A Bridge to the Stars (5 page)

When she speaks he nods and smiles and seems
extremely interested.

What are they talking about? A new grocer's shop
that's due to open shortly. Why is he interested in that?
He's never the one who goes shopping!

Plums. Prunes. Good for constipation.

Why is he pretending to be interested in that?

Nearly half an hour later he kneels down again and
looks through the keyhole. His knees and back are
aching, but he has to keep an eye on his father.

I'll kill her, he thinks. If I don't, she'll take my dad
away from me.

In the end she gets to her feet.

Joel can hardly straighten his stiff knees and barely
has time to dash over to his bed, lie down and pretend to
be reading a book.

Samuel opens the door.

'Sara's leaving now,' he says. 'Come and say
goodbye.'

I don't want to, he thinks. But of course, he does go
out into the kitchen.

''Bye, 'bye, Joel,' she says as she buttons up her coat.
'The next time you come to the bar, I'll make sure the
customers buy all your newspapers.'

Then they're alone, Joel and his dad.

'Did you hear that?' asks Samuel. 'Go there and sell
lots of newspapers and earn a bit of pocket money.'

Joel lays the table while his father fries some pork. He
clatters away with the pan, humming an old sea shanty.

While they are eating Joel decides to get his own
back. He can see that his dad is thinking about Sara all
the time. He must get him to think about something else.

'I want a bike,' he says. 'I'm the only one who doesn't
have a bike.'

But his father doesn't hear him. Sara with the red hat
has started eating up his thoughts.

'A bike,' he says, louder this time.

Samuel turns to look at him.

'I beg your pardon?'

'I want a bike. I don't want to be the only one who
doesn't have a bike.'

'Of course you shall have a bicycle,' says his father.
'I've already been thinking about that. The next time I
collect my wages we shall go and buy you a bicycle.'

Is that really true? wonders Joel. Has he really
thought about it of his own accord?

Suddenly there's so much that Joel doesn't
understand.

Is this what it's like to be grown up? Doing and
saying things that children don't understand?

'It was fun to have a visitor,' says Samuel. 'Usually
it's just you and me, sitting gaping at each other.'

'Are you going to get married again?' asks Joel.

'No,' says his father. 'I haven't got round to thinking
about that. But it does get lonely sometimes.'

'Tell me about my mum,' says Joel.

Samuel puts down his fork and gives him a serious
look.

'Soon,' he says. 'But not just now. Not when I'm in
such a good mood . . . '

When they've finished eating Joel builds a little cabin
in his bed. His blanket and the bedcover over two chairs
make an excellent hiding place. He creeps inside it and
starts thinking.

Far too much has happened at the same time.

First of all the boy with the snowshoes turns up. And
they'll be going out together tonight. Then Sara comes
visiting. And next his dad says that of course Joel can
have a bike.

That's too much.

Thoughts are buzzing around inside his head and Joel
has trouble in pinning them down. He knows you have
to take one thing at a time, but that's easier said than
done just now. What he would most like to do is to go to
sleep and dream about The Flying Horse. But he hasn't
time for that. He has to make preparations for the night.
He has to be absolutely clear about all the things he's
going to make up so that Ture doesn't start suspecting
anything. But it's not easy to concentrate because Sara
keeps intruding on his thoughts in her overshoes and her
red hat, and with the big hand she keeps using to pat him
on the cheek.

The cabin doesn't help. He just feels impatient.

He goes into his father's room: Samuel is sitting in his
chair with his eyes closed, listening to the radio.

Joel does something most unusual. He sits on his
father's knee.

'Phew, you're as heavy as a tree trunk,' gasps his dad.
'You're crushing the life out of me.'

On the radio some nasty-sounding voice is bleating
on about a journey with a motorbike and sidecar through
Italy.

'Genoa,' says Samuel out of the blue. 'I've been there.'

'But I haven't,' says Joel. 'Not yet, at least.'

Samuel chuckles so violently that his stomach
bounces up and down. But he doesn't explain why he's
laughing.

The sidecar trip comes to an end and is followed by
some marching music. Samuel beats time with one foot.
But soon he hasn't the strength to keep Joel on his knee
any longer.

'You're too heavy,' he says. 'I don't understand how
you can be so thin and yet weigh so much.'

Then he turns serious.

'Sara,' he says. 'The lady who was here. She had a boy
just like you once. But he died in a fire. Him and his dad.
They were living a long way from here at the time. She
moved here after that. It must be hard to be reminded of
it all every time she sees somebody like you.'

