Юхан Теорин - The Voices Beyond

They heard a dull thud from inside the ship. The darkness seemed to shudder, and there was a gurgling noise from beneath the waterline. They had blown a hole in the hull.

The Homecomer had been holding his breath, and now he let it out. ‘OK, let’s go.’

Rita turned the wheel, and the launch moved away from the ship, which had already begun to list. The Homecomer had placed the explosives in the bow, which went down first. The stern began to tip up, slowly to start with, then faster and faster.

The ship sank majestically but almost silently, with only the odd hiss of air forced out of the vents.

After less than fifteen minutes the surface of the water was empty, and Rita set off at speed, heading home through the night.

The black shape of the island quickly grew larger as they approached. From a distance the shoreline was made up of gentle curves, but as they came closer the Homecomer could see how rocky and jagged it really was.

They had reached the inlets and the headlands between the Ölandic and Stenvik, where they had parked the car. The shore was still dark and deserted; everything was going to be OK.

Just before they landed, the Homecomer reached into the bag and took out two rolls of banknotes. He gave one each to Pecka and Rita.

‘That’s to keep you going until we meet again.’

Pecka didn’t say thank you, but he seemed more composed now. He raised his voice above the sound of the outboard motor. ‘That kid who came aboard the ship... What was he doing there?’

The Homecomer stared at him. ‘A kid?’

‘Yes, when were were on our way out into the Sound... He just appeared by the hatch, all of a sudden. I was looking for you, but you’d gone, and then this boy turned up with the living dead behind him — one of the crew members, I mean — so I used the axe and—’

‘Calm down,’ the Homecomer interrupted. He looked at Pecka as the bottom of the boat scraped against the rocks in the shallows. ‘This boy — did he see you?’

‘Well, yes, he was only a metre away. Right in front of me on the deck. God knows where he came from; I tried to grab hold of him but he disappeared over the gunwale...’

Rita turned off the engine. ‘But you were wearing your balaclava, weren’t you?’ she said into the silence. ‘He couldn’t see your face?’ Pecka shook his head, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

‘I wasn’t wearing it at the time,’ he said after a while. ‘I got so fucking hot and sweaty.’

The Homecomer got to his feet and gazed out at the dark shore. ‘Do you know who he was?’

‘No.’

The Homecomer stepped ashore, but turned back to face Pecka. ‘Go straight home,’ he said. ‘And stay there. Don’t go out.’

Pecka seemed to understand the seriousness of the situation. He nodded. ‘What about you?’ he said. ‘Will you be going home soon?’

‘Home?’

‘Yes... Back to America?’

The Homecomer didn’t answer. He merely stared out at the black waters of the Sound. He was thinking about his voyage across the sea when he was a boy, when he still believed in the future.

Aron has left Sven in the cabin. There is nothing he can do. Sven’s skinny body is lying in his bunk, but his head is hanging over the edge of the bed as he vomits into an enamel chamber pot on the floor. The smell is indescribable. Aron can’t breathe in there.

Between the bouts of vomiting Sven mumbles to himself. He talks about the Kloss family, about the burial cairn and rocks rolling down and falling walls.

‘You always have to have the last word... He was like a pillar of stone, solid and erect... I should have gone home... should never have raised my fist to him...’

Sometimes, Sven seems to think he is back on the island, that he is lying on the shore at Rödtorp, but that is not the case. He is lying on board the long white ship SS Kastelholm , as she steams across a vast, choppy sea.

He and Aron are sharing a bunk, but Aron is rarely in the cabin. He doesn’t want to lie next to Sven in the middle of that stench; he spends most of his time on deck. Or on the bridge, where the captain has allowed him to come and watch how they sail the ship.

At the beginning of the voyage, Sven also wandered around SS Kastelholm. He would often stand on the foredeck, his hands resting on the gunwale as he gazed out to sea. But on the third day the waves began to get bigger and he took himself back to the cabin. And the chamber pot.

Aron is standing by the gunwale, watching the rushing water.

The sun is hidden behind a bank of cloud, the horizon has disappeared, and there is no sign of land or any other vessels. All he can see are the never-ending waves, racing towards the ship in long lines and breaking against the bow in a burst of spume.

Aron has lost all concept of time at sea, and he longs for them to arrive. To step on to dry land, any land at all. He can almost smell it.

Cold air, a stiff breeze. Aron can hear the sound of the steam engine out here, but he stays away from the machinery. He is happier with the wind and the sun, which reminds him of the shore by the croft.

He waits, and longs for the journey to end.

After a while, he hears someone limping up behind him; Sven has made it. He inhales the sea air and positions himself in front of the short mast, his legs firmly planted on the deck and his gaze fixed on some distant point. On the unknown.

Aron looks at him. ‘Are we nearly there?’

Sven sighs. ‘The same question, over and over again...’ He swallows, belches quietly and keeps his eyes fixed on that distant point. ‘Can you see any sign of land?’

Aron screws up his eyes and peers into the wind. He shakes his head.

‘You will, before too long,’ Sven goes on. ‘We’ll soon arrive in the new country.’

Aron has a question. ‘Then can we write to Mum?’

‘Of course. When we get there. If you can find what you need... a pen and paper and a stamp.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘And if it’s not too expensive.’

Aron decides that he will find pens and paper and stamps when they go ashore, whatever they cost.

‘How long are we going to be there?’

‘Be there?’ Sven says. ‘We’re not just going to “be there”. We’re going to work, make a decent living. We’re staying for at least a year.’

‘And then we can come home?’

Sven sighs again. ‘We’ll come home when we come home,’ he says. ‘Don’t ask so many questions.’

Then he turns and heads back to the cabin and the chamber pot.

Aron stays where he is. He stares out to sea, waiting for the coastline to appear, the beginning of the new country, another world.

The sun rose over the island at half past four, but Gerlof didn’t wake until after seven. He blinked in the grey light of the boathouse and glanced over at the old nets hanging on the far wall. He remembered the hammering on the door and a frightened, soaking-wet boy tumbling in from the darkness. Was it all a dream?

No, there were some items of clothing hanging up to dry below the ceiling, and he was not alone. A small figure was fast asleep under several blankets on the other camp bed. The boy — Jonas Kloss.

When Gerlof blew out the candles, his breathing had slowly calmed down and, at last, all was quiet.

Gerlof had been too agitated and taken aback to settle down properly. He had nodded off after a while, in a half-sitting position on his bed, the ridiculous stone cudgel by his side, determined to keep a vigil in case of unknown dangers. Dead seamen and hungry monsters. But they had failed to materialize.

Now he placed his feet on the cold floor and opened the blind to look at the world outside.