The Farm Read online

  Ice!

  I could feel it on the tip of my finger – a cold crystal, and then it was gone, melted with the heat of my touch, disappeared before I could make an examination. The evidence was gone, but I’d felt it, I was sure. This fish wasn’t from the river. It had been bought.

  I rushed inside, dropping the fish on the kitchen table. Alone, I checked both gills. There was no more ice but the flesh was freezing cold. I didn’t put the salmon in the fridge. Instead, I crept back into the living room, taking a concealed position behind the curtains. Through the window I watched as Chris and Håkan spoke. Unable to lip-read, I can’t tell you what they were saying, however, I can tell you that these were not two triumphant fishermen. Håkan put a hand on Chris’s shoulder: Chris gave a slow nod. He turned to the house, forcing me to pull back sharply.

  In the kitchen I pretended to be jolly and busy as Chris passed through. He didn’t even glance at the salmon, his great prize. He took a shower and slipped into bed, saying he was tired. I couldn’t sleep that night, nor could Chris, not immediately, even though he should’ve been exhausted. He lay there by my side, pretending to sleep. I wanted to crawl into his thoughts. What was keeping him awake? Why had they purchased such an expensive salmon as an alibi? I use the word ‘alibi’ deliberately – a salmon as an alibi. That was the purpose of the fish, to serve as an alibi, one that must have been paid for by Håkan, because a whole salmon would’ve been costly. Perhaps it would’ve been as much as five hundred krona, or fifty pounds. Our finances were too tight for Chris to spend so much money without me knowing. Håkan must have bought it and given it to Chris.

  I couldn’t investigate until I was certain Chris was asleep. I waited until two in the morning when his breathing finally changed and he fell asleep. He’d underestimated me, unaware that I’d felt the fragment of ice. I crept out of bed and tiptoed across the floor, putting on a coat and heading to the barn where the electric motor was stored. Standing in that barn, staring at the engine, my first thought was that maybe Chris had travelled no more than a few hundred metres upstream and disembarked at Håkan’s jetty. The two men had then sneaked off somewhere else in his car. I began to examine the engine, doing no more than paw its exterior, pressing every switch until I saw the soft blue glow of the monitor. As I flicked through the seven settings, it showed me the amount of power left in the battery represented as a percentage. The engine was fully charged before Chris and Håkan went out on the river. The battery was now at six per cent! Put another way, they’d used ninety-four per cent of the charge. My first theory was wrong. They’d travelled a great distance, expending almost the entire battery. They’d been on the river but they hadn’t been fishing.

  The fact of Cecilia’s generosity returned to me. Why had she left me this boat? She wanted me to explore the river! The specific characteristics of this engine were part of Cecilia’s design. Using the LCD monitor as a crude guide, I could re-create their journey by seeing how far I could travel using the same amount of power. I decided not to wait. I’d do it tonight, while Chris slept, before dawn. I’d take the boat upriver and find out where they’d been – it had to be now!

  • • •

  I RAISED MY HAND, INTERRUPTING to check that I’d understood correctly:

  ‘You took the boat out in the middle of the night?’

  The next day it might pour with rain, evidence might be washed away – it had to be that same night and I needed to do it without Chris and Håkan knowing.

  It took over an hour to recharge the motor. I sat in the barn, watching the numbers slowly count up. With the batteries at one hundred per cent I set about transporting the engine to the river, forced to use the wheelbarrow in order to push it through the fields, trying not to make a noise, scared it would topple over. If Chris were to wake I’d have no explanation. Thankfully I reached the jetty undetected and found the process of attaching the engine to the boat easy. That must have been factored into Cecilia’s thinking when she selected it. I checked my watch, estimating that Chris wouldn’t be awake until eight at the earliest. To play it safe, I calculated that there were five hours to explore and return.

