End of Summer

by Anders de la Motte

  The streetlamps have come on now. She can see clouds of insects buzzing around them. For a moment she thinks about the moths back home that would sometimes slip in through the terrace door and dance round and round the kitchen light, wings buzzing.

  Then the anxious look on Mum’s face that their dance prompted.

  The memory catches her by surprise and she lights a cigarette, blowing the smoke out into the summer night. Tries to think of something else. Not follow Mum out onto the ice.

  She comes to the end of the cigarette sooner than she expects, so she stubs it out in the ashtray and considers lighting another. Before she can make up her mind she notices something a little way along the street. A faint light flickering for a few seconds before it goes out, replaced by a glowing pinprick. A neighbour who’s snuck out for an evening smoke, probably.

  Curious, she leans a little further out the window, staring through the foliage of the trees along the street in an attempt to get a glimpse of who it is. The only indication that there’s anyone there is the little glowing point of light that gets stronger then weaker as the person smokes.

  She guesses that whoever it is has crept outside for a surreptitious cigarette even though they promised their partner that they’d stopped a long time ago. She imagines them blowing the cigarette smoke away from their clothes, with a packet of mints in their pocket to conceal their deceit.

  The thought makes her smile. She likes the idea of sitting up here, silent and invisible, while the smoker down below is trying to protect his or her secret. It gives her a sense of having the upper hand, of control – excitement, almost – similar to what she felt earlier in the therapy session.

  The glow flares again, then falls in an arc towards the gutter. The cigarette break seems to be over, time for the smoker to go back inside. But nothing happens. The smoker doesn’t seem to have moved. She leans out a little bit further, and thinks she can see the dark silhouette of a figure through the leaves. A paler patch appears, a face tilted upwards in her direction. She starts and quickly pulls back. Feels suddenly exposed. Caught out.

  Darling,

  I’ve never felt so alive as I do now. It’s as if I’ve just woken up from a long sleep, as if I’ve spent far too long in some sort of no man’s land, somewhere between sleeping and waking. I’m awake at last now. With you at last.

  I live for our drives together. Our brief excursions together, when we can be ourselves.

  People talk about you sometimes, as I’m sure you know. Say things that aren’t nice. I can’t help smiling at them in secret, because I know they’re wrong. I know you better than anyone, I know who you are behind that hard mask. But we have to be careful, my darling. All eyes are focused on us, and no one wishes us well. No one.

  Chapter 6

  Summer 1983

  ‘O

  K, we’ve been at this for over an hour now. High time to stop for a drink, what do you say?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no.’ Sailor looked on as Rask pulled the drag-anchor out of the water and hung it over the railing of the little plastic boat. The younger man slapped the back of his neck and wiped the mixture of dead gnats and sweat on his trousers before pulling a vodka bottle from the bag on the deck between their feet.

  ‘Hot as Africa,’ he declared unnecessarily, and passed the bottle to Sailor. Even though the overgrown pool of water was no more than ten metres in diameter, and therefore almost always shaded by the trees growing around it, the heat was oppressive. Insects danced across the stagnant surface, occasionally braving the small patches where the sunlight pushed through the vegetation, changing the colour of the water from black to dark green.

  Sailor didn’t respond. He unscrewed the lid and took a couple of large swigs. He noted that it was homemade. He handed the bottle back to Rask and leaned over the short oars. The younger man drank roughly twice as much as him, but Sailor didn’t say anything. It was Rask’s bottle, after all, his moonshine, and making comments about the thirst of the person being generous wouldn’t be appropriate.

  ‘Ah, that hit the spot,’ Rask said. He stretched his hands above his head, showing the sweaty patches under his arms. ‘I can hardly notice the stink of this fucking puddle now. We should have had a drink before we started.’

  Sailor murmured in agreement.

  ‘You should be feeling right at home,’ Rask said. ‘When did you get back from sea?’

  ‘Last spring.’

  ‘How long were you away this time?’

