Don't Wake Me
Page 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by Martin Krüger
Translation copyright © 2020 by Jozef van der Voort
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as Weck mich nie by Edition M in Luxembourg in 2019. Translated from German by Jozef van der Voort. First published in English by Thomas & Mercer in collaboration with Amazon Crossing in 2020.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, in collaboration with Amazon Crossing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Thomas & Mercer and Amazon Crossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542019620
ISBN-10: 1542019621
Cover design by Plum5 Limited
First edition
CONTENTS
Start Reading
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
PART TWO
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Darkness reigns at the foot of the lighthouse.
– Japanese proverb
PART ONE
AN OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA
Chapter 1
Last time it was different, she thought.
Deserted houses stood along the road beside rugged, moss-covered crags that jutted steeply from the landscape like pale bones. Sailboats under their winter covers drew past her windscreen, followed by a bed and breakfast with a Vacancies sign swinging in the wind. A boy and girl were selling vegetables from a stall at the end of a track that led to a farmyard. Jasmin Hansen waved at them as she passed, but they didn’t wave back. A breath of cold air from the nearby Norwegian Sea penetrated the narrow gap in the car window.
Her fingers drummed nervously on the wheel. The radio was playing an old song by the Rolling Stones about a traveller seeking shelter from the storm. Seems apt, she thought. Always on the run from a lowering sky – except you brought your own dark clouds with you. She had hired the Volvo in Oslo and driven up along the coast. Although she’d set off under late-summer sunshine, slate-grey clouds now covered the sun.
‘Everything is OK,’ she’d said to Jørgen when he called her for the first time, only three hours into her journey. ‘Everything is OK.’ Her overprotective Jørgen . . . and yet she’d felt like she was lying to him.
Her eyes flickered up to the rear-view mirror. Paul had fallen asleep, his mouth half-open, his chest rising and falling in a gentle, even rhythm. His Nintendo 3DS was still lying beside him, quietly playing a tune. Paulie, as Jørgen sometimes called him – though Jasmin didn’t particularly like the nickname. Beyond him, in the boot, Bonnie, their three-year-old Labrador, was also asleep.
Jasmin stopped at an old, storm-battered and somewhat rusty petrol station at the entrance to the village and refuelled her Volvo XC60. She could smell the sea and the endless pine and spruce forests. Paul didn’t stir as Jasmin gazed at him lovingly and opened a door to let cool, fresh air into the car. Her son sighed quietly in his sleep. He was tall for a five-year-old; she’d had to buy him new clothes just a few weeks ago. He kept growing and growing – he’d be taller than her before long.
We can do this. Together. And when we get back, everything will be OK again, she told herself. That thought was what kept her going.
‘The next ferry might be the last one today,’ said the old woman behind the counter as Jasmin paid for her petrol and three pre-packaged sandwiches. ‘There’s a storm brewing, I can feel it in my bones. And you’re new here, young lady, aren’t you?’
‘My son and I are on our way to Minsøy.’
The old woman opened her near-toothless mouth and laughed. ‘Then I’ll wish you good luck.’ Jasmin was already at the door when she heard the woman add, ‘The island isn’t what you think it is.’
After that, the forest.
Densely clustered pines, silver birches and beech trees reared up against the blue-grey backdrop of the overcast sky. Their leaves had begun to change colour here and there, sprinkling the thick greenery with spots of yellow and orange. At one point, Jasmin thought she saw an elk peering out from among the tree trunks – its mighty antlers covered in moss and lichen it had picked up from the undergrowth, its fur damp with dew.
There was a child standing in the road.
Jasmin wrenched the steering wheel to the side. The tyres screeched as the car swerved, skidding along the road. Then it came to a stop, pitching Jasmin forward into her seatbelt.
‘Hey!’ she yelled out of her hastily wound-down window. ‘What the hell are you doing? You should be more careful!’
The child was wearing a yellow raincoat with a pointed hood that concealed its face. Slowly, it walked down the road towards the car.
‘Where are your parents, kid?’ she asked more gently.
The child looked up at her and Jasmin found herself staring into the impassive face of a young boy, who returned her gaze with his ice-blue eyes before walking past her in silence and stepping into the forest. The yellow of his coat disappeared amid the foliage.
‘Mummy?’
Jasmin whirled round in shock. Paul was staring at her wide-eyed, rubbing the sleep from the corners of his eyes. ‘What . . . what’s happening?’
Jasmin swallowed to dispel the strange, bitter taste in her mouth. ‘Nothing, honey.’
‘Are we there yet?’
‘Not yet. But we don’t have far to go, and then we’ll be on the ferry.’
‘On the sea?’
‘Yes. On the sea.’
‘How far is not far?’
Jasmin reached back and stroked his corn-blond hair, which was so similar to her own. ‘Just to the end of the road.’