  Adjusting the motor speed to the middle of the range, I pulled away from the jetty. They hadn’t travelled downstream – I knew that for certain. The river had been dammed in order to power a quaint hydroelectric station, designed to look like an ancient watermill. There was no way for a boat to pass. They could only have travelled upstream. My worry was how far. I secured my cheap plastic torch to the front of the boat, angling the beam at the water’s surface, attracting a cloud of insects, concerned someone would see me, but I held my nerve, in that small boat in the middle of that dark river while the rest of the world slept, the only person awake and searching for the truth.

  The river followed gentle curves between fields belonging to various farms, man-managed and uniformly dull. I couldn’t see where Chris might have stopped, or for what reason, so I continued upstream, reaching the edge of the forests. It was like crossing the border into a different realm. The sounds changed. The feeling changed. From here on the river was completely enclosed. Whereas the farms had been silent, these forests were teeming with life, stirred into motion by my arrival. Bushes rustled. And creatures watched me.

  Finally, with only forty per cent of the battery power remaining, I stopped the motor, allowing the boat to drift. Logically I’d reached the rough point of their final destination, because any further and there wouldn’t be enough power to return to the farm. The reason I didn’t stop at fifty per cent is because a return journey would require significantly less power since the boat would be travelling with the flow.

  Holding the torch, I examined this place, the boat gently rocking under me. With the light I caught flashes of luminous eyes that, in a blink, were gone. The night air was clear. There was no trace of fog or mist. When I looked up at the sky I saw a spread of stars and thought to myself, as many stars as there were possible answers. Chris and Håkan could’ve moored the boat to any of the trees and walked through the forest to reach their destination. There was no way for me to be sure. I sat down, bitterly frustrated, conceding that I’d have to return without an answer.

  As I secured the torch back to the front of the boat, I noticed that directly ahead there was a branch in the middle of the river stretching out towards me. Curious, I peered into the darkness, discerning a tree growing out of an island – an island shaped like a teardrop. I motored forward, grabbing the branch and mooring the boat to the tip of Teardrop Island. There were marks around the trunk, rub lines where other boats had moored, too many to count, an entire portion of the trunk worn smooth by a long history of visits. On the muddy bank just above water level were partial sets of footprints, some old, some new – the sheer number and variety telling me that far more people had been on this island than merely Chris and Håkan. I was struck by the realisation that even though it was the middle of the night I might not be alone. I considered untying the boat and continuing my examination from relative safety, separated by a clear stretch of water. But I needed to see the island up close, not from a distance. I walked towards the cluster of trees situated at the rear of the island, the fat end of the teardrop. In between the trees there was a dark angular shape, a man-made shelter, a shack, a refuge constructed far away from the eyes of people, made from timber, not sticks from the forests, but planks secured with nails. The roof appeared watertight. This was the work of men, not children. Moving around the side I saw that there was no door, just an open space and a ragged curtain. I pulled back the curtain and saw a rug, a sleeping bag unzipped, opened out like a blanket, a kerosene lamp with sooty glass. The dimensions of the space were impossible to ignore, not high enough to allow a person to stand up but wide enough to lie down. The smell was unmistakably of sex. There were cigarette butts in the mud. Some were branded. Some were hand-rolled. I picked one up and sniffed weed. With a twig I raked through the ashes of a thousand fires, finding at the side the melted remain
s of a condom – an obscene streak of plastic snot.

  • • •

  IT WAS A DISTURBING LOCATION and I could feel my mum circling a disturbing allegation, hinting at it, without stating explicitly what she had in mind. But it wasn’t my place to presume or fill in the gaps:

  ‘What do you believe took place on that island?’

  My mum stood up, opening the kitchen cupboards, searching until she found the sugar, scooping out a handful and carefully pouring it on the table, spreading it evenly in front of me. With her fingertip she drew the shape of a teardrop in the middle of the fine white granules.

