Юхан Теорин - Echoes From the Dead

He looks around: there are juniper bushes almost everywhere here, most of them twisted and bent by the wind and no more than a yard high, but they are still dense and impossible to see through. If Nils stands up, he can look over them and see a long, long way, and nobody can creep up on him, but when he crouches down the bushes seem to grow and loom over him.

He can’t hear a sound now — if he ever did hear anything. Perhaps it was just inside his head; it’s happened before when he’s been out here alone.

Nils stands there in the grass in silence, absolutely motionless, waiting. He is breathing calmly, and has all the time in the world. The hares always come out when he waits, their nerve always goes in the end and they hurtle out of their hiding places and rush blindly away from the huntsman with their hopping gait. Then all he has to do is raise the gun calmly to his shoulder, aim at the brown shape, and press the trigger. Then walk over and pick up the faintly twitching body.

Nils is holding his breath. He’s listening.

He can’t hear anything now, but there’s a sudden breeze, and he catches the distinct aroma of stale sweat and oily fabric in his nostrils. The acrid smell of a human body, or several bodies, is carried toward him on the breeze.

There are people, very close by.

Nils swings round to the right, his finger on the trigger.

Terrified eyes are staring out of a juniper bush, only a yard or so away.

The eyes of another human being, meeting his own.

A man’s face takes shape in the darkness beneath the thick junipers, a man’s face gray with dirt and overshadowed with tousled hair. Behind the head is a body pressing itself into the ground, dressed in bulky green clothes. A uniform, Nils realizes.

The man is a soldier. A foreign soldier, with neither a helmet nor a gun.

Nils is holding the shotgun in front of him; he can feel his heart pounding, right to the tips of his fingers. He raises the barrel an inch or two.

“Come out,” he says loudly.

The soldier opens his mouth and says something. It isn’t Swedish, at least no Swedish that Nils has ever heard. It’s a foreign language. It sounds like German.

“What?” Nils says quickly. “What are you saying?”

The soldier slowly raises his hands — he has dirty, cracked hands — and at that moment Nils realizes he is not alone in his hiding place. Behind him beneath the juniper bushes, another staring man in a dirty uniform is pressing himself down into the grass. They both have a hunted look, as if they were running away from terrible memories.

“Bitte nicht schiessen,” whispers the soldier closest to Nils.

Julia had called Gerlof on Ernst Adolfsson’s phone and told him what had happened — that she’d found Ernst, where he’d been lying, and that he was dead.

Gerlof had understood what she was telling him, but had tried not to think or feel too much, but to concentrate almost entirely on listening to her voice. It sounded tense, of course, but not shaky. Julia was in control.

“So Ernst is dead,” said Gerlof. “Are you sure?”

“I’m a nurse,” said Julia.

“Have you called the police?”

“I rang the emergency number. They’re sending somebody. But they won’t need an ambulance for Ernst... It’s too late.” She stopped. “But the police are bound to come as well, even if it is an accident. He’s...”

“I’ll come down to you,” said Gerlof. He made the decision at the same moment as he spoke the words. “The police are sure to be there soon, but I’m coming, too. Sit down on Ernst’s sofa and wait for them.”

“Okay, I’ll wait,” said Julia. “I’ll wait for you.”

She still sounded calm.

They hung up, and Gerlof stayed where he was at his desk for a minute or two, gathering his strength.

Ernst. Ernst was dead. Gerlof allowed this fact to sink in. Up to now he’d had two close friends remaining in his life, John and Ernst. Now he had only one.

He picked up his cane and got up. He was utterly resolute, despite the fact that his rheumatism and his grief made it more difficult than ever to move. He went out into the corridor, heard laughter coming from the kitchen, and made his way there.

Boel was standing there with some new young girl who was clearly being instructed in how to use the dishwasher. They caught sight of Gerlof and Boel smiled at him, then she saw his face and her expression instantly became serious.

“Boel, I have to go to Stenvik. There’s been an accident. My best friend has died,” said Gerlof firmly. “Somebody will have to take me.”

He didn’t look away, and in the end Boel nodded. She didn’t like alterations to the routine, but this time she didn’t say anything about it.

“Wait two minutes and I’ll drive you,” she told him.

When they reached the northern turnoff for Stenvik leading down to the quarry, Gerlof raised his hand and pointed straight ahead.

“We’ll take the southern road,” he said.

“Whatever for?” said Boel. “You said you wanted to go to—”

“I have two friends in Stenvik,” said Gerlof. “One was Ernst. The other needs to be told what’s happened.”

She drove on; the southern turnoff soon appeared, with the CAMPSITE sign taped over to indicate that Stenvik’s campsite was closed for the season. It was John Hagman who had done that, despite the fact that there wasn’t much risk of anybody turning up with a tent or trailer in October.

The closed kiosk appeared, then the mini-golf course, where a middle-aged man in a green tracksuit was sweeping the track; he glanced shyly at their car as they drove past. It was Anders Hagman, John’s only son. Anders was a bachelor and very quiet, and Gerlof had hardly ever seen him wearing anything other than that scruffy tracksuit — perhaps he had several.

The track leading onto the campsite appeared.

“Here,” Gerlof told Boel. “It’s that house over there.”

He pointed to a small house beside the track, a low building with narrow windows that looked like some kind of guardhouse. A rusty old green VW Passat was parked outside the door, which meant John was at home.

Boel braked and stopped the car. Gerlof opened the door and climbed out, using his cane, and almost at the same moment the door of the small house opened. A short man in dark blue dungarees, his gray hair swept back and caught in a little knot at the back of his neck, came out onto the wooden steps in his stocking feet. It was John Hagman, who was always quick to come out and see who was visiting.

John and Anders Hagman ran the campsite together in the summer months. Anders mostly lived in Borgholm during the winter.

John stayed in Stenvik all year, and had to take care of the daily maintenance of the campsite when Anders wasn’t around. It was hard work for an old man — Gerlof would have helped him, if he hadn’t been even older than John.

Gerlof nodded to John, who nodded back, then pushed his feet into a pair of black Wellington boots standing on the steps.

“Gerlof?” said John as Gerlof walked over. “This is unexpected.”

“Yes. There’s been an accident,” said Gerlof.

“Where?”

“At the quarry.”

“Ernst?” said John quietly.

Gerlof nodded.

“Is he hurt?”

“Yes. It’s bad,” said Gerlof. “Very bad.”

John had known him for almost fifty years; they had kept in touch after their years together at sea. He seemed to understand exactly how bad it was from Gerlof’s expression alone.

“Is there someone with him?” he asked.

“There should be by now,” said Gerlof. “My daughter Julia was going to phone them. She’s there now. She came over from Gothenburg yesterday.”