The ferry emitted a long, drawn-out blast on its foghorn and puffed grey clouds of exhaust into the air, which spread out over the dock like dark wafts of mist. Jasmin took Paul by the hand and together they stood by the railing, looking down at the boiling spray while the cold wind blew fine droplets of water onto their cheeks. Seagulls accompanied them for the first hundred yards before turning back towards the mainland, leaving them to sail out alone into the fog, which enveloped them within a few minutes and smothered every sound beyond the crash of the waves against the ship’s hull and the rumble of the engines.
‘I’m cold,’ said Paul, tugging on the sleeve of Jasmin’s coat. She bought him a hot chocolate from the on-board cafe and they sat down to drink
it together. Jasmin picked up a newspaper someone had left on their table and, her fingers clenched round her cup, she searched through the pages for the words Unknown victim, unidentified body discovered. But of course there was nothing. She exhaled in relief, like every time, but she still couldn’t shake off the vague feeling of tension that dogged her wherever she went. One day you’ll find it. One day it’ll all catch up with you. She felt certain of that.
A man in his sixties in a moss-green raincoat that dripped water onto the floor sat down with them and warmed his gnarled fingers against a large mug of coffee. He looked across at them both with a cheerful smile on his weather-beaten face.
‘I see somebody’s thirsty,’ he rumbled. ‘My daughter always used to like a hot chocolate too when we took the ferry to the mainland each week.’
‘There’s nothing better to warm you up in this weather,’ Jasmin replied, dabbing her lips with a serviette. She always found it oddly uncomfortable when strangers struck up conversation with her like this, and each time it took her some effort to respond.
‘Minsøy is hiding in the mist,’ the old man continued after scanning the horizon through the porthole. ‘She always does that. The island is like an old lady – she has her secrets. Secrets she wants to keep, at all costs.’
‘Do you know Minsøy well?’ Jasmin’s thoughts turned to the only large settlement on the island: the village of Skårsteinen, with its two thousand inhabitants, where she and Jørgen had spent the night when they viewed the old sea captain’s house for the first time. It had been a mild spring day; she recalled the gentle breeze that had blown in from the sea. They had bought it a few months later. It was our little refuge, she thought. Up until that day.
‘I run the grocery shop on the main street together with my wife, and she’d worry about me if I missed the ferry. The summer is coming to an end and the sea is getting more treacherous by the day. The tides are changing, and when the wind finally shifts to the north, the last residents will take to their heels, leaving only the people who’ve always been here and those who can’t get away.’ He gave her a scrutinising look. ‘Or those who deliberately choose to arrive now.’
‘My husband and I own a house on Minsøy.’
‘A summer house, you mean.’
Jasmin took a sip of her drink, which had now gone cold. ‘Is that a bad thing?’
A solemn smile played over his bearded lips – solemn and yet warm. ‘That depends if you’re a summer or a winter person. But you’ve actually already answered your own question. You’re looking for something, one way or another, aren’t you? Just like most of us are.’
‘I’m looking for . . .’ From the corner of her eye, Jasmin saw Paul stand up, walk over to the window and press his nose to it. Rain was whipping against it and running in rivulets down the thick glass. ‘I guess . . . for myself.’
‘I’m sure you’ll manage it in the end.’ The old man extended his hand – a huge bear’s paw that bore the marks of hard physical labour – and Jasmin shook it. ‘Karl Sandvik,’ he introduced himself. ‘Come and see us if you need anything. Our door is always open and my wife loves meeting new people.’
‘Thanks,’ Jasmin replied. ‘Jasmin Hansen. Thank you very much.’
‘It’s always good to know there are still young people out there who are made of sterner stuff. Which house did you say was yours?’
‘Number 7. On the south coast, close to the beach.’
‘Ah.’ Sandvik stroked his beard. ‘The old captain’s house. Nice spot, with the forest and the sea views. Well, I’ll see you again, I hope.’
‘Absolutely.’
Sandvik nodded and looked back at the window, where Paul was still peering out and drawing letters in the condensation on the glass. ‘There she is,’ he said. ‘Minsøy.’
Light-grey rock was emerging from the mist, which soon gave way to darker grey, followed by steep slopes, cliffs, a shingle beach on which the waves were crashing with full force. Jasmin could see the lighthouse and its beacon, the road running along the cliff edge, and the rooftops of Skårsteinen in the distance.
The island was wild, rugged and beautiful, an almost pristine patch of earth. The port drew nearer and the ferry slowed down. For a moment, the blanket of clouds parted and let a few rays of sunshine through.
See? they seemed to be trying to say. Not everything is dark.
‘We made it.’
Chapter 2
Jasmin Hansen had liked the house at the end of the road from the moment she saw it. True, the roof was a little crooked and the red brickwork on the windward side was overgrown with moss and encrusted with salt, but it was still in one piece, as if it had resolved never to bend before the onslaught of the sea and the storm gales. It felt familiar, a place she could retreat to and clear her head. That was something she desperately needed right now – more than ever before in her life.
