1. Prologue pps 11-13

It was a grey Friday morning in November; heavy rain-bearing clouds and thunder rumbled down from the tops of the Sierra Nevada mountains, shrouding the yellowing countryside in a pale mist and divesting it of colours, making the houses in Alhacén seem even more impoverished than they were and the olive trees spare and infertile.
    In the centre of the town it was still, almost deserted.  There were only a few people walking in the streets, only a few cars slowly driving along them. The spa and the hotels had their doors open, but most shops and eating places had rolled down the metal shutters and locked the doors, here and there a sign announced that they were closed.
    The gathering began in the outskirts of the town, in the market place between the town hall and the bank; an amazing throng of people dressed in clothes reserved for formal occasions; most with flowers; some with whole bouquets, others a single flower.  It continued up the steep, narrow street that snaked its way up towards the church - a rather ordinary, medium-sized, early twentieth century church – became denser in the streets around the church, crammed into the church square and packed the cemetery to overflowing.
    "Lord, grant him eternal peace."
    The voice of the priest didn't carry far, but those sitting and standing at the front by the open grave answered: "And let the eternal light shine over him," and the answer swelled like a wave backwards and outwards across the gathering, reaching the market place minutes later.  There weren't many with a place to sit; most were young and mentally handicapped.
    The priest raised his eyes from the prayer book and looked at them as he concluded the ritual: "May he rest in peace."
    "Amen."
    He returned his gaze to the prayer book, then shook his head, as if confused, and closed it again.  Looking down into the open grave, he said slowly: "May our Lord Jesus Christ, God the Father who rules on high let the …" He suddenly began to cough and had to turn away from the grave.  When he turned to the crowd his face was red and his eyes were running.  He mumbled something to himself, then went on: "Let the eyes of our hearts be filled with light."  He started coughing again.  When the fit was over he smiled quickly, raised his eyes to those standing nearest the grave and said: "Let the eyes of our hearts be filled with light… That will do, that's enough. Amen!"
    Those nearest to him were startled; they looked at him as if they were expecting more.  He nodded to them and with a gesture of his hand signalled that it was over.  A few seconds passed, then a tall woman in a dark grey costume and a veil stood up and rested her hand on the shoulder of a boy with Down's syndrome.  He stood up and together they moved towards the grave.  The boy looked at her, she nodded, and he threw a bunch of wildflowers into the pit.  She followed suit with a single orchid.  They walked away and disappeared quickly among all the others as they closed on the grave and threw flowers into it before leaving the cemetery; some with composed formality, some with obvious sorrow, others with slight smiles.  The graveside ceremony took almost two hours; by then the grave had been full of flowers for quite some considerable time and the last mourners had to reach up to place their flowers on the top of the heap.
    Finally only the woman in the dark grey costume was left standing by the grave together with the priest, who looked tired.  She placed her veil over her hat, gave him a fleeting, grief-laden smile and left.
    A tall man wearing a raincoat was waiting for her by the exit gates.
    "That's over with then," he said.
    She shot him a rapid glance, then looked away.  "Yes, it is, isn't it."
    A distant roll of thunder resounded from the mountains.
    "We haven't spoken," the man said.  "I think we should talk.  What about a glass of wine?  A snifter?  I need a snifter after this."
    "Is there anything to talk about now?"  She hunched her shoulders and looked across at the church, at the closed door.  "You said it yourself.  It's over.  Whatever remains to be done is your business, not mine."
    "Have you no idea what happened here?" he said with a sudden passion, almost a fury, but it was not directed towards the woman.
    Once again she looked at him before turning her eyes away.
    He took hold of her arm.  "Please.  You knew him better than I did.  Tell me who … tell me all you know about him. Please."
    She made no move to free herself.  She opened her mouth, closed it again, and after a long silence she said:" I don’t know anything any more."


