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  He also made sure he gave Elin a lift when he knew that some of the others could see, since the combination of his own moped and Elin was virtually unbeatable. The hormones were stirring, and Elin had acquired breasts. When Henrik pulled up in front of the shop with Elin on the platform, her breasts bouncing from the uneven track, he was king. That summer.

  Otherwise he and Björn could often be seen riding along the tracks, down to the shore, through the forest. Since Anders was the only member of the gang apart from Henrik and Björn who lived in the old village, he often got a lift home after an evening at Martin’s or Elin’s.

  ‘Jump on, dickhead.’

  In the middle of August they all parted over a period of a few days. Henrik and Björn remained behind, while the rest of the gang disappeared to Stockholm and Uppsala. When Anders came out for a week during the Christmas holidays, the inlet down below his father’s house had frozen, and he, Henrik and Björn amused themselves dragging each other around on skis behind the moped, or just generally slithering about.

  The following summer, something had changed. When Henrik tried to impress by riding on two wheels along the entire length of the forest track, no one was particularly interested. Some had been riding mopeds in the city, slick models modified for better performance, and when it came down to it, a platform moped was actually quite…rural.

  Henrik and Björn fell from grace, and they fell hard. Perhaps as a reaction to the artificial importance they had enjoyed the previous summer, they now started to attract a certain amount of ridicule. They had the wrong clothes and the wrong hairstyles, they talked funny and they knew nothing about music. It was during that summer someone came up with that business of H and B. Hubba and Bubba. Big bubbles, no troubles.

  Both Martin and Joel had let their hair grow during the winter. Anders, somewhere in between as usual, had medium-length hair, as did Johan. Hubba and Bubba had very short hair, and the others decided it was so the fish scales wouldn’t get stuck in it. Or the dung, come to that.

  Both Malin and Elin teased their hair up like Madonna, lots of spray, and although Cecilia and Frida, who were a year younger, didn’t go that far—or use that much make-up—they too had started to show an interest in how they looked.

  Joel had a T-shirt with ‘Frankie says RELAX’ on it, and through his dad, who had been on a business trip to London, he had the single ‘Two Tribes’ before anyone else had even heard it on Tracks. Henrik and Björn didn’t know who Frankie Goes to Hollywood were, but since Joel kept on referring to them as ‘Frankie’, they drew the wrong conclusion.

  One evening at Elin’s, Joel was going on and on about how incredibly cool the video to ‘Two Tribes’ was, with Reagan and that Russian guy, whatever his name was, punching each other until the blood flowed. Joel had spent a couple of days back home in the city; he’d been watching Music Box, and had all the latest info.

  ‘Two Tribes’ was thundering on the stereo in the background, and Björn was sitting there following the beat with his head. When there was a break in Joel’s monologue, Björn said, ‘He’s pretty good, isn’t he?’

  Just as a tern catches a flash of silver in the water and dives, Joel snapped up Björn’s comment. ‘Who is?’ he asked.

  Björn nodded towards the stereo. ‘Him.’

  ‘Who do you mean, Holly Johnson?’

  Björn realised he was on thin ice and glanced at Henrik, who was unable to provide any help. Then he said uncertainly, ‘Frankie, of course.’

  This reply would be quoted frequently in the future. Whenever anyone in the gang asked who someone was the reply would be, ‘Frankie, of course.’

  The episode was typical. A number of similar situations made it perfectly clear that even if Henrik and Björn were more or less OK, they were basically peasants and not worth bothering with.

  When Martin climbed up into the alarm bell tower, it was a feat. When Henrik did the same thing a week or so later, nobody was interested, despite the fact that he climbed higher than Martin, so high that he could rap on the bell itself with his knuckles, and the tower ought really to have given way. What fools do has no importance.

  Not that Anders got involved in the status of Henrik and Björn. That was the summer he and Cecilia went up to the rock one evening, and there were other things to think about. He also had Music Box at home in the city and read the music magazine OK from time to time, so he was able to keep up and avoid the worst of the hidden reefs; he was even able to venture an opinion sometimes, ‘I just don’t know what George Michael is doing with Andrew Ridgeley. They must be at it or something.’ But he was mainly into Depêche Mode, and he was on his own there.