‘Here we are,’ she announced, her heart pounding. ‘I think it’ll suit us very well, don’t you?’
Paul leapt out of the hire car as soon as she opened the door and Jasmin followed him with a smile as he dashed up to the house, closely followed by Bonnie, who held her head up to sniff at the breeze after the long journey.
Bonnie and Clyde, Jasmin thought. If Jørgen and I had bought a second dog, we couldn’t have called it anything else. But that’ll probably never happen now.
The crunch of car tyres on gravel prompted her to look back over her shoulder. An old Volkswagen was coming up the drive, and the man who got out shortly afterwards looked like he’d been poured directly into his blue winter coat.
‘Jasmin Hansen,’ she introduced herself. ‘I’m—’
‘Of course, I know who you are,’ he answered in a gruff voice. ‘Knut Jüting, but I’m sure you know that already too. So you made it over all right?’
‘The sea was a little rough.’ Jasmin smiled noncommittally.
‘They’ve been saying on the radio that the first big autumn storm will be arriving very soon, young lady, and I can’t argue with them. I can sense it. There’s an ache in these old bones that I haven’t felt for a long time.’ He handed her a keyring with three keys attached, one of which was larger than the others. ‘Front door, the shed at the back of the house – the door sticks a little so give it a good shove and don’t be timid about it – and this one’s for the boathouse down on the beach behind the forest.’
‘Wonderful,’ Jasmin replied. Knut Jüting – who looked after a few of the empty houses on the south coast of Minsøy – shook her hand. She felt calluses and rough skin that spoke of hard graft on the high seas. ‘What were they saying about the storm?’
‘It’s getting closer,’ Jüting replied. ‘But the roof is sound, Ms Hansen, don’t you worry about that. I made sure of it.’ He held up a bulky old mobile phone that he must have bought years ago and never traded in for a better model. ‘And if you have any problems, give me a call. It isn’t very far to the village.’
‘Just follow the road, right?’
‘Just keep following the road,’ he replied, walking back to his Volkswagen. ‘That’s right.’
Jasmin found Paul and Bonnie in the overgrown garden behind the house. The birch trees were clustered beside the fence and she could barely make out the narrow path under the long grass – the path that led down to the beach.
‘Who wants to take a look around inside?’ she called. ‘And who wants a cup of hot chocolate?’
Bonnie barked and Paul giggled as the dog licked his face. Jasmin walked back around and unlocked the front door. There was a bright piece of mirrored glass mounted in the dark oak to let people inside look out. The door swung open with a squeal.
A musty, dusty odour hung in the air, with something else underneath it that she couldn’t identify – maybe mould, or maybe something rotten. Had an animal got in through a broken window and been unable to find its way out again? It was a possibility – the house had been unoccupied for years.
Five years, to be precis
e.
You’re back, she thought. After all this time, you’re back.
She and Paul stepped through the front door into a hallway designed to keep the cold out of the rest of the ground floor during winter. On the wall to their left was a brick fireplace with an oil painting hanging above it that showed an old ship crossing a choppy sea, its square sails bellied out in the wind.
The floor and the sideboard were covered with a layer of dust in which Bonnie left pawprints as she trotted curiously through the hallway towards the kitchen. ‘Here, Bonnie.’ The dog returned obediently to Jasmin’s side and looked up at her expectantly. Jasmin didn’t like the idea of her tearing off through the house and possibly disturbing some animal that had taken up residence inside. The caretaker had dropped in regularly to check up on things, but he evidently hadn’t viewed cleaning as one of his duties.
‘Maybe we should start by looking for the vacuum cleaner,’ said Jasmin. ‘But before that . . .’ She flicked the light switch. There was a buzzing noise, as if the old and long-unused bulbs were protesting, but then warm light flooded into the hallway. One of the wall lights gave a bright flash before going out with a pop, but the rest of them stayed on.
She walked through to the kitchen, which had a gas cooker and a small round dining table below a window looking out onto the back garden, where white poplars and birch trees were swaying gently in the wind. A gingham cloth still covered the table where they used to eat together, back when everything had been so much easier and more carefree, with the mild summer sun shining in through the casement windows. On the right a wood-panelled hallway linked the kitchen to the living room. Jasmin briefly put her head through the door. The green, floral-patterned sofa Jørgen hadn’t wanted to part with was still standing on the walnut floorboards in front of the French windows that opened out onto the veranda, from where a set of steps descended to the garden and the path that led through the woods and down to the beach.
It began to drizzle, the rain pattering gently against the window. Goosebumps crawled over Jasmin’s body. In her mind’s eye, she saw a harsh white light – a blinding flash – and with it came memories she would prefer to suppress, locked away in a box deep in her subconscious.