2. Chapter 2, Part I - The Water, Pps 29-32

(...)He took a seat in the golf buggy, set off cautiously and drove to the driving range.  That was the really good thing about Mondays.  It was the day he had a chance to practise properly for a few hours.  He did a little practice every day, apart from at weekends, but only on Mondays could he put a decent stint in.  He was no great shakes as a golfer, and never had been, but he was good enough to enjoy his golf. At the present time he had a handicap that fluctuated around 16 and that was probably about as good as he was ever going to be; at his age what mattered most was keeping things going, replacing lost energy with a better technique, greater precision and more astuteness when playing the holes.  It required practice, though.
    He worked systematically through the short irons and took a little break before starting on the six-iron; he swigged at the water, sat down on one of the benches with a towel over his head and lit a cigar.  The sun was baking hot, there was no-one to be seen and not a sound to be heard, only the occasional dull thud as they loaded earth onto the lorries somewhere out of his sight.  The range was not staffed on Mondays - everyone was doing building or maintenance work - and his golf balls were the only ones to be scattered across the grass, clearly showing how well he had struck the ball or not.  He smoked unhurriedly and felt the calm that practice always brought him; a meditative-like state, a state of being without thoughts; and he sat like this for a long while, gazing across the driving range.  It was a mere 230 metres long - too short for the really big hitters - with eight driving mats; but the location was beautiful.  Facing you as you hit the balls, behind the level ground which the last six holes would be built on, was an olive grove, and behind that the mountains towered up against the horizon.
    He dried his hands and face, put his cap on, grasped the six-iron and performed a couple of gentle practice swings through the air. He had just nudged the ball into position with the tip of his shoe when he heard footsteps on the gravel path behind him.  He turned to see two figures coming towards him, shimmering in the heat haze.  It was only when they were quite close that he could see that it was Consuela and a boy with Down's syndrome.  It was difficult to tell his age, but Bernard guessed that he had to be in his mid-teens.
    Bernard lifted his hand in greeting and Consuela waved back.  The boy half hid behind her when she came to a halt.  He was relatively tall and well-built with the typical chubby appearance that Mongols have - Bernard had a vague intuition that it had become politically incorrect to use the word ‘Mongol’, but it was too entrenched within him to stop himself thinking it.  He had never had any close contact with anyone suffering from Down's syndrome and knew little about the condition except that it was caused by a chromosome defect.  Perhaps it wasn't popular to call it a condition or a defect, either, for all he knew.  At any rate, he didn't know what to do with the boy, whether he should greet him or act as if he wasn't there.  "Hi," he said, more or less directing it at both of them.
    She smiled and he could see that she was aware of his dilemma.  "Hi.  This is Jorge.”
    He nodded to the boy and smiled tentatively.  "Hi, Jorge."
    The boy backed further into his retreat behind Consuela.  She was dressed only in faded jeans and a grey and blue man's shirt, with worn trainers on her feet.
    "He’s shy," she said. "And speech-less.  But he’s quick and good-natured."
    "Okay."  He smiled again, but felt ill at ease. What did ‘speech-less’ mean?  That the boy didn't understand a thing and that they could talk about him as if he weren't present, like a dog or a cat? Or simply that he was unable to formulate his own thoughts?  It would better to confine himself to neutral territory.  "It didn't take you long to find your way here."  He realised that he was still standing with the club in his hand and put it down on the mat.
    "I'm curious."  She smiled broadly and he noticed the scar between her eyebrows deepen and become more conspicuous when she smiled.
    She turned and looked across the driving range and the boy - Jorge, he remembered; at least he had a name - turned with her to stay in the position of semi-concealment behind her.  "So this is a golf course."
    "This is the driving range."  He pointed towards the teeing-off area for the first hole.  "The course itself begins over there.  You can't see anything from here."
    She gave a low laugh.  "That much I do know. I've seen golf on TV, naturally."
    "I beg your pardon.  You never know with people.  But you must have done some sport?"
    "Oh?  Why’s that?"
    "You give that impression.  I mean you look fit."
    "Thank you.  Yes, I’ve played a bit of handball.  I played in the second division for three years, but the demands became too great.  Afterwards I just played for fun, in lower divisions.  Now I don't do anything.  But golf looks funny on TV."
    "Would you like to try?"  He made a hand gesture towards the golf clubs."
    "In fact, they’re men's clubs, but that doesn't matter much the first time."
    "Love to."  She picked up the club he had thrown down but he took it out of her hands and gave her an eight-iron instead.  Then he showed her how to grip the club and how to stand; made her try a few slow, gentle practice swings; and when they seemed fluent enough he rolled a ball in front of her and suggested she had a go.  The club head fizzed through the air a centimetre over the ball which quivered on the golf tee and then fell off. Consuela whistled.  "It isn't as easy as it looks."
    He smiled and shook his head.  "That’s the mystery of golf, that is.  It's much more difficult than it seems.  The game’s simple but it's not easy, if you know what I mean."
    Jorge had moved away as this was going on.  Bernard squinted across to see if he was showing any signs of fear or anxiety, but the boy seemed more interested in what they were doing.  Bernard gave Consuela a few more tips and she tried again.  This time the club struck the mat ten to twelve centimetres in front of the ball which flew straight, travelling at just half a metre off the ground and coming to rest about fifty metres down the range.  "Shit!" she said.  "That’s not how you’re supposed to do it, is it?”  Her face took on a fierce, irritated expression and the edge of her scar seemed whiter and deeper.  He was just managing to conceal his smile when she struck the third ball with the toe-end of the club and sliced it badly; it made a wide arc and disappeared somewhere to the right of the range.
    She let go of the club.  "It is difficult," she exclaimed in wonder.


