. The tree was too big. Mats and the others could only stand watching open-mouthed as the enormous tree majestically and with studied slowness keeled over, tipped and fell.

The notch had been perfectly placed for its intended purpose, and the thick trunk went through the roof of the glass veranda first of all, shattering a number of panes, before smashing the chimney and snapping the roof beams. With a clatter of broken tiles, the entire roof of the little cottage folded and fell in. The trunk got halfway to thefloor before its crown bounced in a cloud of splinters and brick dust, and lay still.

By this time several people had arrived and were taking care of Lasse, who was bleeding profusely from the wound on his head and the cut on his back. The falling tree had so completely occupied everyone’s attention that they had forgotten about Karl-Erik for a while. He had a good deal to answer for, but when they turned around he was no longer there.

However, he wasn’t far away. As if nothing had happened he had got up, picked up his saw and was now on his way towards one of the neighbouring gardens, heading straight for a couple of tall pine trees with a swing between them.

This time there was no negotiation. Mats, Göran and Johan caught up with him, wrenched the saw out of his hands and grabbed him before he could cause any more devastation. Karl-Erik struggled, but whether he was crazy or not it was three against one, and they managed to hold him.

While Mats and Göran held on to his arms, Johan stood in front of him and tried to catch his eye. It was impossible. The eyes were there and they were looking into his, but it was impossible to make any kind of contact.

‘Karl-Erik?’ Johan asked anyway. ‘What’s got into you? What the hell are you doing?’

During the whole of the terrible duel Karl-Erik hadn’t made a sound, and they didn’t expect him to answer now either. But they still had to try to talk to him as if he were a sensible person who had a reason for his actions. And they got an answer.

Tentatively, as if he were unused to his mouth and in a voice that sounded like Karl-Erik but yet not like Karl-Erik, he said, ‘Those houses. Have got to go.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Johan. ‘They’re not our houses. It’s not up to us to decide.’

This objection made no impression on Karl-Erik. With stiff, grimacing lips he said, ‘Those houses have got to go.’

He twisted and turned in their grasp, but Mats and Göran managed to hold him. Elof Lundberg came over to them, glanced at Karl-Erik and asked, ‘What’s the matter with him?’

‘He’s lost the plot completely,’ said Johan. ‘If you can help out here I’ll go and fetch Anna-Greta. He’ll listen to her.’

So that was why Johan Lundberg got on his moped and rode off to the old village to ask Anna-Greta for help, then found himself standing on the jetty like an orphaned child, watching her and Simon disappearing towards the mainland in a cloud of gulls.

At something of a loss he climbed back on his moped and set off back to Kattudden to do what could be done.

That magician, he thought as he rode along, is someone we could do without.

In Norrtälje

At half-past three Simon and Anna-Greta were sitting in a pizzeria in Norrtälje, each with a capricciosa in front of them which they cut into small, easily chewed pieces, washed down with lukewarm Fanta. Simon had the required certificate in his inside pocket and two smooth gold rings in his outer pocket. Anna-Greta had asked to use the telephone in the national registration office and had rung Geir, the priest in Nåten, and booked the church for Sunday, in two days’ time, after High Mass. They were ready.

There was something…youthful about the haste with which they had gone about things. Perhaps it was that same feeling