by C S Duffy
1
What were the chances I’d meet the man of my dreams, fall absurdly, appallingly, head over heels — all that written-in-the-stars cheesy crap I’d spent a lifetime making puking faces at behind my friends’ backs — pack up my life and move to Sweden, only to have him be eaten by a bear whilst having a slash in the woods?
I mean, knowing my luck, not out of the question.
The minute the ferry dropped us off on the tiny island on the farthest reaches of Stockholm’s archipelago, Johan had announced he was off for a pee and the thick forrest that began just beyond the little rocky beach behind me appeared to have eaten him whole. I glanced at my phone, but as I hadn’t checked the time when he disappeared, it did nothing to confirm whether he had been gone for two minutes, or ten or twenty.
It had been at least ten minutes, I was sure. Maybe closer to twenty. No, probably five, at most.
I'm really shit at judging time.
A huge sky awned over the worn, sun-bleached jetty where I sat; bright and clear and unbroken by so much as a single cloud. The air smelt fresh and pure, with a slight tinge of sweetness from the pine forests that seemed to cover every island I could see. The water was so crystal clear that I could see pinky-grey pebbles twinkling in the sun several feet below the surface. It was all flawless and pristine and empty. We ain’t in Wandsworth any more, Toto.
Other than the faint ripple of the Baltic Sea lapping gently against the beach, the silence was so deep it was almost palpable. I found myself half-wishing for the screeches of my mum’s next door neighbours through the cardboard terraced house walls, fighting to the death over that slag from the pub, I saw you fucking looking at her, I fucking did; for the sharp whine of a police siren roaring up East Hill, the yells and grunts of some drunken idiots having a punch up in the road.
He couldn’t have got lost, could he? The thatch of evergreen trees was impenetrable, shadowy despite the glaring sun. No, he knew where he was. He had made this trip dozens of times. We were on our way to his friend Krister's family’s cottage — Johan had been coming out here since he was a kid. He knew the area like the back of his hand.
Maybe that was it.
He’d said Krister was coming to pick us up. Perhaps there was a road just out of sight beyond the trees and they ran into each other and — and what? They’d have come to get me. Or did they decide to swing by the cottage first, leaving me sitting here by myself? Surely not.
There he was.
I let go of a breath that was a bit pathetically shaky, and grinned as I watched him jog across the rocks towards the jetty. Good god he was gorgeous. Relief mingled with the familiar rush of affection, lust, and disbelief that this Viking sex god was mine as I waved and he stuck his tongue out at me.
He leapt onto the jetty and it shuddered under his weight. He was, there was no two ways about it, huge. One metre ninety-five, he had specified when I drunkenly slurred wonder at his height back on the beach in Thailand where we met. I don’t have the first clue about the metric system, but took his word for it that meant tall. Broad shoulders, legs that meant he’d never known a moment’s comfort on a plane, hands so enormous a glimpse of them could make a girl come over all unnecessary at the most opportune moments.
The first time I’d seen his hair loose around his shoulders, the morning after we met, I’d gone into fits of giggles. With his floaty blond mane, he looked like the sort of guy you’d see strutting about the cover of a romance novel and I’d asked him if his loins were heaving. He’d looked down at his loins in confusion and I’d laughed till I got the hiccups.
We met at the Full Moon Party in Koh Panghan. After moping around for a few weeks over a breakup that was more disappointing in its crapness than anything approaching heartbreaking, I’d got bored of myself and booked a solo holiday in a dazzling display of independence and girl power. Despite somewhat dreading it, it turned out to be utterly brilliant and I was just making up my mind to commit fully to a glorious life as a spinster of undecided age, when I staggered away from the main party to catch my breath and maybe stop the world spinning a tiny bit, and I tripped, literally, over the love of my life.
