Camilla Lackberg - The Lost Boy

It was only when she placed her hands on the steering wheel that she saw they were bloody. Her palms felt sticky against the leather. But she ignored the blood as she shifted into reverse and a bit too hastily backed out of the driveway. She heard the gravel spray out from under the tyres.

They had a long drive ahead of them. She cast a glance at the back seat. Sam was asleep, wrapped up in a blanket. He really ought to be strapped in with a seat belt, but she didn’t have the heart to wake him. She would just have to drive as carefully as possible. Immediately she let up on the accelerator.

The summer night had already started to brighten. At this time of year the hours of darkness were practically over before they even began. And yet this night seemed endless. Everything had changed. Fredrik’s brown eyes had stared rigidly up at the ceiling, and she realized that there was nothing she could do. She had to save herself and Sam. She couldn’t think about the blood. She couldn’t think about Fredrik.

There was only one place she could go.

Six hours later, they reached their destination. Fjällbacka was just starting to wake up. She parked the car near the Coast Guard building, taking a moment to work out how she could manage to carry everything. Sam was still sound asleep. She took out a package of tissues from the glove compartment and wiped her hands as best she could. It was hard to get all the blood off. Then she took the suitcases out of the boot of the car and quickly dragged them over to Badholmen, the island with the diving platform, where the boat was docked. She was worried that Sam might wake up, but she had locked the car so he wouldn’t be able to get out and tumble into the water. With an effort she stowed the luggage on board the boat and unlocked the chain, which was meant to keep the vessel from being stolen. Then she ran back to the car, relieved to see that Sam was sleeping as calmly as when she’d left him. Picking him up, she carried him, still wrapped in the blanket, over to the boat. She kept her eyes fixed on her feet as she stepped on board so she wouldn’t slip. Carefully she placed Sam on the deck and then turned the key in the ignition. The motor coughed but started up on the first try. Though she hadn’t driven a motorboat in a long time, she was certain she could manage. She backed out of the mooring berth and then headed out of the harbour.

The sun was shining but hadn’t yet had time to warm the air. She felt the tension slowly seeping away, and the horror of the night lost some of its grip on her. As she looked at Sam she wondered if what had happened would scar him for life. A five-year-old was fragile. Who knew what might have been destroyed inside him? She would do everything in her power to make him whole again. She would take away the evil with a kiss, just as she did when he fell off his bike and scraped his knee.

The route across the water was a familiar one. She knew every island, every skerry. She steered towards Väderöbad, heading further and further out along the coast. The waves were getting bigger, and the hull of the boat slammed against the surface after each swell. She enjoyed the feeling of the salty spray on her face, allowing herself to close her eyes for a few seconds. When she opened them again, she could see Gråskär in the distance. Her heart leaped. That always happened when the island came into view and she saw the small cottage and the lighthouse rising up white and proud against the blue sky. She was still too far off to see the colour of the cottage, but in her mind she pictured the light grey of the façade with the white trim. She also thought about the pink hollyhocks that grew along the wall, most sheltered from the wind. This was her refuge, her paradise. Her island called Gråskär.

Every single pew in Fjäallbacka church was taken, and the chancel was overflowing with flowers. Wreaths, bouquets, and beautiful silk ribbons inscribed with words of farewell.

Patrik could hardly make himself look at the white coffin that stood in the midst of the sea of flowers. It was eerily quiet inside the large stone church. At the funerals for old people, a hum of voices was almost always audible. Comments were exchanged, such as ‘she was in so much pain that it was a blessing’ and the like. And everyone looked forward to the coffee served afterwards in the church. Today those sorts of conversations were absent. Everyone sat in silence with heavy hearts and an unexpressed feeling of injustice. This should not have happened.

Patrik cleared his throat and glanced up at the ceiling, trying to blink away his tears. He squeezed Erica’s hand. His suit was scratchy and itchy, and he tugged at his shirt collar to get more air. He felt as though he was suffocating.

The bells in the tower began to chime, the sound echoing between the walls. Many of those present in the church gave a start and glanced towards the coffin. Pastor Lena came out from the sacristy and walked over to the altar. It was Lena who had married them in this very church. That seemed like another time, another reality. Back then the mood had been elated, joyful, and bright. Now the pastor looked sombre. Patrik tried to interpret her expression. Was she too thinking that this was all wrong? Or was she secure in her conviction that there was some meaning behind what had happened?

The tears welled up again, and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. Erica discreetly slipped him a handkerchief. The last chords of the organ faded away, followed by a few seconds of silence before Lena began to speak. Her voice quavered slightly, but then grew steadier.

‘Life can change in an instant. But God is with us. Today as always.’

Patrik saw her lips moving, but he soon stopped listening. He didn’t want to hear what she said. The tenuous religious faith that had followed him through life ever since he was a child had now departed for good. There was no meaning to be found in what had happened. Again he squeezed Erica’s hand.

‘I can proudly report that we’re right on schedule. In a little over two weeks the Badhotel will be splendidly reopened in Fjällbacka.’

Erling W. Larson beamed as he looked from one board member to the next, as if expecting applause. He had to settle for a number of approving nods.

‘This is a real triumph for the region,’ he clarified. ‘A complete renovation of something that we might well consider a priceless historic icon. At the same time we can now offer people a modern and competitive wellness centre. Or spa, which is perhaps a better word for it.’ He sketched quotation marks in the air around the word ‘spa’, which was foreign to many Swedes. ‘All that remains is to take care of the finishing touches, invite several companies to try out the services in advance, and of course make preparations for the grand opening celebration.’

‘That sounds great. I just have a few questions.’ Mats Sverin, who had assumed the position of town finance officer a couple of months back, waved his pen to attract Erling’s attention.

Erling, who detested anything to do with administrative work and financial reports, pretended not to notice. Hastily declaring the meeting adjourned, he withdrew to his spacious office.

After the fiasco of the Sodding Tanum reality show, no one had expected Erling to recover, yet here he was promoting an even bigger project which was on the brink of success. Personally, he’d never had any doubts, not even when the negative criticism had been at its worst. He was a born winner.