The Voices Beyond: (Oland Quartet Series 4) (51 page)

But now his life was over.

The fire was coming closer, and the mill was pressing him to the ground.

He closed his eyes for the last time.

Once in my youth I loved and played and smiled at the sunny day, but the frost came early with snow at my breast, and all at once the autumn was here.

Dan Andersson

The old mill was now lying on its side, and Gerlof thought it looked like the wreckage of an airship more than anything else – a burning airship that had come crashing down.

The lower section was already burning fiercely; the wind whipped up the flames, sending showers of sparks up into the grey sky. The fire spread across the shattered walls like a glowing whirlwind. There wasn’t much left of the broken sails, but their slats were burning too.

Something came swirling through the air and landed on the grass next to Gerlof. It wasn’t a piece of debris, but a sheet of paper that had somehow avoided the flames. It was covered in writing.

Then he heard someone moaning from inside the pile of wood. He put the piece of paper in his pocket and peered over at the mill. He could see movement beyond the glow of the fire. Veronica Kloss had dragged herself further away and was busy untying her son.

And John?

He couldn’t see John. That was the worst thing of all, not being able to see that John was safe. John had been in front of him when the mill fell; he had moved sideways … but now there was no sign of him.

Gerlof lay on the grass, unable to get away. He could feel the intense heat from the fire, and he felt like a sacrificial offering, an offering to the mill. Soon it would reach out towards him with burning hands and—

‘Gerlof!’

He heard a boy’s voice and felt two hands gripping him underneath the arms and slowly dragging him away from the mill. Just in time – there was a loud crack, and one of the sails crashed down on the grass where he had been lying seconds ago.

It was young Jonas who had called out and was now hauling him backwards, panting and wobbling. Jonas was only a boy, with skinny arms and legs, but he was doing his best. Gerlof didn’t resist, but he couldn’t help either. He was too tired to do anything.

He allowed himself to be dragged away from the heat and into the cool evening air.

‘John,’ he said.

He looked back at the ruins of the mill, and knew that John and Aron Fredh were still in there. Perhaps one of the neighbours had seen the flames and called the emergency services by now, but it was too late.

‘Gerlof?’

Gerlof looked up at Jonas Kloss. ‘Go and get help,’ he said. ‘Run over to my cottage – as quick as you can, Jonas!’

The boy sped away.

Gerlof was alone now. He called out to John, but got no reply, apart from a series of low groans.

After what seemed like an eternity, he heard the sound of sirens. An ambulance drove into the clearing, followed by fire fighters with hoses, to try to stop the fire spreading across the dry ground.

A shadow fell over him; someone shone a light into his eyes.

‘There are people trapped under the mill,’ Gerlof whispered.

No one took any notice. The shadow turned out to be a fire fighter; Gerlof looked up at him and opened his dry lips.

‘There are people inside,’ he said, a little louder this time.

‘How many?’

‘Two men. Can you—’

The fire fighter immediately turned away, shouting orders to a colleague.

After a few minutes they produced air cushions and pushed them under the collapsed mill; they pumped them up and crawled in beneath the beams.

Shouts and orders.

Eventually, Gerlof saw two figures being carried out and laid on blankets on the grass. They were only silhouettes, but he recognized both of them.

Aron Fredh’s body was lifeless.

John was moving slightly.

The paramedics bent over him, trying to revive him. Gerlof couldn’t see past them. He began to move, shuffling across the grass; he stretched out his hand, between the feet of the paramedics. He groped blindly until he found something bony. It was a hand, John’s cold hand.

He held it tightly, but there was no response.

The activity around John grew more intense as the paramedics worked feverishly – then suddenly stopped. They straightened up, and one of them let out a long breath and took a step backwards.

Gerlof held on to the hand anyway. He didn’t let go until the paramedics gently opened his fingers and placed a yellow blanket over his friend, and another around his shoulders. But John’s blanket was laid over his face, like a shroud, and at that moment Gerlof knew that there was nothing more that could be done.

Jonas had to stay in hospital in Kalmar for four days after the events at the mill. He didn’t really know why, but the doctors talked about ‘trauma care’. He thought he was absolutely fine – his life was much easier now than it had been for ages.