When Joel has gone to bed and his dad has sat with
him for a while and tucked him in, he thinks about
that fire.

As long as Sara doesn't eat up his dad, she's welcome
to come round for coffee some time.

As long as she doesn't take his dad away from him...

He lies in the dark and has trouble in staying awake.
Several hours to go yet before midnight, a lot of waiting
to do.

He would really have preferred it to be another
evening. It's never good to have too much to think about
at the same time. Even so, he eventually hears his dad
gargling in the kitchen, and then everything goes quiet.

He lies in bed watching the luminous hands on his
alarm clock. They are moving incredibly slowly towards
midnight. At a quarter to twelve he tiptoes out through
the door. He thinks the hall still smells of Sara.

It's a calm, starry night. Maybe Ture won't turn up, he
thinks. Even so, he hurries along the deserted streets and
stands in the shadow of a goods wagon in the
marshalling yard.

The white courthouse with its columned balcony is in
darkness. There's no sign of any light at all.

Joel waits . . .

In the far distance Joel can see the yellow clockface in
the church tower. If he screws his eyes up, he can just
make out the two hands. Five minutes past midnight.

He stamps his feet to keep warm.

The goods wagon beside him is big and dark, like a
dinosaur chained up in its cage.

He imagines a goods wagon being able to think. What
would happen if a goods wagon started growling? Who
will go hunting for a goods wagon if it breaks away
from its chains and escapes?

'Only people can think,' he whispers to himself.
'Only people . . . '

He suddenly gives a start.

He has the feeling somebody out there in the darkness
is looking at him. He turns round quickly, but sees
nothing apart from the silent goods wagons.

He gazes over towards the district court, but everything
is dark and quiet. No lights in any of the black
windows.

He starts to feel scared. Somebody is watching him in
the darkness. He's quite sure of it, even though he can't
see nor hear anything.

He holds his breath and listens.

Somebody is breathing close by.

He listens again, but thinks he is imagining it.

Then he feels a hand on his shoulder.

Death, he thinks. It must be death. An iron talon
digging into his shoulder . . .

He screams into the darkness.

'Did I scare you?' asks Ture, who is standing behind
him.

When he sees that it's Ture, it registers that he very
nearly peed himself. That would have been catastrophic.
When you pee yourself and it's freezing cold outside,
you first feel warm, but then it soon gets so cold that you
can't stop shivering.

'I'm pretty good at creeping up on people,' says Ture.
'I've been watching you for several minutes. Who were
you talking to? I heard you whispering.'

'To myself,' says Joel. 'Could you hear me?'

Ture nods.

Joel can't see properly, but he has the impression Ture
is smirking.

Joel is beginning to feel unsure about his secret
society. He doesn't know enough about Ture. What kind
of thoughts does a person have when he says he's a
nobleman and, in all seriousness, claims that his name is
von Swallow? The only thing Joel is sure is good is the
heroism rule he has invented.

Joel leads the way through the dark streets, down
towards the iron bridge over the river. He takes short cuts
through rear courtyards and narrow alleys between cold
walls. Although it's not necessary, he picks the most
roundabout and awkward route he can think of.
Clambering over the roof of the shed where the Highways
Department keeps its welding equipment is unnecessary,
of course. Nor is it essential to struggle through the broken-down
greenhouse owned by Mr Under, the horse dealer.
But Ture doesn't complain. He follows a couple of paces
behind Joel, and Joel notices that he's good at climbing.

They pause outside the block of flats where Otto
lives.

'This is where an enemy lives,' says Joel. 'He's been
excluded. He's called Otto and he's a real bastard.'

'Excluded from what?' wonders Ture.

The light from a streetlamp illuminates his face, and
Joel can see that he is not grinning scornfully.

'You'll find out soon enough,' says Joel. 'How old are
you, by the way?'

'Twelve,' says Ture. 'You as well?'

'Nearly,' says Joel.

When they stop the next time they're in the middle of
the railway bridge. The enormous arches tower up over
their heads.

Joel quickly invents another rule. Too bad if it's a rule
that is going to cause pain.

He bends down and touches the ice-cold parapet with
his tongue. His tongue sticks to the metal immediately,
and it hurts when he pulls it loose.

