A Private Haunting Read Free Page B

could see him now?
    Clara crept into his mind and he contemplated for a while, got a bit hard before leaping up. Old JJ sure liked the women, songs like incantations that had him horny for Clara for crying out loud, so get over there and change the music. Had to be something less suggestive, Jonsok was coming so maybe something pagan-fringed. But Death in Vegas was too dark, DJ Fresh too frantic, the bass shaking loose his internal organs, gotta look after this old body.
    He settled on the Rolling Stones, Beggars Banquet , in honour of old Martinsson. He used to blare out The Stones when they were sitting in his kitchen knocking back the akevitt before heading down to the beach bonfires. Ah, Jonsok . The celebration of the summer solstice, the final defeat of winter’s darkness by the Sun God. Jonas’s parties were an import, sure, but some imports catch on. Jonsok would follow where boom boxes, breakdancing and the mullet had blazed a trail. Five years ago only three people came to his first party. That was fine, that was cool, no one really knew him then. The next year seven or so, a few kids from The Hub.
    Then fourteen . A watershed. You can’t impose a tradition; it has to be earned. Look at Morris dancing. The foot-bells didn’t start shs - shshing overnight. Someone did it once, maybe for kicks. But do it again and again and you get a tradition. Hence Jonas’s open door and the midnight bonfire, the flames fanned until the dawn. Just like home, almost. At home he wouldn’t be the automatic figure of fun, or disdain, as he was to the men outside the pub.
    At home, he would be something else altogether. They didn’t need to know about that here.
    Jonas had almost blown it from the start, his September arrival too sudden and too keen. Blame the mushrooms. And the beech nuts and blackberries, the rosehips and rowans. So why not a foraging walk? He put out flyers, introduced himself at the supermarket, the Post Office, and the café, thrusting leaflets into one bemused hand as he shook the other. In a misjudged burst of enthusiasm, he handed some out in The Mucky Duck on a Friday night. A few young guys made fun of him. Asked what the fuck he was doing here.
    Only Mark turned up, his interest genuine, as was his suggestion that Jonas do something at The Hub. And Jonas’s disappointment at the lack of interest in the walk evaporated.
    He bumped into the guys from The Mucky Duck again, early December. Walking along the street a hard-packed snowball hit him full in the face. He tried to laugh it off but they followed him, shouting Down With Thor , the snowballs hitting harder, laughter becoming cruel.
    Thor.
    Or the Viking.
    Sometimes even strangers would shout out. How’s our local Viking? How’s it goin, Thor? One time a woman came up to him at the fete and asked him to show her his mighty hammer. The boyfriend was not best pleased and sometimes even gods have to make a swift exit.
    But hey, some of the locals had nicknames: Crooner Joe, Randy Clara... It was a sign not of difference but of belonging. A nickname meant you were a character . If they wanted to call Jonas Thor or the Viking then what’s the problem? He was so much of a local he had two nicknames.
    â€˜I should be flattered.’
    The one-eyed doll was unconvinced. Sat there on the speaker, shifting with the throbs of Bill Wyman’s bass. He didn’t know what to do with the damn thing. Re-inter it in the loft? There were thirty new centimetres of insulation up there so at least it’d be snug. Dithering meant no decision and the doll would soon be subsumed into the mess. He’d have to hide it during the cleaner interviews. It was probably an HR rule. Prospective new employers and single men should not, repeat not , reveal one-eyed dollies to the interviewees.
    â€˜Confucius said that. Does Li Po agree?’
    Like the doll, the figure in the scroll painting above the fireplace said nothing. He and