He was alone most of the time. Mats was already back home in Huskvarna, and his father had been allowed to leave the hospital two days ago but had been back to visit Jonas.

He had looked sad and tired when they talked about Öland.

‘We need a break from that place,’ Niklas had said before he left.

But Jonas really wanted to go back, and when his mother came to pick him up he persuaded her to take him over to the island before they went home.

An hour after the doctors had given him the all clear, they were driving across the bridge.

‘I wasn’t really ill,’ he said as they drove on to the island. ‘I think they just wanted to keep an eye on me, see how I was feeling.’

‘And how are you feeling?’ his mother asked.

‘Fine … I’m not really sure. But it’s not good.’

‘What’s not good?’

‘Everything …’ Jonas said. ‘Everything that happened.’

‘No. But it’s over now.’

They drove on in silence, almost all the way to Stenvik. The shop was closed. The campsite was closed, too. It was a bit sad; the whole village felt kind of empty now, Jonas thought, at least compared to the way it had been in July.

The place wasn’t completely abandoned, however. There were cars outside a few houses on the coast road, and the odd blue-and-yellow pennant still fluttered in some of the gardens. But there were hardly any people around.

His mother wanted to visit Villa Kloss, but Jonas wasn’t keen, so she just drove past, and he could see that the police cordons were still there. The collapsed roof and the shattered windows had been covered with sheets of white plastic.

The ridge was deserted, and the cairn was now a huge crater in the ground.

Jonas knew that they had dug out the crevice in the rock while he was in hospital. His father had told him that they had found Uncle Kent’s body outside the bunker. Jonas had no idea who would sort out Kent’s house.

And Aunt Veronica? Apparently, she had been questioned by the police.

Jonas didn’t really care what happened to Villa Kloss; he didn’t want to go back there.

He glanced at his mother. ‘Can we go the other way?’

She nodded and turned the car northwards.

A man in blue overalls was painting the gig outside Gerlof’s boathouse, the one where Jonas had sought shelter all those weeks ago.

Gerlof.
Jonas had often thought about him while he was in hospital.

‘Turn off here,’ he said to his mother, and they drove inland along the northern village road – but after only a hundred metres or so, Jonas asked her to stop by a little track leading to an iron gate. ‘I won’t be long,’ he said as he got out of the car.

He went through the gate and into the garden. Nothing had changed except that the flag was flying at half-mast.

The birds were singing, and beyond the flagpole he saw Gerlof sitting in his chair as usual, his head drooping.

It was as if Jonas knew what was going to happen. Gerlof had his straw hat pulled well down, his walking stick in his hand; he looked exactly the same as he had all summer. But as Jonas approached he raised his head and nodded.

‘Good morning, Jonas,’ he said. ‘Back again?’

Jonas stopped in front of him. ‘Yes, but I’m going home now.’

‘Are you all right?’ Gerlof asked.

‘Yes …’

‘You saved me, Jonas,’ Gerlof said after a pause. ‘When I was lying by the mill. You dragged me away from the fire.’

Jonas shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘Maybe,’ he said.

Gerlof looked over in the direction of the sea. ‘They’ve found the
Ophelia
.’

Jonas was confused for a moment, then he remembered. ‘The ghost ship?’

‘The ghost ship was real,’ Gerlof went on. ‘It was found the day before yesterday, with the help of echo-sounding equipment. It was out in the Sound, towards the north, at a depth of thirty metres. Someone had blown holes in the hull.’

Jonas just nodded; he didn’t want to think about the ship any more. He listened to the birds singing away in the bushes, and remembered that there was something else he wanted to say, something he wanted to apologize for. A broken promise.

‘I told somebody something.’

‘What?’ Gerlof said.

‘I told my dad and Uncle Kent about Peter Mayer.’

Gerlof held up a hand. ‘I know. It’s easily done, Jonas … But in that case, perhaps what happened to Peter Mayer on the road outside Marnäs was no accident?’

‘I don’t know,’ Jonas said quietly. ‘I didn’t see. Uncle Kent was chasing him, and they disappeared in the darkness and …’

He fell silent.

‘There was nothing you could do,’ Gerlof reassured him. ‘It was all down to the adults. As usual.’

