She dragged the rags from the boat shed to the Nordnes headland, burned them and disposed of the ashes in the sea. The change in the weather failed to materialise. Binoculars were being trained on her. Someone was watching her. When dusk fell she nonetheless set out in the boat and rowed at breakneck speed to Gjesøya, sheltered by Barrøy, moored the boat in the gap in the rock face and ran up the grass slope, where she stumbled upon two sets of tracks, thin crusts of ice in dark, wet holes staring up at her – both led from the barn and northwards across the fields, one clearly footprints, the other a trail of drag marks. She followed them, walking north, running, until she realised he had panicked and tried to swim for it, but hadn’t been able to, yet had still survived.

She turned on her heel, ran back and tore open the door.

He seemed to be asleep, but he didn’t wake when she shook him, he was soaked to the skin, his clothes were flecked with ice. She heard breathing, gurgling, and recognised the signs of fever, he said something and writhed, brandished an arm, but didn’t open his eyes.

Ingrid screamed, rolled him off the rug and placed it outside on the snow, pulled him out by his feet onto the rug, threw the eiderdown over him, dragged him down through the gap in the rocks, but couldn’t get him up into the boat. She rolled him off the rug again, put it and the eiderdown in the stern and raised him into a sitting position, locked her arms behind his back and stood up and fell with him into the boat, hitting the back of her head in the process.

She covered him with the eiderdown and rowed home through an ocean of time and moored near the Swedes’ quay house, manoeuvred him out of the boat and managed to drag him up to the house before she passed out.

When she came to, he was looking down at her. She remembered that this had happened to her before. She felt hot, dangerously hot. He muttered something, his wet eyes looked as though they were about to be extinguished.

Ingrid struggled to her feet, took off his clothes and mercilessly rubbed him down, something eerie arose from his exhausted body. She went up to the loft and fetched the sketch pad and crayon, pressed them into his hands, massaged him with her palms and pummelled him with her fists, called him an idiot who couldn’t wait, an impatient child who didn’t trust her . . . She ran upstairs again and fetched another eiderdown, continued to rub and pummel him until she herself was spent, and she was found there three days later.

II

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