Юхан Теорин - The Voices Beyond

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.’