Then Joel tells Ture about The Secret Society. About
who is in it, who has been excluded and who are dead.
He talks about the dog he is looking for, but he doesn't
mention that he imagines it is on its way to a star. He's
not sure why he keeps that back. Perhaps he wants to
keep some of the secret for himself?

'Even if you're going to run away in a week's time
you can still be a member,' says Joel. 'But there's
something you must promise, and another thing you
must do. You must hold your tongue against the bridge
parapet and count up to fifty. And you must promise to
crawl over those enormous iron arches if you betray The
Secret Society.'

Without hesitation Ture crouches down and presses
his tongue against the freezing cold parapet.

Joel realises straight away that Ture has never done
this before. Licked cold iron in the middle of winter. The
trick is simply to touch the iron with the very tip of your
tongue, so that it doesn't hurt too much when you try to
take it away.

Joel is worried. What if he can't get it loose again?
What if it sticks fast and is torn off?

When Ture has finished counting to fifty he pulls his
tongue away. Joel can see that it hurts something awful,
and that Ture wasn't prepared for that at all. He pulls a
face and spits blood into the palm of his hand.

'I promise,' he says. 'I'll crawl over the arch if I
betray The Secret Society.'

'You have to stand up at the top of the arch and pee
into the river as well,' says Joel.

'I have no intention of evading my obligations,' says
Ture. 'Now what do we do?'

'Look for the dog,' says Joel.

But there is no sign of the dog that night.

They roam about the little town.

The Old Bricklayer, Simon Windstorm, goes past in
his lorry, and Joel explains that the driver is a madman
who never sleeps.

'He hasn't slept for thirty-four years,' he says, to
make Simon even more mysterious.

'You'll die,' says Ture. 'If you haven't slept for as
many years as that, you're dead. That would mean
there's a dead man driving around in that lorry.'

'Maybe he is dead,' says Joel. 'We'll look into that
one of these nights.'

Outside the Grand Hotel are a couple of drunks,
leaning against each other. Joel recognises them. The
short fat one is Mr Rudin, the ironmonger. The tall thin
one is Walter Kringström who runs a dance orchestra
and plays the clarinet.

In the background, in the forecourt of the hotel, Mr
Roth, the restaurant owner, is trying to start his car. He
can't get the engine to fire, and they hear Roth cursing
and swearing as he rummages around under the bonnet.

Rudin and Kringström make their way unsteadily as
far as the furniture shop where they come to a halt again,
leaning on each other. Joel thinks it looks as if Walter
Kringström is crying and the ironmonger is trying to
console him.

'Winos,' hisses Ture in his ear. 'Let's get going . . . '
They wander through the empty streets for another
hour. Occasionally The Old Bricklayer drives past in his
lorry.

Joel is afraid that Ture might get bored. I ought to have
hit upon more things to do, he thinks. If only Samuel
hadn't come home with that slut in the red hat in tow. . .

He thinks he knows where she lives, behind the bookshop,
in an attic flat.

He carefully opens the gate leading into the rear
courtyard.

'Another enemy lives here,' he informs Ture in a
low voice. 'The Lady in the Red Hat. She should be
eliminated.'

'Why?' asks Ture. 'Who is she?'

'She serves beer in the local bar,' says Joel. 'She's
broken into my flat.'

'Why don't you go to the police?' wonders Ture.

'Not that kind of break-in,' says Joel.

Then he remembers that he's promised to show Ture
where he lives.

He's not sure he still wants to, in fact.

What is a shabby old wooden house in need of a coat
of paint compared with the district courthouse? He
might just as well show Ture the broken-down shed
behind the vicarage. Or the earth cellar in the yard
behind the pharmacy.

But he acknowledges that he can't get out of it now,
and he leads the way back down to the river.

He stops by the gate.

'This is where I live,' he says.

Ture gives the house a long, hard look.

'The whole house?' he asks.

Joel very nearly says yes, but that would have been a
dangerous lie. A bad lie that could easily be disproved.
It would have been a hopeless piece of boasting.

'Just the top floor,' he says.

Then their nocturnal expedition seems to grind to a
halt of its own accord. They go back to the courthouse
and say goodbye at the gate.

'I wish it was me,' says Joel. 'Not having to go to
school, I mean.'

'Come here after school tomorrow,' says Ture. 'Ring
the bell on that door over there, the middle one.' Then he
jumps over the gate.

'It squeaks,' he says. 'The caretaker might wake up
and think we're burglars.'

Then he spits into the palm of his hand and
examines it.