He was stretched out on the sand — in fact, I’m almost certain I remember trying to go around him but not appreciating quite how long his legs went on for. He was shirtless and his abs were so sculpted that you could grate cheese on them, and I heard myself asking if I could headbutt them like a goat. Somehow, this turned into a three week fuck-fest that resulted in some nasty sand burns and, six months later, a one way ticket to Stockholm.
What can I say, I’m a classy bird.
Can I just say I’m making this out to sound like it’s nothing but lust, but it goes without saying that Johan is also the most amazing person I’ve ever met. He is kind and funny, even if his sense of humour is so dry that for the first few days I thought he was a bit of an arsehole. He’s considerate and he listens and he’s one of the only men I’ve ever met to think my job is genuinely cool — I’m a freelance investigative reporter and bloody proud of it — as opposed to finding it sort of interesting to begin with but sooner or later it comes out they’d prefer I was something a bit sweeter and less threatening. It’s amazing how I’ve seen more dead bodies than you have doesn’t really reel them in on Tinder, but go figure. Their loss.
I suppose I just focus on the looks thing because, to be blunt, he is so totally out my league that it blows my mind a bit. Not that I’m massively insecure or anything, I’m just — normal. My face is my face and it does me fine. It even verges on pretty in a decent light and with a good bit of slap copied painstakingly from a YouTube tutorial. It’s just that I don’t exactly get stopped in the street by model scouts, if you know what I mean. Even though, once upon a time my friends and I wasted weekends upon weekends hanging about Soho, posing like utter wankers, hoping to get spotted and not have to finish our GCSEs.
Still though, Johan didn’t seem to have noticed. He flopped down behind me, draped his long legs on either side of mine, and wrapped his arms around my waist. I shifted a bit, because I was wearing a vintage steal that was my absolute pride and joy, a psychedelic, flowery sixties sundress that I’d leapt upon on Portobello Road with a whoop of joy years back. I adored it, but it was made from some bizarre synthetic fabric that has probably since been outlawed. If I sweated even the teensiest bit whilst wearing it, I instantly smelt like a cow that had been dead for about a week. Brushing my hair was out the question lest static electricity set me on fire.
‘Krister just texted,’ Johan murmured. The feel of his stubble against my neck sent little shivers down my spine. ‘He is on his way to pick us up, but he will be a few minutes late.’
I was mildly curious as to just how this mysterious Krister was going to pick us up, given there was nothing that remotely resembled a road in the vicinity. Presumably there was some kind of track or something just out of sight. I’d find out soon enough.
‘That’s good,’ I said, leaning, back against Johan’s chest with a yawn. ‘The ferry was a bit late,’ I added. ‘I was afraid he would be waiting.’
‘Why? You cannot control the ferry.’
I shrugged. Johan could be so literal sometimes. ‘You know what I mean, it just wouldn’t have been the best first impression.’
‘Why would the failing of the ferry company affect his opinion of you?’
I elbowed him and he chuckled, nuzzled my neck. ‘He will love you because I love you and because you are funny and amazing and beautiful.’
‘Well that’s alright then.’ I reached up to stroke his cheek as he planted tiny kisses along my collarbone and I suddenly really wished we weren’t spending the weekend in the company of strangers. Remind me again,’ I said, ‘Krister is the one you met on
your first day of school, right?’
Johan nodded. ‘Yes. I didn’t know how to tie shoelaces, and the teacher ordered him to help me.’
‘Wait, didn’t you tell me you start school over here at seven?’ I grinned. ‘How did you make it to the age of seven without learning how to tie your shoes, you plank?’
I’m certain I imagined him flinch, just for an instant, before his easy smile returned.
‘You are correct, I was an inadequate child.’
‘Well you’re perfect now,’ I said firmly, just in case he thought I had been serious.
‘And you met Liv and Mia in high school?’
‘We went to the same elementary school also,’ Johan replied, ‘but Krister and I were terrified of girls until we were — well actually until we were about twenty-eight, but we were able to pretend by the time we were maybe sixteen or seventeen.’
