Юхан Теорин - The Voices Beyond

At quarter past nine she had finished the gig, as the blood-red sun hovered above the horizon.

Lisa needed bread and milk, but the shop next to the bar had closed at eight o’clock. It was run by an elderly father and his son; their name was Hagman. The bar itself was owned by her employers, the Kloss family; it was a small but intense workplace: two Finnish waitresses picked their way among the tables, and in the kitchen a Canadian chef presided over pizza dough and jars of pesto. Kent Kloss wasn’t responsible for this place, thank goodness; it was run by Niklas, his younger brother, who kept a low profile and spent most of his time on the till; the staff didn’t need his constant supervision.

Lisa put away her guitar and headed for the exit. Niklas Kloss smiled at her, and she quickly asked, ‘Did it sound OK?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘In that case, I’ll be back on Monday.’

‘Good — I’ll look forward to it.’

He didn’t really seem to be listening; he was looking over towards a big car that had just pulled into the car park and was standing there with its engine ticking over.

The driver got out, and Lisa saw that it was Kent Kloss. He waved to his brother, and Niklas walked towards him.

The wind carried odd words across to Lisa.

‘... former employee,’ Kent said.

‘... don’t want to talk about...’ Niklas responded.

‘... have a chat...’

‘... ought to call...’

‘... rather go round there...’

After a while, Niklas got into the car, looking both grim and stressed. Kent quickly slid behind the wheel and drove out of the car park.

Lisa could see a boy in the back seat, one of the Kloss children; he glanced at Lisa as the car pulled out on to the main road. He didn’t look too happy either.

As she walked back to the campsite, carrying her guitar, the sun had just gone down, leaving only a glow in the sky and making the clouds look like red fire above the horizon. Or streaks of blood.

The coast quickly darkened. Lisa headed towards her caravan, wondering why the Kloss brothers would allow a young boy to be out so late at night.

Marnäs lay on the west coast; it had a number of shops and the white, medieval parish church. It was too big to be a village and too small to be a town, but people gathered there anyway. There was an off-licence, a harbour with several fishing boats and a police station that was open for a few hours every Tuesday.

Jonas really liked the shops in Marnäs, but there was no chance of visiting them tonight. It was almost nine thirty; it was twilight and the shops were shut. However, the fair was in full swing and had attracted plenty of people.

The funfair had been set up in the harbour area next to the square, with brightly coloured carousels and stalls selling burgers and sausages. There were lots of cars, and Uncle Kent couldn’t find a space on the square, so he parked in a disabled bay behind the harbourmaster’s office.

‘We won’t be long,’ he said. ‘I’ll just have to pay the fine if we get a ticket.’

Niklas didn’t say anything; he didn’t seem particularly happy this evening. But Uncle Kent carried on talking as the three of them got out of the car: ‘We’ll go over to Mayer’s place and ring the doorbell, see if he’s at home.’ He looked at Jonas. ‘If he’s there, JK, and if you’re sure he was the guy you saw on the ship, then we’ll have a little chat with him, find out what happened. But you don’t need to stay around for that... OK?’

Jonas nodded. His heart was pounding, but he also felt as if he had grown since this morning. He was suddenly at the centre of everything. He was important — he was a witness.

The three of them walked past the harbour and the funfair. Jonas looked at the flashing lights and caught the aroma of grilled sausages and fresh popcorn. He would have loved to look around the stalls, buy some sweets and check out the second-hand videos, but Uncle Kent marched on, shaking his head.

‘Look at all this crap,’ he said. ‘Marnäs is a real magnet for people peddling cheap tat in the summer. It’s all sell, sell, sell.’

Once they had passed the fair, he increased his speed and turned into a narrow side street. He led the way to a couple of apartment blocks north of the harbour, with a view over the dark-blue Baltic.

‘Number eight, that’s where he’s supposed to be living,’ he said. ‘Second floor.’

He opened the door, held it to allow Jonas and his father to go in, then let it close behind them.

The cool stairwell felt eerily silent.

Kent set off up the stairs. ‘Keep behind me, JK,’ he said quietly. He was moving more cautiously now, and didn’t switch on the light. Niklas stayed at the back, as if protecting their line of retreat.

They reached the second floor and saw two doors. MAYER was on a handwritten label on the left-hand door. Jonas’s pulse rate shot up when he saw it; he felt as if the name were leaching evil into the stairwell.

But Uncle Kent didn’t seem in the least concerned. He stepped forward and pressed the doorbell. For a long time.

Jonas was even more frightened when he heard the sound of the bell; he felt as if he were back on board the ship. He noticed a peephole in the door, just like the one they had at home in Huskvarna. Perhaps someone was standing there, spying on them.

Peter Mayer. The man with the axe.

But no one answered the door. Uncle Kent waited, rang again, waited. Eventually, he sighed. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘No one’s home, JK. We’ll have to go back to Villa Kloss.’

Jonas was relieved. A little disappointed, perhaps, but mainly relieved.

They left the building; it was even darker now. The streetlamps around the harbour had come on and the people visiting the fair looked even more shadowy.

Jonas moved a little distance away from his father and his uncle so that he could look at the rides. They ought to let him have a go on something now, maybe the dodgems or the cannonball, but he knew they wouldn’t.

Beside the harbour was Moby Dick, the only pizzeria in Marnäs. Jonas had eaten there with Mats and their father the summer before last. The place was packed tonight, of course. There were tables outside and every one was occupied, with people drinking and laughing and smoking. Sunburnt golfers in white caps and blue polo shirts, sailors in blue jackets, cyclists with helmet hair.

Summer visitors. Jonas couldn’t take his eyes off them.

A tall guy in a black denim jacket was moving between the tables, carrying a takeaway pizza; he had a shaven head and his eyes were darting all over the place.

Jonas stared at him for a long time.

Time had slowed down; his heart was thumping.

He made himself look away after a while, as if everything was perfectly normal — but he was absolutely certain who he had seen. He stopped, turned around and gently tugged at his father’s arm.

‘There,’ he whispered.

‘What?’

‘It’s him .’

Niklas stopped. ‘Who?’

‘The man from the ship.’

‘You mean Mayer? Where?’

Jonas tilted his head in the direction of the pizzeria, where Peter Mayer had just reached the pavement. He was about to walk past them, heading down towards the harbour.

‘Kent!’ Niklas called out.

‘What?’

‘Over there.’

Niklas pointed, and Kent turned his head. He spotted Peter Mayer and stopped dead.

A second later, Kent took off, straight across the street. ‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘Pecka!’

The man looked over his shoulder and froze for a few seconds. Then he began to move in the opposite direction, faster and faster. Away from the crowd and from Kent Kloss.

‘Hang on!’ Kent yelled. ‘I just want to...’