Thin Ice Read online

  THIN ICE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mikael Engström was born in 1961 and grew up in a suburb of Stockholm, Sweden. In the mid-1980s he studied photography for two years and started writing seriously. Nowadays he earns his living as a freelance journalist and photographer.

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  Susan Beard has been translating for over twenty years and specialising in literature for the last five. She has an MA in Literary Translation from the University of East Anglia and lives in Brighton, Sussex in the UK.

  THIN ICE

  mikael engström

  TRANSLATED

  BY SUSAN BEARD

  THIN ICE

  Published 2011

  by Little Island

  128 Lower Baggot Street

  Dublin 2

  Ireland

  www.littleisland.ie

  First published as Isdraken by Rabén & Sjögren, Sweden, in 2007.

  Published by agreement with Rabén & Sjögren Agency.

  Copyright © Mikael Engström 2007

  English translation copyright © Susan Beard 2011

  The author has asserted his moral rights.

  ISBN 978-1-908195-00-5

  All rights reserved. The material in this publication is protected by copyright law. Except as may be permitted by law, no part of the material may be reproduced (including by storage in a retrieval system) or transmitted in any form or by any means; adapted; rented or lent without the written permission of the copyright owner.

  British Library Cataloguing Data. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Cover design by Pony and Trap

  Inside design by Sinéad McKenna

  Printed in the UK by CPI Cox and Wyman

  Little Island received financial assistance from

  The Arts Council (An Chomhairle Ealaíon), Dublin, Ireland.

  Little Island acknowledges the financial assistance of Ireland Literature Exchange (translation fund), Dublin, Ireland.

  www.irelandliterature.com

  [email protected]

  Little Island acknowledges the financial assistance of The Swedish Arts Council towards the translation of this book.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  THE BROTHERS LIONHEART

  While you are reading this story, you will notice that it sometimes mentions a book called The Brothers Lionheart, which is by the famous Swedish author Astrid Lindgren. You don’t really need to know the story of the Lionheart brothers to understand this one, but here’s some information about it, which you might like to check out as you go along.

  The Brothers Lionheart starts with the tragic death of two boys, Jonatan Lion, 13, and his brother Karl, known as Skorpan, who is 10. They enter another world called Nangijala.

  Nangijala is being taken over by an evil tyrant called Tengil, who wants to rule the land and enslave its people. Jonathan and Skorpan become involved in the battle against Tengil.

  The evil Tengil has a fire-breathing dragon called Katla. If anyone comes into contact with Katla’s fire they become paralysed and die. Katla’s only enemy is Karma, a mythical sea serpent that no one has ever seen.

  The brothers have many adventures, and Skorpan overcomes his fear of Katla and Tengil and discovers his bravery. But Jonathan has been burned by Katla’s fire and is going to die. The story ends with the two boys leaping over a cliff towards more adventures in the next world, Nagilima.

  PART 1

  THE SNAKE

  Mik was brushing his teeth. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. It was cracked in two diagonally, and one half was pushed in slightly. Only a millimetre, perhaps, compared with the other side, but it was enough to divide his face into two uneven halves. His face wasn’t joined up. His ears looked big but that wasn’t the mirror’s fault. His ears were big. But they were the only things that were big. He was the shortest in the class – maybe the shortest in his whole year at school.

  ‘Are your ears the only things that are growing?’ the school nurse had asked, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  The whole class had been queuing up to be weighed and measured, and a doctor with cold hands felt the boys’ testicles inside their pants.

  ‘Are your ears the only things that are growing?’

  Before that, nobody had taken any notice of his ears, but afterwards they called him Bat Ears. Andreas had come up with that one. And on a scale of one to ten, how cool is Bat Ears?

  Ploppy had only one testicle. It made him kind of famous, in an odd sort of way. And Stefan, who always turned blue in gym, had something wrong with his heart – a hole between the compartments so the blood just sloshed backwards and forwards inside. He would never have to do gym again. And as for Sara, her breasts had grown massive overnight.

