Юхан Теорин - The Voices Beyond

‘OK.’

But Jonas was just saying that; he didn’t even want to touch the fallen stones. Anything could happen if he did that.

Casper revved his moped one last time and gazed out across the water. He didn’t even look at Jonas; it was as if he was talking to himself.

‘I was thinking of going up to Marnäs, to meet some mates by the harbour... See what’s happening there.’

He didn’t ask if Jonas wanted to go with him, and Jonas didn’t ask if he could come along, but now Casper looked at him and said, ‘You can use my rubber dinghy if you want. If you’re going swimming. It’s in the boathouse.’

‘OK,’ Jonas said.

Casper swung the moped around and set off along the coast road, increasing his speed so that the rattling got louder and louder until he turned on to the track leading past the maypole and the mini-golf course, heading up towards the main road.

Slowly, Jonas walked away from the cairn.

He remembered that Uncle Kent had promised him a great summer. He had said it was going to be fantastic.

But now he was all by himself on the coast, completely alone. As Jonas watched his cousin disappear, he knew that the next month was going to be terrible.

The sun had gone down, and the party was under way.

Lady Summertime gazed out across the room at the crowded dance floor, the bubbling cauldron down below her throne. Hands flew up in the air, hair was tossed around, upper bodies swayed to the beat, forming dark, billowing waves.

‘Summer of love!’ she yelled into the microphone. ‘It’s going to be a long, fantastic summer!’

It was one thirty in the morning, the club was packed and Lady Summertime was running the show with flashing lights and a thumping backbeat. She was completely in charge, in her purple wig, oversized yellow T-shirt, black nail varnish and black leather jacket. Lisa would never wear such clothes, but this was Lady Summertime’s uniform.

She had arrived at seven thirty, and the cooks in the kitchen had provided her with a late dinner. Then she had put on her make-up and her wig. At half past eight, Lisa (Lady Summertime!) had gone into the club and put on a CD with fairly gentle tracks as background music.

People had been a little slow on this Sunday after midsummer, but at about ten o’clock they had started making their way down from the hotel and the campsite, red in the face from too much sunshine and front loading. They had gathered at the bars, both indoor and outdoor, ordering beer and glancing over towards the DJ booth.

At half past ten she suddenly turned up the volume, and everyone jumped.

‘OK, everybody on the dance floor! Right now!’ Summertime shouted, and people did as they were told.

When they had had enough to drink they became more adventurous, raising their hands in the air — they were ready to party.

By eleven the bar was jam-packed and the tables were covered with ice buckets. Lisa stuck to water all evening, but she was probably the only one.

At quarter past eleven the first glass smashed on the dance floor. The shards went everywhere, but the dancing continued.

At half past eleven the first bottle of champagne was emptied on to the floor, sprayed all over the place by the guy who had paid fourteen hundred kronor for it. He was rich — that was obvious from his early suntan. People screamed with laughter in the shower of bubbles, and several credit cards were waved at the bar staff. ‘More champagne!’

By midnight the place stank of booze and sweat. People were dancing with few inhibitions, in sleeveless tops and sweat-drenched shirts. A couple of the boys were wearing nothing but swimming trunks. The girls’ hair was plastered to their faces with perspiration; their make-up had slid off long ago. Lady Summertime had acquired her own little group of cheerleaders, standing immediately below her booth. A forest of fists rose in the air, in time with the music.

‘Summertime! Summertime!’

And she shouted back: ‘Love ya! Love ya!’

After twelve, she put on the Cowley remix of Donna Summer’s ‘I Feel Love’, pressed the button for a strobe effect on the lighting desk and set the smoke machine going — then Summertime jumped down from the booth and set off on tour among the dancers, right into the middle of the chaos.

It was sweaty, it was smoky, the darkness split by flashing lights.

Summertime became a jumping body among all the others, moving to the beat, raising her fists in the air, allowing a hug here and there, and rejecting a proposition whispered in her ear by some guy in a white shirt. She shook her head, smiling — Summertime was always in control — and after a few minutes she was back in her booth. She turned off the smoke and switched to ‘Situation’ by Yazoo.

‘Summertime! Summertime!’

Her little group was growing. Deafening shouts, hands in the air, stumbling feet, drinks spilling everywhere.

Summertime flicked through her vinyl collection and smiled at the chaos, but suddenly she spotted three guys at the far end of the dance floor. They looked like Greeks or Italians, and were standing very close together, about a metre from the bar. They were whispering and glancing around them, almost furtively.

She mixed in ‘Firestarter’ by Prodigy, and the next time she looked up they had gone.

Booze was knocked back by the bottle, more champagne was ordered. Lisa watched as one guy who was clearly the worse for wear counted out seven thousand-kronor notes to pay his tab; he passed them over to the bartender with a wave of his hand. ‘Keep the change!’

It was crazy; it was the height of summer.

A security guard appeared at the side of the DJ booth. He signalled to Lisa, and she took off her headphones and leaned forward.

‘We’ve had some trouble!’ he shouted to her. ‘Can you say something? Ask people to be a bit more careful?’

‘What kind of trouble?’

‘Thieving!’ the guard yelled. ‘Some people have lost their wallets!’

Lisa picked up the microphone, but thought for a second, then shouted back to the guard, ‘I saw three guys just now... They looked a bit dodgy!’

The guard had started to move away, but he stopped. ‘What did they look like?’

‘How can I put it?... Kind of greasy. Mafia types, if you know what I mean. Slicked-back hair and white shirts.’

The guard nodded, his expression grim.

‘OK, we’ll see if we can track them down.’

He made his way through the crowd as Lisa turned down the music and warned people to keep an eye on their possessions and their money. Nobody took any notice; they just carried on dancing.

The club closed at two thirty, and it was all over. Lisa finished with a slow number to calm things down.

‘Thanks, everyone! I love you all — see you tomorrow!’

The security staff took over and started ushering people out. However, the partying continued as everyone dispersed towards the campsite, chalets or the hotel, dancing their way home. Some would catch the night bus, others might decide to sleep under the full moon, or go for a swim.

The place was almost empty, but a guy who was far too young for Lisa hung around the booth, helping her pack away. He was wearing a black jacket and was just as tanned as the kids with rich daddies.

‘Do you recognize me?’ he said.

‘Vaguely. From Stockholm?’

He shook his head.

‘I was there when you picked up the keys. My name is Urban Kloss. I’m the one who owns all this... the Ölandic Resort.’

‘Oh, really?’ Lisa said; she could see that he was twenty at the most. ‘And when did you buy it?’

He stopped smiling, not quite sure what to say. Eventually he said, ‘It’s in the family.’