‘Is that when Mia and Krister got together?’
I knew most of this already, but I like to have all the information straight in my head before I meet new people. I’m not sure why. Nobody, to date, has given me a pop quiz on their lives and loves before deciding to be my friend, but best be prepared. Ideally I’d have chosen to meet his best friends for the first time prior to spending an entire weekend on a deserted island with them, but the couple of times we’d tried to get together over the past few weeks, it had always fallen through at the last moment.
‘No they were just friends for years, then in our twenties they started to have sex sometimes, and eventually they become a couple.’
‘And Liv doesn’t have a boyfriend, does she?’ I said.
Johan shook his head.
‘Won’t that be a bit shit for her, spending the weekend with two couples?’
Johan shrugged. He was shielding his eyes from the sun, scanning the horizon for something. ‘There he is,’ he grinned.
I followed his gaze and a dart of sheer terror shot through me. A tiny motorboat was ripping through the waves towards us. It wasn’t Krister, I told myself. It couldn’t be Krister.
When Johan announced we’d be getting the ferry out to Krister's family’s summer cottage for the weekend, I’d pictured one of those gigantic ships that go between Dover and Calais. I’m still no great fan of them, but at least they’re huge enough that I can normally find a spot out of sight of any window where I can pretend I’m not trapped on a lump of metal being tossed about on top of thousands of feet of dark water.
But the dinky little tin can that had been awaiting us at the quay in Stockholm was about a fiftieth the size of a proper ferry. It was like a ferry had been shrink wrapped. My knees had just about given way when I realised that Johan expected me to step foot on a death trap in the form of a sun-dried ferry.
‘Can’t we take that one?’ I’d blurted desperately, pointing to the sort of enormous floating block of flats across the harbour that was more my cup of tea.
‘No, because that one goes to Helsinki,’ Johan had grinned, tugging my hand to pull me back into the queue to board. Icy chills were washing over me and I knew that there was only a deep yoga breath or two between me and puking in the face of the cheery kid checking tickets.
Somehow though, I’d survived. Even though the ferry shuddered like no one’s business as it backed away from the quay, and again when it picked up speed upon clearing Stockholm’s city limits. I’d closed my eyes and breathed, doing multiplication tables in my head to keep thoughts of a watery death at bay, pretending to doze against Johan’s shoulder. I was just about to hit the seven times table for about the fortieth time when Johan whispered to wake up because we were at our stop.
The motorboat was now bearing straight for us at great speed, and the thought flashed through my mind that it would be ironic if I ended up being killed by a boat while on dry land. At the last second though, it veered sharply to the right, missing the jetty by about a foot as it reared up and sent a spray of freezing water of us.
‘He’s a fucking maniac with that thing,’ Johan laughed delightedly, giving Krister the finger as he scrabbled to his feet.
Krister hopped from the boat and waded, dragging it by a rope to secure it to the jetty, as Johan greeted him with a stream of rapid Swedish. I pretended to be concentrating inordinately on putting my sandals on as I tried desperately to breathe through the hard lump of terror in my chest that was threatening to suffocate me. I’ll just say no, I decided firmly. They can’t force me. They can go ahead and I’ll just wait for the next ferry back to Stockholm. It’ll be fine. But even as I thought it, I remembered Johan saying there was only one service a day, and I was far from sure I’d even make it back on the ferry without Johan leading me by the hand. The words rock and hard place came to mind.
‘I guess you are Ellie,’ Krister was saying, and I belatedly realised he must have been staring at me for a while. So much for first impressions. I did my best to compose my features into something resembling a smile.
Krister was almost as tall as Johan, but dark. His poker-straight chestnut hair was cut in an odd cheekbone-length style that reminded me of some early 2000s boyband member. His eyes were almost black and gave nothing away as he coolly appraised me. Johan was tossing our bags onto the boat, causing it to lurch alarmingly each time.
