Blackwater by Kerstin Ekman Read Free Book Online Page B

sweatshirt and shirt, quickly putting the sweatshirt back on, for it really was cold. Then he put the shirt down in the water and, once he got a hold on the eel again, he wrapped the material round it, knotting the sleeves hard into a firm parcel while it trembled and thrashed around inside. He fumbled for his belt and tied the shirt parcel beside his knife. The wriggling wet bundle was heavier than he had thought.
    He started climbing again. He found three footholds before it became really difficult. There were no shale slabs protruding far enough to get a foothold. It would be better if he were barefoot, but he hesitated to sacrifice his boots. Barefoot, he would have to get back home along the verges. And he didn’t want to go home. He had no intention of returning to his brothers’ scornful grins or Gudrun smuggling glasses of milk and sandwiches up to his room.
    Then he remembered the tow rope they had tied him up with. He climbed down again, and as he stood rootling round in the water for it, his excitement faded. Everything seemed to be happening slowly, like in a dream. He would never be ready. Something else always got in the way.
    But now he had his boots tied firmly round his waist and he made the two steps up on the three first footholds. They were sharp but he went on, resting on his haunches, leaning forward and clinging to the wall in front of him, his muscles trembling, each new foothold hurting his toes. But he pressed them in. He couldn’t use the knife, as he didn’t dare let go anywhere. Sometimes he had his whole weight on one elbow or one knee.
    He hauled himself on up until he felt the light on his face and his arms could almost reach the edge of the well. He hoisted himself up the last bit with his backside. His sweatshirt got caught and his back scraped against the sharp shale, but he ignored the pain and pressed on. The eel thrashed wildly in its shirt bundle, as if making one last effort to get back into its prison. As he tumbled over the edge of the well, the bundle got in the way. I’m squashing the eel, he thought. But he couldn’t help it. He gave one last heave, kicked out as hard as he could against the wall, then hauled himself up the last bit and was over the edge, lying in the grass, the eel wriggling beneath him.
    He was not going to stay lying there. They’re not bloody going to find me here, he thought. The sky was blindingly bright, but Alda’s cottage and the forest behind it were in the shade from the ridge. He trotted silently on his bare feet down to the woodshed and went in behind it, untied his boots and put them on. It was twenty to twelve. I left home at seven, he thought. They got me ten minutes later, at the most a quarter of an hour. Then they fooled about a bit, perhaps for ten minutes. I was down in the well before half past seven. I’ve been down there over four hours.
    All his joy had gone and now he was simply cold. He remembered the intoxication of his recklessness when he had realised he could climb. But that hadn’t been a very remarkable idea. In fact, it was strange that he hadn’t thought of it at once.
    Before leaving his hiding place, he listened carefully for any sound of car engines. He hurried up the path. Where to, he didn’t really know. Away from the village, anyhow.
     

The insects were tiny, smaller than a pinhead and invisible until there was a cloud of them. They stirred them up as they walked though the tall grass, but as soon as they came to the open space in front of the store, the insects were swept away by the current of air from the lake. There was no real wind and the evening was warm. An hour or two later, insects sought them out up there as well, finding their cheeks and necks and crawling into the corners of their eyes, their stings like sparks. Mia kept crying and thrashing about. It was hard to bear. They had to run across to the little shop and bang on the door, but the shopkeeper and his wife were now watching television