'It's stopped bleeding,' he says. 'Will you be coming
tomorrow?'

Joel nods. He stays by the gate and watches Ture
disappear into the white house. Then he hurries home.
He's so tired, he can hardly keep his eyes open. When
The Old Bricklayer comes rattling past in his lorry he
doesn't even bother to slink into the shadows. He'd like
to know what Ture is thinking. There's something about
Ture that makes him insecure . . .

When Joel tiptoes carefully into the kitchen he can sense
straight away that something is amiss. He stands
perfectly still, listening.

When his eyes get used to the dark, he looks round the
kitchen. Nothing has changed.
Celestine
is in her
showcase, his dad's socks are hanging up to dry over the
stove, which is still hot. Even so, something is not as it
should be.

It's just that I'm tired, he thinks. I'm imagining
things . . .

He takes off his boots, dries the wet stains from the
floor, and snuggles into bed.

Although he has so much to think about, he falls
asleep immediately.

Next day he hesitates for ages at the gate to the
courthouse.

Should he go in, or shouldn't he? Had Ture been
serious? The house is too big and too posh. He vaguely
recalls hearing that the judge's lodgings has eleven
rooms. Old Törnqvist used to live there all on his own.
In eleven rooms?

In the end he plucks up courage and opens the gate. It
squeaks, just as Ture had said. He walks down the stone
path and rings the doorbell. Better take my cap off, he
thinks, and removes his woolly hat. Ture answers the
door, to his relief.

It could have been his mother. Or even worse, his
father.

What on earth do you say to a district judge? You
might get hard labour if you say something wrong.

The flat is just as big as Joel had imagined. He follows
Ture through the many rooms in his stocking feet. The
walls are full of big paintings in gilt frames, and the walls
of one room are covered from top to bottom with books.
There are thick carpets on all the floors, and a coat of
armour stands in one corner. Joel stops to stare.

Fancy a coat of armour ending up in this remote,
snow-filled dump.

'The armour is from Scotland,' says Ture. 'That's
where our ancestors come from.'

He and Ture seem to be the only ones in the enormous
flat.

'Don't you have a mother?' asks Joel?

'Of course I have a mother,' says Ture. 'But she and
my two sisters aren't moving here until the summer. It's
just Dad and me at the moment. Plus somebody who
comes in to clean and do the cooking. She's out
shopping just now.'

Of course I have a mother – Joel repeats it to himself.
It's not always of course . . .

Ture has a large room under the roof. Joel thinks it's
odd that he's unpacked all his things and arranged them
so neatly if he's going to run away shortly. And is he
really going to cart all this with him when he does leave?
He would need The Old Bricklayer's lorry to carry
everything as far as the station.

For Joel, going into Ture's room is like entering a
hitherto unknown world. It's almost as big as all the
rooms in the flat Joel shares with his father put
together. One wall is covered in books, another one in
maps. Big model aeroplanes are suspended from the
ceiling. Standing on a long table stretching from one
corner to the other are Meccano models: steam engines
and strange machines, the likes of which Joel has never
seen before. There are two radios by the bed, and
earphones hanging from some kind of pulley
arrangement over the pillow. This room contains
everything apart from toys.

Joel stands in the middle of the room, gaping at it all.

'You have a hole in your sock,' says Ture. 'Mind your
big toe doesn't run away.'

'I like to keep my toes well aired,' says Joel.

He says it as nonchalantly as he can. He doesn't want
to give the impression that he's embarrassed.

There is a picture hanging over the bed. It depicts a
man with a long beard and an almost bald head. Joel
thinks it looks like one of those old priests that are
hanging in the sacristy at church.

'Who's that?' he asks, but regrets it the moment he's
said it. Perhaps it's somebody he ought to recognise?

'Leonardo,' says Ture. 'The one and only Leonardo
da Vinci. He's my idol.' Joel has never heard of him.
Now he takes a big risk. If Ture starts asking questions,
he'll be rumbled.

'Everybody knows who he is,' he says, as convincingly
as he can. He's got away with it. Ture doesn't ask
any more questions, but starts showing him his maps.

'I ought to have been born in another age,' he says.
'When there were still mountains and rivers and deserts to
discover. No matter where you go nowadays, there's
always somebody who's been there before you. I'm living
too late.'

'You live when you live,' says Joel.

'Do you never dream?' asks Ture.

'No,' says Joel. 'Not very often.'