  When it comes to sex do you know what people fantasise about more than anything else? A private space of their own, a space where they can do anything and the rest of the world will never know. No judgment, no obligations, no shame, no disapproval, and no repercussions. If you’re rich, maybe it’s a yacht far out at sea. If you’re poor, maybe it’s a basement where you stash your dirty magazines. If you live in the countryside, it’s an island in the forest. I’m talking about fucking, not making love. Everyone wants to keep their fucking a secret.

  • • •

  AS IF CAUGHT BY A POWERFUL reflex action, my hand shot out and swept aside the sugar island, brushing the shape away. Too late I understood how revealing my reaction had been. The sudden movement carried the implication of anger and took my mum by surprise. She pulled back, staring at me, interrogating my expression. She’d no doubt interpret my gesture as brazen contempt for her theory. In fact, it was a rather pitiful confirmation that she was right. I’d created my own version of that island. My mum was sitting in it – this apartment. There’d been many times when I’d wondered if it were possible to keep my sexuality a secret from my parents and also hold on to my relationship with Mark. He would never have accepted it, which is why the thought remained unspoken. Had it been possible, I might have spent the rest of my life living on an island of my own creation, growing ever more remote from my parents. With sugar-crusted fingertips, I apologised:

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s hard for me to accept. About Dad, I mean.’

  My mum wasn’t mollified, sensing something in my thoughts that she couldn’t quite identify. I asked, apprehensive of what was coming next:

  ‘You think Dad and Håkan went to this island?’

  ‘I know they did.’

  I hesitated, bracing myself for the reply:

  ‘What did they do there?’

  The question isn’t what. The question is who – who else was being brought there? We know for certain that they didn’t fish. I searched every part of the island but couldn’t find any clue. It was hard to leave without an answer, but checking my watch, I realised the danger I was in. The sun would be rising in a matter of minutes.

  Luckily travelling downstream was much faster. Even so, it was morning. The sun was strengthening. Håkan and Elise would be awake. They were always up with the sunrise. I could only hope they weren’t on the riverbank. I passed by Håkan’s jetty, greatly relieved not to see him or his wife. Just when I believed myself to be in the clear the engine cut out. The battery was dead. I was adrift in the middle of the river.

  Before you argue that the engine cutting out means that Chris and Håkan couldn’t have reached Teardrop Island, factor into your calculations my inefficiency upriver. I frequently steered the boat from side to side, to see if there was somewhere they might have disembarked. Later, when I returned to Teardrop Island, I managed the round trip in a single charge of the electric motor. Anyway, that morning, with Chris waking soon, I was forced to row the remaining distance. I’d not rowed a boat for many years. The faster I tried to row the worse my rowing became. Reaching the jetty, my arms ached. I wanted to collapse and catch my breath but there was no time. It was almost eight in the morning. I detached the motor, heaving it out. As I pushed the wheelbarrow up the slope, towards the farm, my heart sank. Chris was already awake! He was smoking outside. He saw me. He waved. I stood, dumbly, then waved back, forcing myself to smile. The engine was in the wheelbarrow. I threw my coat over it, but perhaps he’d seen it already. I needed an excuse. It was plausible that I could’ve used the wheelbarrow for some other purpose and so continued towards the farm, glancing down at the wheelbarrow, seeing the engine poking out under my jacket. It wouldn’t survive any kind of scrutiny, not even a quick glance, so I cut across the field and left the wheelbarrow behind the barn.

  Arriving by Chris’s side, I gave him a kiss – I forced myself to – and said good morning. I set about examining the vegetable garden, making up some story about working by the riverside and clearing the reeds. He said very little, finishing his cigarette before going inside for breakfast. I grabbed my chance, running back, pushing the wheelbarrow round, into the barn, and depositing the engine inside, plugging it into the charger. When I turned, Chris was at the door. He’d abandoned his breakfast. With no idea how much he’d seen, I told him he’d forgotten to plug it back in. He didn’t reply. I picked up some washing and walked towards the house, glancing over my shoulder. Chris was at the barn door, staring at the engine.