  One evening before it was time to head home at the end of the summer, he and Cecilia had been alone in Anders’ house, and he had actually done it: he played ‘Somebody’ to her. To his boundless relief she really liked it, and wanted to hear it again. Then they’d snogged. A bit.

  When Anders came out for Christmas, Henrik and Björn had changed. There was six months between them, but even in their physical and psychological changes they seemed to stick together like Siamese twins. Both had grown, both had a fine crop of pimples, and they had left behind the innocent naivety that had characterised them up to now: they were quieter, more introverted.

  But they still hung out together from time to time during the week; they rode the moped over to Kattholmen and played the odd fantasy game in the forest. There was no need to spell out that this was not to be mentioned to anyone else, it was self-evident. Through the same silent agreement they also stopped calling each other dickhead. Those days were gone.

  Anders told them about his new discovery: The Smiths. He had been given a Walkman for Christmas, and it played Hatful of Hollow more or less continuously. Henrik had been given the guest cottage in the garden as his own room, and they sat there listening to ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now’ and ‘Still Ill’. When Anders was due to go back to the city, Henrik asked if Anders could make him a tape. Anders gave him the one he’d brought with him, because he could easily make a new one when he got home.

  When the summer came it was clear that Henrik and Björn had found their thing. Meat Is Murder had come out a few months earlier; Anders thought it was OK, but nowhere near as good as Hatful of Hollow. Henrik and Björn had a different view. They knew every single line of every single song, and both had become vegetarians, possibly the first ever on Domarö.

  It isn’t necessary to go into any more detail about the music that was cool that summer, suffice to say that The Smiths were definitely not cool. If Henrik and Björn had enjoyed a higher status, then perhaps the whole gang might have joined in and embraced the notion of meat-eating as murder, but that was not the case. With hindsight, of course, it was Henrik and Björn who were the most hip and the most London, but what good did it do them at the time? None. They were farmers, head cases.

  They tried to get Anders to become a member of their private sect, but Anders wasn’t having any of it. For one thing it wasn’t in his nature to get so obsessed about something to do with music, and for another there was now a kind of sickness surrounding Hubba and Bubba. If you spent time with them you risked being seen as infected. They were still tolerated when the whole group was together, but nobody wanted to be regarded as their friend.

  If the gang had gathered on the shore to barbecue sausages and drink weak beer, Henrik and Björn wouldn’t eat any sausages, because meat is murder. If ‘Forever Young’ by Alphaville was playing on Joel’s ghetto blaster, they would sit grinning scornfully at the infantile lyrics in poor English, making comparisons with the greatest living poet of the day: Stephen Patrick Morrissey.

  And so on. They cultivated their outsider status, and knew they had a friend in the pale young man from Manchester. Someone who knew what it was like to grow up in a place where nothing happens. A brother in exile.

  That winter Anders paid only a short visit to Domarö, and he avoided Henrik and Björn. They called him in the spring wh
en they were about to embark on their pilgrimage to Stockholm to buy The Queen Is Dead, and wondered if they could stay over, but Anders said he was going to dinner with Cecilia’s mother. Which he was, but not until the following week.

  By the summer when everything got blown apart, Henrik and Björn’s interest had escalated to unhealthy proportions. They dressed like Morrissey, both had acquired rockabilly haircuts, and when it turned out that Björn’s eyesight was so bad he needed glasses, he was absolutely delighted, because it gave him a reason to get mottled grey frames like the army-issue ones, and even more like…well, you get the picture.

  Close study of Smiths’ lyrics made them more proficient in English than anyone else on Domarö, and when Wilde, Keats and Yeats were mentioned in ‘Cemetery Gates’, they made a point of ordering their stories and poems in the original at the library in Norrtälje, then spent the dirty grey spring deciphering the books with the help of dictionaries.

