Tove Alsterdal - The Forgotten Dead - A dark, twisted, unputdownable thriller

She pulled the cap further down over her forehead, climbed carefully over a pile of rebar. Hunched over, she ran the last bit before sinking onto a heap of empty plastic bottles bound for recycling.

This was where the harbour ended. She was hemmed in. In one direction was the high wall, in front of her a stone grate two metres high, and beyond that more harbour warehouses. She could see a section of street through the gaps, and some flowering weeds had pushed up through the holes in the asphalt. In the distance the ruin of a huge fortress loomed like a stone skeleton against the sky.

Her eyes hurt. She felt the strain of trying to focus in the yellow light, which was neither bright nor dim — more like a never-ending dusk. If she closed her eyes she would plunge into emptiness. It had been a long time since she’d slept a whole night through.

She got onto her knees and paused. That was something she’d learned in the past few months: to look all around, take notice of everything, and carefully plan her route.

Then she heard the sound. A vehicle approaching, inside the harbour area. She flattened herself against the ground and held her breath. The beams of the headlamps struck the wall right next to her feet. Bottles and other rubbish glinted in the light. That was when she caught a glimpse of the stairs leading up over the wall, white steps carved into the stone only a few metres away. Then semi-darkness descended again. The vehicle had turned and was heading away. It hadn’t stopped. Thank God it hadn’t stopped. She saw the blue light on its roof before it vanished in the direction of the gates, and the noise of its engine died away. A police car.

She raced up the stone steps and scrambled over the wall. To her surprise she landed on something soft. So far everything she’d encountered in this country had been hard: asphalt, stone, and iron pipes. But now she had soft sand underfoot, and it was like being caressed by the ground.

An umbrella lay overturned on the beach. Just for a moment, she thought, I’ll take shelter, I’ll rest here for only one breath of God’s eternity.

She picked up a fistful of the fine sand and let it run through her fingers. Tilted her head back and looked straight up at the black sky. The wind blew into her face and tore off her cap.

When is this wind going to stop? she thought. When will the wind subside and the sea grow calm?

She stood up again and realized that her leg would no longer support her. Her foot felt like it wanted to leave her body, and she had to drag it behind her.

Crouching down she continued along another low wall that kept the sand from drifting across the road and turning the town into a desert. Sharp weeds cut her feet. She raised her bad foot to see if it was bleeding and discovered that she had stepped in dog shit. Her foot stank. She couldn’t make her appearance in this country with such a foul smell clinging to her foot, but it was too far to hobble down to the sea and rinse it off. What sort of person had she become? She rubbed her sole on the sand to get rid of the stink, then wiped away her tears with her hand and got sand in her eyes. The sand was everywhere.

I could walk along the road instead, she thought. Like a normal person, not like a thief or a dog afraid of being beaten. The road was lit, and she knew it was dangerous. Yet she straightened up and soon the asphalt of the road was beneath her feet. For a moment she felt like a human being again. Someone who walks without fear.

As if such women walk barefoot through town in the middle of the night, she thought. And just then she caught sight of something lying on a slab of concrete, a resting place by the road.

I’m hallucinating, she thought, I can no longer trust my eyes. She went closer and found that her eyes hadn’t deceived her. A pair of shoes. She reached out her hand, but hesitated and looked all around. Was it a trap? Was somebody trying to trick her? But who would think up such an odd idea?

It was nothing short of a miracle. A gift from God. She hesitantly touched the shoes lying there. They were real. And they were made of gold.

All right, she thought and picked them up. They were quite ordinary cloth shoes that had been dyed gold, but still. They almost fit. Just a little tight in the toes. She didn’t intend to complain. Some divine power had placed these shoes in her path. Wearing these shoes she wouldn’t have to step in dog shit.

For the first time since she had come ashore she turned around and gazed back. On the horizon, across the straits, Africa loomed like a gigantic shadow. How close it was. She could see the mountains and the scattered lights in the dark.

Then she walked on, and did not turn back again.

Please let this be a nightmare, thought Terese Wallner when she awoke, lying on the beach. Let me wake up again, but for real this time, and in my own bed.

Slowly she sat up, a terrible pounding inside her skull. The sea was in motion, darkly surging towards her. A flock of slumbering gulls stood in a pool left by the receding tide. Otherwise the shore was deserted.

She closed her eyes, then opened them again, trying to comprehend what had happened. There was nothing around her, that much was true. He was gone.

Her white capri trousers were filthy, and the sequinned camisole and cardigan offered no protection from the cold. The wind cut right through them. Her mouth was as dry as a desert and filled with sand. She spat, cleared her throat, and tried to rub away the sand with her fingers, but it had settled under her tongue and seeped way down her throat. She would need a giant bottle of water, at the very least, to rinse it all away. But where was her purse?

Terese dug her hands into the sand around her. It was hard to see in the dim light. A dark-greyish dusk intermittently pierced by flashes that hurt her eyes, coming from the lighthouse beam. She knew it was out there on an island. Isla de las Palomas, island of the doves. Off limits to tourists. A military area. Reached by a causeway, but with signs posted at the gates. The waves slammed against the rocks out there, spraying high into the air.

Then she caught sight of her purse, and her heart leaped. It was lying half-buried in the sand, less than a metre from the dent where her head had lain. She grabbed it. Everything was still inside: her wallet and hotel room key, her mobile and make-up bag, even her good-luck charm, which was a tiny frog on a keychain. And the bottle of water, thank God. She always carried water with her when she went out, since the tap water tasted so terrible in Spain. There was still a little left in the bottle. First she rinsed her mouth and spat out the water. Then she drank the rest of it, wishing there was much more. She picked up her wallet and opened it, her heart racing. The banknotes were gone. She’d had almost a hundred euros when she’d gone out for the evening. She couldn’t possibly have spent that much on drinks. What about her passport? She rummaged through her bag, but it wasn’t there. Terese was positive she’d brought her passport, as she always did, even though everyone said it wasn’t necessary.

Her shoes were also gone. She stared at her feet. They were suntanned, but white around the edges, with sand clinging between her toes. She looked all around, but the ballet flats she’d worn were nowhere to be seen. When had she taken them off? Before or after? She rubbed the palms of her hands against her forehead to stop the uproar inside.