  • • •

  MY PARENTS WERE BEHAVING like a couple that I simply didn’t recognise. Their whole manner of interaction seemed to have changed over the summer. I asked:

  ‘If he caught you, why didn’t Dad confront you? Why didn’t he ask what you were doing? I don’t understand the silence.’

  ‘What could he say? He caught me in the barn beside the motor. It was in his interest not to draw attention to the boat.’

  My point was a wider one:

  ‘It sounds like the two of you just stopped talking.’

  I was about to push my question further when my mum raised her hand, silencing me and saying:

  ‘You’re asking about our relationship?’

  ‘Forty years together can’t fall apart in a few months.’

  ‘It can take far less time than that. You crave security, Daniel. You always have. Let me tell you. There is none. A great friendship can be swept aside in an evening, a lover changed into an enemy with a single admission.’

  It was, on one level, a warning – this would happen to us if I didn’t believe her account. She said:

  ‘Your father and I were both pretending. I was pretending to be ignorant of Teardrop Island. He was pretending not to have noticed how serious my investigation had become.’

  My mum picked up her journal, looking for a specific entry:

  ‘Let me give you an example.’

  Glancing at the pages, I saw the notes were becoming considerably more detailed.

  On 10 June I woke early, skipped breakfast, and cycled to the station, catching the first train into the city of Gothenburg. I was going on a journey and I had no intention of telling Chris. Normally we’d discuss everything, but it was necessary to keep this a secret since my plan was to visit Cecilia and ask about Teardrop Island in person, not speak over a phone line, scared that Chris might hear, but to put to her these questions directly – why had she left me the boat, what were her suspicions, what was she not telling me?

  Cecilia had moved into a care home in Gothenburg, a city with many difficult memories for me. I’d lived there for a few months as a teenager, scratching together enough money to buy a boat passage to Germany. During those months I’d worked as a waitress in a hotel café on Kungsportsavenyn – the main promenade. I pictured the police searching for me, having decided to charge me with Freja’s murder. I lived like a fugitive. I cut my hair short, changed my clothes, and created a false name. I remember once serving a customer coffee on the terrace and seeing a pair of police officers on patrol. My arm trembled so much that I spilled coffee over the customer and was reprimanded by my manager, saved only because men liked to flirt with me and they’d leave large tips, which the manager always pocketed for himself.

  Arriving in the city that morning, I decided to walk to the care home. It saved me some money, the sun was on my side, and I wanted to pass the café on Kungs
portsavenyn because I wasn’t a scared young woman any more. The home was on the outskirts, across the bridge, a great distance from the centre. I walked all the way, wondering what Cecilia was going to say. The building was welcoming. There were well-tended gardens, an ornamental pond surrounded by benches where people sat and chatted. Inside, the communal areas were clean, the reception was tidy, and the woman at the desk friendly. When I introduced myself I asked if Cecilia had many visitors. The woman confided in me that she’d had none, not one, not a single visitor in her entire time at the home. I was angry at this news. We’d been made to swallow a story about community and togetherness. How could no one have visited this woman? It was a cruel exile. Håkan was punishing her for not selling him the farm. He’d decreed she should be left without the smallest gesture of kindness.

  Cecilia was seated in her room, her knees up against the radiator, looking out into the garden. She wasn’t reading or watching the television. She was just sitting there. She might have been like that for hours. There’s something heartbreaking about a person indoors staring out into a sunny garden. As for the room, it was anonymous. With two hours’ work it could be made ready for someone new. This wasn’t a home. It was a place of transit – a waiting room between life and death. We couldn’t speak here. I had to remind her of the outside world. We’d talk in the garden. As I crouched beside her, I was struck by the changes in her body. When we’d met on her farm she was physically frail but strong in spirit. Her eyes were bright and her mind was sharp. Now when she looked at me her eyes were watery as if her character had been diluted with a thousand parts of nothing. But she recognised me, which was a relief, and she agreed to sit with me by the pond.