  They could have been happy.

  They didn’t try to fit in, because they knew it was impossible, and they regarded the others with ill-concealed contempt, tying leather cords around their wrists and listening to bands with a ‘z’ in the name. They peppered their conversation with oblique references to Smiths’ songs, translated into Swedish, with particular emphasis on the riches of the poor.

  But that line came from the song ‘I Want the One I Can’t Have’, and therein lay the problem. It would have been OK to have Henrik and Björn as a couple of oddballs on the fringes of the gang, if only they had known their place. If only they hadn’t reached out for what they couldn’t have.

  Summer 1986. Olof Palme was dead, and the blueberry bushes on the south side of Domarö were regarded with suspicion as they stood there sucking up water from rain clouds moving in from the east. Sonny Crockett from Miami Vice was a style icon, and everything was pastel colours on the one hand, Black Celebration on the other. And Anders stuck with Depêche Mode, despite the fact that Tracks was playing ‘A Question of Lust’ to death.

  Henrik and Björn dismissed more or less the whole lot as dickheads. The only thing that found favour in their eyes was I, Claudius, a fairly old production by the BBC. From England, from London. Björn could do an excellent imitation of the stammering emperor, but unfortunately this was as pearls before swine, since nobody apart from him and Henrik wanted to watch ‘a load of old men wearing sheets and talking funny’.

  Enough said. Some people remember how it was, and the rest will have to make do with these daubs—pastel splashes on a black background. Summer 1986. Mortal fear and white teeth, Armageddon and workouts. Enough said.

  For the gang, that was the summer when they started to drink alcohol. It had started with the odd sneaky drink from their parents’ supply the previous year, but in the summer of 1986 they started taking the ferry to Åland.

  Martin was tall and well-built. He even had the start of a decent beard, which he made sure he cultivated a few days before they made a couple of trips in Joel’s boat to transport the whole gang to Kapellskär, where they caught the ferry. Martin bought the booze in the duty-free shop, then they would slur their way around Mariehamn drinking as much as they dared.

  Henrik and Björn weren’t always included when the booze was doled out, and during the third trip that summer, at the beginning of August, they took the matter into their own hands. They were quieter than usual during the trip home, and only went into the duty-free shop to buy some sweets.

  The reason for their secretive behaviour became clear when they had disembarked in Kapellskär, and were safe. They opened their jackets. In the waistband of their trousers and in their pockets they had stuffed twelve half-litre bottles of Bacardi. Everybody thought they were fucking crazy, and they were rewarded with pats on the back and places on the first run home in Joel’s boat.

  There was usually a litre or two of booze left over after a day in Mariehamn. Now they suddenly had a stash, and not only that, it was free. They decided the bottles should be hidden underneath the old boathouse on Kattholmen. Henrik and Björn were of course included in all these discussions—they were the heroes of the hour.

  But by the following day it was all forgotten, and their incomprehensible comments and strange manner—a mixture of submissiveness and a maddening superciliousness—became the objects of the usual ridicule. But they were the ones who had nicked the bottles, there was no getting away from that fact.

  And so when the time came for the final party of the summer, they were included from the start. Otherwise Henrik and Björn usually just turned up at parties without being invited, then sat on the sidelines making remarks that only they laughed at, while everybody else laughed at the gibes against Henrik and Björn.

  But in that way they fulfilled their particular function. They consolidated the group and the language of the group by sitting outside and speaking a different language. Nobody would have admitted it or even realised it, but a good party needed Henrik and Björn sitting there like a couple of aliens in order to create the right atmosphere.

  The evening had arrived. Sausages and charcoal, chips and drink were transported over to Kattholmen, and everyone was there. Joel and Martin, Elin and Malin, Anders and Cecilia. Frida’s mother had said she couldn’t go, but she was there anyway. Samuel who lived in Nåten and played in the same football team as Joel came in his own boat. Even Karolina, who spent only a couple of weeks on Domarö each year, was there. And Henrik and Björn. The suppliers for the evening.