‘Lovely to meet you,’ I muttered, finally managing to get to my feet. I held out my hand as though I were about to chair some kind of business meeting, and after a moment’s hesitation, Krister shook it with the tiniest ghost of a smirk.
Somehow though, a moment later I found myself squished on the tiny bench at the back of Krister's boat. Johan tried to take my hand but I didn’t want him to feel how sweaty it was, so I leaned my head against his shoulder with my hands in my lap and he slung his arm across the back of the bench. Krister heaved the boat into reverse, swivelling the steering wheel like a teenaged boy racer, and the boat juddered as though it were about to break apart at the seams.
‘Hope you can swim,’ grinned Johan as the water behind us churned up and lashed out at the jetty.
‘No,’ I muttered, but my voice was stolen by the wind as Krister floored the gas.
2
‘Glad midsommar!’ called a voice, and a woman who appeared to be a gazelle in human form came galloping gracefully down the steep path to the tiny rocky cove on the island where Krister had pulled up. Johan and Krister were pulling the boat clear from the water, while I stood, knee deep in the Baltic Sea, hoping that a spot of hypothermia might shock my legs into stopping trembling. The boat ride had been every bit as bad as I’d feared, though at least mercifully short and somehow I’d managed to avoid screaming out loud when Krister took a corner at such an angle that the three of us were thrown nearly horizontal.
The woman, presumably either Mia or Liv, flung her arms around Johan and I caught myself hoping she would turn out to be engaged-to-Krister-Mia. She was almost as tall as the boys and her tanned legs seemed to start somewhere around her armpits. I’d never felt more like a Womble in my life. Her pale, straw-coloured hair hung in a shimmering curtain almost to her waist, and she wore a white peasant-style dress that made her look like an ethereal wood nymph and would have made me look like I’d wandered out in my nightie.
‘Ellie, I am so happy to finally meet you!’ she called in a twinkly, sing-songy voice as she waded out to meet me. ‘I am Mia!’
‘Hi,’ I grinned as she grabbed the bag I’d half-forgotten I was holding. Engaged Mia. Phew.
‘Don’t you hate the way Krister drives?’ She rolled her eyes and tutted. ‘I’m so sorry, I shout at him all the time for it and I made him promise he would behave. He’s such an idiot.’
‘It was fine,’ I lied with a smile.
When we got to the beach I steadied myself against a rock to put my sandals back on, realising with a sinking heart that my beloved vintage frock was now garish and heavy next to her floaty number. Despite the horrors of the journey, half of me was tempted to announce I was just nipping back to Johan’s to change.
When the path finally evened out a bit, I could see clean over to the other side of the island. A wide expanse of aqua water shimmered in the sun. Unlike behind us, where the next island was so close the shadows of its trees reached the beach of this one, in front there was only open sea.
‘Is this the farthest edge of the archipelago?’ I asked when I caught my breath.
‘Yes,’ said Krister. ‘Next stop, Finland. We are close enough to Russia that the Americans were able to pick up radio signals from the Soviet Union during the Cold War.’
‘Really?’
He nodded. ‘They rented part of this island for a few years, the only time it has been occupied by anyone other than my family. My grandfather said he didn’t care about Communism but was happy to have the money to build an indoor bathroom. Every time he used it he would whistle Yankee Doodle Dandy.’
I laughed, but Krister didn’t smile, and my heart sank. ‘It’s fascinating,’ I babbled as he continued to stare at me impassively. ‘Spies hanging about in your back garden? How exciting. What were they doing?’
‘Just listening, probably,’ Krister shrugged. ‘We don’t really know. My grandfather said he sometimes heard them building something late at night when they first arrived, at the other end of the island.’
‘Wow, what did they build? Like a secret bunker or something? I’d love to see it.’
‘Me too,’ he said. ‘My father and his brothers searched for months when they left, and years later so did my cousins and I. We never found any sign of it. Maybe it doesn’t exist. The whole thing may have been a decoy for their real base somewhere else.’