3. Chapter I, Part II - The Maelstrom, Pps 135 – 138

(...) Only once in all those years did Bernard hear a blue whale sing. It was a misty September evening, one of those strange evenings that follow an impenetrable, milky white day when the light never quite came through the wooden shutters and the darkness never fell, but the white turned to grey and nothing had any colour.
    They sat for a long time on boulders on the beach and were silent. Bernard made patterns in the sand with a stick while listening to the foghorn on the headland and watching the cone of light from the lighthouse being swallowed by the mist. His father just sat there completely still, listening and listening. And then there was the sound.  It was not Earthly; it seemed artificial, as if it somehow came from outer space; helpless signals from a satellite off orbit, or codes from an undiscovered civilisation in another solar system, another galaxy trying to establish contact.
    The father stood up and walked right up to the water’s edge, with Bernard a few steps behind him, and then it happened: He answered the blue whale. He bent himself double and something happened in his throat and he began to emit clicking sounds and suddenly he broke out into whale song. He had the gift of whale language. Bernard started to cry, but his father didn’t notice; he just continued to sing as Bernard stepped back from the water’s edge and sat on a rock crying noiselessly with his quilted jacket pulled tightly around him. And suddenly the blue whale responded, at least that was how it sounded; it emitted a long howling sound; it was like a lament, a sad song of the kind that Bernard only knew from church but with quite different tones. And the father answered the whale, and the whale sang a little more, and Bernard cried for a while, he didn’t know for how long but he cried until he realised that there was no point, he would not be comforted this evening because it wasn’t his father standing there in the sand, it wasn’t even a human being, it was a kind of whale man, perhaps the only connection this whale had with land.
    That was the last time Bernard went with the father hunting whales, and after that when the father talked about whales he wasn’t quite able to listen, and the father noticed and stopped.
(...)
    Skramstad was not a large village, a mere three to four hundred people lived there, but everyone knew that his father was different.  They avoided any mention of it, but they didn't always manage.
    Nevertheless, it only happened the one time, one November afternoon when he was ten years old and standing in Skottberg’s general store with a basket full of shopping when someone commented on it.  It had to be Mrs Heyerdahl of course, who came from Bergen and had married the director of the fish packing shed.  She had lived for several years in the area, though she was still a foreigner and different from the others.  She was small and thin but quite good-looking and always well turned out with her hair recently done, and to Bernard's knowledge she never did anything.  She just walked around and was the director's wife and ran the church council and the Christmas bazaars and that kind of thing.
    When she saw two packets of rolling tobacco, cigarette papers and matches at the top of the basket she said loudly to Skottberg: "You’re not selling smoking accessories to the boy, are you!"
    Skottberg flushed all over his round face.  "It's not for the boy," he whispered, raising both hands in defence.  He turned to Bernard and smiled.  "It's for your father, isn't it?"
    Bernard was unable to answer as Mrs Heyerdahl said: "He can do his own shopping!"
    "Well, it's not that easy," Skottberg said.
    Mrs. Heyerdahl took two steps forward and stooped over Bernard like a small bird of prey.  "He can walk, can't he?"  She always put strong emphasis on individual words when she spoke.  Bernard had noticed that before when she was talking at the Community Centre or at Sunday school.
    Bernard just nodded.  There was something in her eyes that scared him; as if she didn't like his father.
    "Mrs. Heyerdahl …," Skottberg said in a low, persistent voice.  Bernard thought that it sounded as if it came from a long way away.
    "No!" she said sharply.  "It really won't do!  And I'm not just talking about the tobacco.  It's the whole situation.  I'm not at all sure what's going on in that house.  I think they are good grounds for getting the child welfare people in to look at the case."
    Skottberg cast a quick glance at Bernard and looked away again just as quickly; he almost seemed scared.  Then it was as if he pulled himself together.  He grew taller, as tall as the round figure could grow, and the red flush over his face became even deeper and darker.  "Mrs. Heyerdahl," he said, and his voice was firm now.  "These are things which we should not interfere with as long as everything else is going well, and Bernard here is a fine fellow and manages perfectly in every way.  And now I don't want to hear another word about the matter."
    A strange expression came over Mrs. Heyerdahl’s face; slightly frightened, slightly angry, slightly shocked, as if the grocer had struck her.
    She staggered back a step, then stiffly straightened herself up.  "If only there were somewhere else to do your shopping in this place," she hissed, turned on her heel and swept out through the door.
    Skottberg stared at Bernard for quite a while.  His eyes were strangely vacant.  "Don't listen to her," he said finally.  "People talk and talk and have no idea what they're actually talking about.  They're just killing time.  Everything is fine, isn't it?  School and so on?  You're eating properly?"
    Bernard nodded. He just wanted to get out, somewhere where no-one could see him. His fingers were numb and his feet were cold even though he was well wrapped up. “Everything’s fine,” he whispered.
    Skottberg shook his head and gave him a smile that was as waxen as a doll’s. “There you are. So there’s no more to talk about, is there?” But he couldn’t meet Bernard’s eyes properly; his eyes seemed to wander past Bernard’s eyes and fixed themselves on the wall behind him, and Bernard knew he knew and felt the flush of shame spread across his face. Then Skottberg went to the newspaper and magazine stand, took down a comic and stuffed it into the shopping bag. “Take this because you’re a fine fellow,” he mumbled and he began to tap the prices of the goods into the cash register as if he wanted Bernard out of the shop as quickly as possible.
    On his way home Bernard put down the bag, took the comic out and was in a mood to throw it to the winds, watch it flap and flutter across the sea and disappear. But, it was a Jukan comic after all, and he changed his mind.]