  ‘Are your breasts the only things that are growing?’ the school nurse hadn’t said. They only said that about ears.

  Ploppy’s willy had also got big. Ridiculously big. No one said anything about that either. And Andreas had got hair. Everyone else in the class was totally healthy.

  Mik got his mobile out. The display was cracked and the battery had died long ago, but that didn’t matter. He wasn’t connected to a network anyway, and besides, he didn’t have a SIM card. Who would know if he was really talking to someone or just pretending? Mik’s number was private and he never lent his phone to anyone. He could phone Dracula. He could phone evil Lord Tengil from The Brothers Lionheart. He could phone God.

  He could phone anyone he liked. Maybe he should ring in sick? School wasn’t his thing. It wasn’t homework that was the problem – he didn’t do any. The problem was all the hours spent locked in. Their classroom was on the ground floor and the windows had been fitted with bars after the school computers had been stolen for the third time. It was a prison.

  Mik spent most of the lessons drawing. Whether it was maths, geography or English, he drew. His teacher was worried, naturally.

  At break time you could have a game of hockey or play on the hill above the disused railway tunnel. You weren’t really supposed to because a group of homeless winos lived down there in a camp made of tents and tarpaulins. The trains went through the new tunnels on the other side of the industrial estate. The entrance to the old tunnel was blocked off with a steel door and the rails had been broken up. It was a no man’s land, tucked away out of sight. Parents and the school governors had tried to get the camp removed. The police had been there several times and pulled it down but the rough sleepers had soon built it up again.

  There was a fat old woman wino too, with no bottom teeth. She used to squat down and pee in front of everyone.

  At break, the boys stood on the hill above the tunnel entrance, looking down at the camp. There was no sign of any winos. It looked like a rubbish tip. Filthy clothes drying on the rusty fence. Cans and saucepans in the branches. Boxes and newspapers. Rotten old tents, green tarpaulins bleached by the sun and a few old bikes.

  ‘Hello!’ shouted Mik.

  ‘Winos!’ shouted Andreas.

  Ploppy and Stefan looked around for ammunition and made a pile of stones, sharp from the tunnel blasting and ideal for throwing. Nothing happened. A tarpaulin flapped in a gust of wind. Bits of polystyrene blew about. An empty beer can rolled towards a car battery and stopped.

  ‘Probably asleep,’ said Ploppy.

  ‘What? It’s the middle of the day,’ said Stefan.

  ‘They can’t stand the sunshine,’ said Mik. ‘They don’t belong to this world.’ He picked up a stone and yelled, ‘Disgusting old cavemen!’

  He threw the stone and it hit a tent.

  Nothing happened.

  Then everyone joined in. Andreas hurled a big rock, using a shot-putting technique. Stefan made himself go b
lue. It was raining stones.

  The tent collapsed.

  ‘What the hell? Stop!’

  The stones whistled through the air and the people below crawled out of their homes, grimy, shaggy and haggard. To Mik they were evil beings, not people. Zombies from his nightmares, writhing, rotten.

  Now they staggered out and were met by the sun. They were holding their arms over their heads and trying to get out of range. Tent after tent collapsed and a tarpaulin was ripped to shreds. Stones from the sky.

  ‘I hate winos!’ yelled Mik, and carried on throwing.

  ‘Little sods!’ they shouted back, trying to find shelter.

  The old woman hauled herself out from under a tarpaulin and crouched down to pee, ignoring the stones bouncing all around her.

  ‘Scumbag winos!’ yelled Mik. ‘Di-i-i-e!’

  He threw and threw and threw, as hard and as fast as he could. Totally lost it. He picked up a large, sharp stone, but Ploppy pulled his hand down.

  ‘That’s enough now. Let’s get out of here. It’s stupid. Andreas and Stefan have legged it.’

  Mik tried to throw his stone, but Ploppy stopped him.