  The Bacardi was produced and mixed with Coke in plastic mugs, someone got a fire going outside the boathouse. Henrik and Björn had brought some kind of special meat-free sausages that were pale grey and looked like penises; they were informed of this fact, despite the Bacardi.

  For once Anders was permitted to put Depêche Mode on the cassette player. ‘A Question of Lust’ had paved the way. But after the first couple of bottles, nobody wanted to listen to such gloomy music, and at the girls’ insistence it had to be Wham! instead.

  The fire died down and the party continued inside the boathouse. At first there had been nothing but a table, two chairs and a bunk bed for fishermen who were staying the night. A few wooden chairs and a rag rug had been added. It was a bit crowded with everybody in there, but Anders and Cecilia helped out by clambering up on to the musty horsehair mattress on the top bunk, where they lay kissing and cuddling.

  They had had to put up with a good deal the previous summer after Malin had seen them kissing, but that was all in the past now. They were a couple and there wasn’t much to say about it, even if it was a bit peculiar to be together for so long. They had slept together for the first time during the winter, and had carried on in spring, so there was none of that initial desperation as they lay on the horsehair mattress. They could take it easy now, resting on each other’s lips and fingertips.

  Down below them the atmosphere was even more over-excited. Somebody had produced a pack of cards, and they were about to play strip poker. Karolina immediately dropped out, barely raising even a dutiful protest. She was chubby and not particularly attractive. Unfortunately she had no way of getting home on her own, so she had to curl up on the bottom bunk and pretend, as far as possible, to be fine with the whole thing.

  And so the fun lay with Elin and Malin, who were the best-looking girls. Frida was quite pretty, but she didn’t have the kind of body you could talk or fantasise about. On the other hand, there was no way she was pulling out if the other girls were up for it.

  When Elin and Malin gave each other a high five and said ‘Go for it!’, Anders saw how Frida’s eyes darted from side to side, and her shoulders drooped slightly. But she gritted her teeth and straightened up. Perhaps she was hoping she might be able to play without losing. She would lose more by backing out.

  Anders took a swig from the bottle of ready-mixed rum and Coke and buried his nose in the back of Cecilia’s neck. He had a bad feeling about this, and was grateful for the fact that he and Cecilia were so far out of the r
eckoning that they’d been forgotten.

  On the ghetto blaster Joey Tempest was singing about the final countdown, and Martin dealt the cards. He hesitated when he got to Henrik, who said he’d like to drop his trousers to the world, and Björn giggled. Nobody else understood what was funny, but they got their cards.

  Martin carried on dealing, hands were won and hands were lost. As items of clothing were removed, they were thrown on a pile in the middle of the floor. After perhaps twenty minutes Anders must have fallen asleep, because the situation had changed completely when he raised his head again.

  The door had just closed behind Joel, who had come back in. He was stark naked except for a scrap of torn fishing net which he had arranged so that it half covered his dangling penis.

  Booing and laughter came from around the table. Joel threw his arms out wide and executed a couple of dance steps. He didn’t seem unhappy with the situation. He went to the gym regularly and was making the most of the opportunity to show off what he had.

  It was so hot in the boathouse that Anders’ hair was sticky with sweat. The oxygen was being eaten up by all the candles and by the alcohol burning in their bodies. Another two half-litre bottles had been emptied and were lying next to the pile of clothes. They had drunk at least a litre more than they ever had before, and Samuel was just opening a new bottle.

  Frida, who had done quite well and was still wearing her bra and pants, pointed at Joel and protested, ‘Admit you’ve lost. That’s just cheating.’

  Joel went over to her and waggled his midriff in front of her face. ‘What do you mean, I’m wearing something, aren’t I? Go on, feel.’

  Frida pushed him away and Joel almost fell backwards on top of Karolina, but grabbed hold of the bed frame and straightened up. He was very drunk, and sweat was pouring down his neck and back. He waved a hand over his fishnet pants and said, ‘Last chance, OK? Last round. Then I’m…bust. OK?’