4. Chapter 1, Part II - The Maelstrom, Pps 155 – 157

(...) Bernard lay quite still, looked up at the ceiling hoping it would begin to shimmer and that the whales would begin to swim around in the room again. But it didn’t happen. “I don’t want anything from you,” he whispered.
    “Not yet,” the Devil said softly.
    “Never.”
    The Devil stood up. “Oh, we’ll see about that. Little do you know what lies before you.” Bernard turned his gaze on him. His face was still now, there was no longer a friendly smile there, but nor was there anything else, just a hard, expressionless composure which frightened Bernard. He had been frightened before, several times, but never like this; he had never known his heart feel cold.
    “I have seen you now,” the Devil said slowly and very deliberately. “And heard you. You have attracted my attention. That cannot be changed, it cannot be retracted. There is a bond between us now, the beginnings of an agreement, and to seal it I am entitled to a small token of good faith.”
    “A token of good faith?” Bernard whispered.
    The Devil’s eyes were dark and shiny like the sea on a winter’s night. “A token of good faith. Such as when you borrow money from a friend and he takes …let us say your wrist watch as a token of good faith and you will not have it returned until you pay back the money.”
    “You’re not getting any token of good faith off me. I don’t want anything from you.”
    “Oh, that matter has already been taken care of, my boy.”
    There was no warmth under the duvet any longer and Bernard wished for the return of his feverishness. “What did you take?” he shouted.
    The Devil just smiled and studied him before saying: “You will find out one day. You can be sure that we will meet again. You will no longer be cold and alone and lonely. I will always be there for you. And you need me.”
    “I don’t,” Bernard whispered.