  ‘I’ve had enough. I’m off.’

  ‘Di-i-i-ie!’ shouted Mik. ‘Drink yourselves to death, why don’t you? Drink meths!’

  Someone crawled out of a tent, a rumpled man in a filthy baby-blue padded jacket. Mik sent his stone flying, keeping his hand outstretched as if he were steering his missile towards its target. The stone whistled through the air in a perfect arc. The man down below turned round. Their eyes met – yellow, sick eyes.

  Thump. He got him smack in the middle of the forehead. The man fell and didn’t get up.

  ‘Oops,’ said Mik. And ran.

  The teacher was setting up an archaic projector in the classroom.

  ‘We’re going to look at some pictures of old Hagalund,’ she said. ‘To see what it looked like before everything was knocked down and the blue tower blocks were built. We’re going to have a history lesson about your own area. The place where you live. It’s very interesting.’

  Andreas put up his hand. ‘Can’t we look it up on the internet instead, Miss?’

  ‘No, because we haven’t got the new computers yet, after the last break-in. It will be three weeks before we get the new ones.’

  Åsa’s mobile started ringing. The teacher lifted her hand, pointing every finger at the class.

  ‘Right. I’m telling you for the last time. All phones must be switched off or you’ll have to hand them in every morning when you get here. I’ll have to talk to the principal about this. We can never have a single lesson without –’

  The classroom door burst open and the principal came rushing in. Everyone stared in astonishment and the teacher forgot what she was saying.

  ‘Oh, we were just …’

  The principal was a fat man in a blue shirt and tie. His shirt had dark patches of sweat under the arms and his face was redder than usual. He stared at the class, looking completely demented.

  ‘I am absolutely furious,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen a lot at this school but this takes some beating …’

  All the pupils looked at one another, not understanding a thing. Had he heard Åsa’s mobile or what? Been standing outside with his ear pressed to the door? Unlikely.

  The principal stepped out of the classroom and came back in again with a man in a baby-blue padded jacket that was striped with blood down the front. He was pressing a towel to his forehead. The towel had blood on it too.

  The principal turned to the teacher. ‘Your class was the only one to have break between twenty past nine and twenty to ten, and that’s when this happened.’

  Rigid with fear, Mik stared at the man. Him, here? How could he get into this world? Yellow eyes, big and black in the centre. He and Mik looked at each other. There was a rushing sound in Mik’s head.

  The rumpled, bearded old man held the towel to his forehead and slowly lifted his right arm to point at Mik. ‘He threw the stone.’

  Mik had to stay behind after school. He sat at his desk and his teacher pulled up a chair and sat down opposite him.

  ‘The others threw stones as well,’ said Mik, looking down. He was scribbling on the desk.

  ‘Don’t scribble on the desk.’

  Mik carried on scribbling and said, ‘It was only a wino, Miss.’

  ‘Only a wino? How can you say that? Look at me, Mik. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Good,’ he said, still staring at the desk.

  ‘I mean, really. How are things at home?’

  ‘Good.’

  The teacher stood up and walked over to Mik’s box where he kept his drawings. She flicked through a thick pile of them. Lots of blood, ligaments, arms, legs, heads. And one or two eyes that had popped out.

  ‘You draw only dismembered body parts. They are very well done – you’re good at art. But what you draw … it’s so … sick. There are hundreds of them. Is there nothing else you want to draw?’

  Mik shrugged his shoulders and tried to smile. But he said nothing. His teacher picked up the bundle of drawings and sat down by him again.

  ‘This picture – what’s it supposed to be?’

  She held up a piece of blood-red artwork. Flesh, ligaments and bones.

  ‘It’s a chopped-off hand, Miss.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that. But why?’

  ‘The colours are nice.’

  Mik and his teacher sat in silence. She leaned closer to see what he had drawn on the desk. A long, rambling squiggle in pencil. Lines and circles tangled together in a very intricate pattern. There were no loose ends. Everything looped in endless trails.