Jonas thought for a moment. ‘It’s not good,’ he said. ‘All the stuff that happened.’

Gerlof seemed to understand what he meant. ‘No, it’s not good at all. John’s funeral is next week.’ He sighed and went on, ‘But this whole century hasn’t been too good … War and death and misery. I’m glad it’s almost over. I’m sure the twenty-first century will be much better.’

He smiled wearily at Jonas and added, ‘That will be your time.’

Jonas didn’t know what else to say. He could hear the engine of his mother’s car idling on the road, so he took a step towards the gate. ‘I’ve got to go now.’

Gerlof nodded. ‘The summer is over.’

He held out his hand, and Jonas shook it. He walked to the gate, then turned around. Gerlof looked lonely in his garden. But he raised his hand one last time, and Jonas waved back.

It was a sunny day in the middle of August when Gerlof said goodbye to John in Marnäs churchyard.

John was lying in a beautiful white coffin, which was definitely closed. Gerlof waited and listened, but of course there wasn’t a sound from the coffin during the ceremony.

The grave was to the west of the church, well away from the Kloss family graves, but Gerlof didn’t want to go over there. Instead, he walked slowly along the path towards the gate. Up above, he could see two big birds; they looked like buzzards. They were on their way south, as if they had begun their long journey to Africa.

Already? Was the summer really over, for the migrant birds, too?

‘Gerlof?’ said a voice beyond the churchyard gate. ‘Would you like a lift?’

It was John’s son, Anders, and he was pointing to his car.

Gerlof had already refused a lift from his daughters Lena and Julia, who were going straight back to Gothenburg, but he nodded to Anders and allowed himself to be helped into the passenger seat.

Anders got in. ‘Do you want to go to the home?’

Gerlof thought for a moment, then said, ‘Take me down to the cottage; I’d just like to check on it.’

Anders put the car in gear and set off. They drove in silence for a while, until Gerlof said, ‘Did John like me, Anders? Was I nice to him?’

Anders turned on to the main road and said, ‘He never thought about that kind of thing … He did once say that you’d never given him a single order in your whole life.’

‘Really? I thought I gave orders all the time when were at sea.’

‘No. He said you asked questions when you wanted something done. You’d ask if he’d like to hoist the sail, and he would do it.’

‘You could be right.’

Neither of them spoke until Anders turned down on to the village road; as they drove in among the summer cottages, he said quietly, ‘I put her in the water last night.’

‘Sorry?’ Gerlof said; he had been thinking about John.

‘I put your boat in the water … the skiff.’

‘You mean the gig?’

‘The gig, that’s right,’ Anders said. ‘I had nothing else to do, so I dragged her down to the water.’

‘Did she float?’

‘She leaks a bit, but if she stays there for a few days the timbers will swell.’

‘Good,’ Gerlof said, then he went back to thinking about John, and what he could have done differently.

One thing was clear: they should have stayed away from the Kloss family.

After a few minutes they had reached the cottage. Anders stopped by the gate, and Gerlof slowly got out.

‘Thank you, Anders. You take care of yourself … Get away somewhere, have a holiday.’

‘Maybe,’ Anders said.

‘Or find a wife.’

Anders smiled wearily. ‘Not much chance of that around here,’ he said. ‘But life goes on.’

Gerlof didn’t reply; he merely raised a hand and opened the gate. When Anders had gone, he stepped into his garden.

He unlocked the door of the cottage and went straight in, without taking off his shoes. He went and stood in the main room.

Everything was quiet now. The cottage was cool and peaceful. The old wall clock next to the television had stopped, but Gerlof didn’t bother winding it up.

There was a black-and-white photograph next to the clock. It was fifty years old, and showed Gerlof and John on the South Quay in Stockholm, with the church spires of the Old Town in the background. They were both young and strong, smartly dressed in suits and black hats. Smiling into the sunshine.

Gerlof turned away. He looked out of the window at the weathervane, an old man sharpening his scythe. It had shifted during the morning and was now pointing towards the shore. The weather forecast on the radio had also predicted a westerly wind with a speed of three to four metres per second for today. A gentle but steady breeze, blowing offshore. Anything that ended up in the water off Stenvik would quickly drift out to sea.