  ‘What is this supposed to be? Is it a snake?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mik. ‘Thoughts, maybe.’

  ‘You’ll have to rub it out before you go. Then we’ll see how we can sort this out.’

  Mik rubbed and rubbed at the drawing on the desk. It all turned into a black mess. He had no idea what had to be ‘sorted out’.

  ‘Your dad didn’t come to parents’ evening.’

  ‘He had a cold, Miss.’

  On his way home from school, Mik stopped in the middle of the bridge and looked down at the blue commuter trains making sparks on the rails. The trains slowed down and came to a halt at Solna Station. People barged their way out of the doors and jostled along the platform to get to the bus first. To get home before … yes, well.

  Mik was in absolutely no rush to get home. He wanted Tony to be home first. It felt better that way.

  He walked slowly along the pavement on Råsunda Road. A huge lorry thundered by, making the ground vibrate. A police car came driving past with its blue lights flashing and siren wailing. He hung around for a while outside the pizzeria, breathing in the aroma.

  There was a tobacconist’s on the corner. Its window was brown from all the traffic on Råsunda Road. Mik cleared a little peephole with his hand and there inside lay pipes in a row and open cigarette cases on a sun-bleached bed of green velvet. To the front of the window were shiny cigarette lighters in silver and gold. An open box was filled with dust-covered chocolates. And right in the middle of the window was a small stuffed crocodile leaking sawdust from a burst seam.

  What was that doing there? And where had it come from? Africa? Or South America? Madagascar maybe? Perhaps it was a Nile crocodile.

  Mik opened the door and went inside to ask. There were four steps down and a heavy smell of tobacco. It was nice – rich and musty. Cigar boxes and cartons of cigarettes were piled on shelves behind the counter. Gift-wrapped boxes of chocolates lay in compartments high up around the ceiling. Pipes and tins of tobacco were crammed together on the counter.

  A tall, pale woman with jet-black hair came out through a dark red curtain behind the counter. Her eyes were incredibly green, like two gleaming jewels. She looked at him and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Can you swim?’ she asked, blowing smoke at him.

  Mik hesitated. It was suc
h an odd question.

  ‘Children drown so easily. Can you swim?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She reached up high among the shelves, brought down two bars of chocolate and gave them to him. The bars were an odd shape. The chocolate had melted and set solid again.

  ‘Can’t be sold anyway. The box was left somewhere hot for while, but there’s nothing wrong with the taste.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Mik climbed the four steps up to the door, opened it and went out. The chocolate was the dark kind. He stuffed one of the bars into his pocket and pulled the silver paper off the other one. The squares were misshapen and covered with patches of white powder. He didn’t like dark chocolate but he ate it anyway. It was free.

  THE PIRATE

  Tony was already home, sitting in his room in front of a computer with the name of the school branded into the plastic case. He was studying car mechanics and was way older than Mik. He would be seventeen next birthday. His room was a mess of dirty clothes and motorbike parts.

  ‘Is Dad home?’

  ‘No. You hungry? Shall I get dinner?’

  ‘What have we got?’

  ‘Sausages,’ said Tony, closing down the sites he was looking at. ‘Sausages and macaroni.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Mik, pointing to a heap of flat boxes in the middle of the floor.

  ‘DVD players with hard disk drives,’ Tony answered with a smile. ‘Came across them cheap. I’ve put one in your room. It’s already connected to the TV. You can borrow some of my new films.’

  ‘Horror?’

  ‘Yeah, two zombie films. You’ll like them.’

  Tony was all right. Tony was everything a big brother should be. He had long blond hair, blue eyes and a smile that was secret and only for Mik. A smile to come home to when the world outside was crap. Tony smiled and everything was okay, as if he knew something no one else knew.

  Mik was sure that Tony knew everything. Tony cooked the food, Tony looked after the money, Tony paid the bills. Without him everything would fall apart.