  ‘Seven years.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘I left in ’62, when the mine closed. Last time I was home was ’76, when my mother died.’

  ‘That’s a long time to be away. You must have had a woman in every port. A proper Fritiof Andersson.’

  Sailor shrugged his shoulders. He knew Rask was teasing him. Most people in town did. Made fun of how introverted he was, how awkward. Of his fondness for drink. He glanced furtively at the bottle between the other man’s boots.

  Rask took out a tub of chewing tobacco and nodded towards the green strip between the field and the water just a few metres away. Among the nettles and grasses lay the muddy remains of a bicycle, two half-rotten logs and a rusty bucket.

  ‘Fucking impressive catch so far. These old marl pits have been used as rubbish dumps since the war. I don’t know why Aronsson didn’t fill them in years ago. He’s not usually the sort to cling on to the past.’

  Rask tucked a generous portion of tobacco under his lip but showed no sign of sharing this time. Sailor glanced at the bottle again, thinking that he’d rather have another drink anyway.

  ‘Aronsson’s probably waiting for the council,’ Rask went on. ‘Hoping they’ll stump up the money for it.’

  He put the tub of tobacco away again and wiped his fingers on his check flannel shirt.

  ‘You got any idea why Månsson wanted us to drag here in particular? Do the police seriously think Nilsson’s little lad made his way through two kilometres of maize in the dark and rain, climbed over three stone walls and a tarmac road, then carried on through the sugar-beet for another hundred metres?’ He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb towards the field, where the trail left from dragging the boat was clearly visible against the green plants. ‘Every little kid round here knows to watch out for fire defence ponds and marl pits. My dad used to scare the shit out of me with stories about them. He said they were bottomless and full of leeches.’

  Sailor let out another grunt of agreement. He was still casting glances at the bottle. Maybe Rask would pick up the hint? Decide they should have another swig before they carried on. Sadly his attention seemed to be fully occupied with his thoughts about the Aronsson family.

  ‘Then there’s the whole business of the maize. If Ebbe Nilsson had sown peas on that strip behind the house like any other farmer would have done, the boy could never have got lost. But obviously that was Aronsson’s decision. Nilsson’s never taken a decision for himself in his life. Christ, he’s probably not even allowed to go for a shit without asking his brother-in-law, or maybe his wife.’

  Rask cleared his throat and hawked a gobbet of yellow-brown saliva into the dark water. Sailor said nothing.

  ‘Did you notice how few of us there were this morning? Not even half as many as the first few days. No one wants to be the one who finds the boy. Not now. So they let people like you and me do the shit work. Because we’re dependent on Aronsson. The only people still looking for the boy are Aronsson’s workers or his tenants. Or customers of his. Or people who owe him money.’

  Rask spat again. The heavy globule hit the water with a splash, scaring away some pond skaters and forming a couple of lazy rings that were almost immediately swallowed by the sluggish water. He picked the bottle up from the deck.

  ‘There’s something else I’ve been thinking as well.’ Rask sat there with the bottle in his hands.

  ‘What’s that?’ Sailor said when he realised that the lid wasn’t going to come off until he
answered.

  ‘We’ve been scouring the countryside for almost a week now, the police have been out with dogs, and that walking disaster Månsson even managed to get a police helicopter here from Malmö. And apart from that shoe we haven’t seen any trace of the lad. It’s like the ground’s swallowed him up.’

  Rask opened the bottle and took a couple of thoughtful swigs instead of offering it to Sailor.

  ‘Mm . . .’ Sailor licked his lips.

  ‘I can’t help thinking something else must have happened.’ Rask took another swig and looked up at him invitingly.

  Sailor tried to figure out what he was supposed to say. It took him a few seconds before he realised.

  ‘You mean someone might have taken the boy intentionally? Who, though?’

  Rask shrugged and finally handed the bottle over. Sailor took a couple of large swigs. Then another one, just in case there wasn’t enough for another round. The alcohol burned his throat, bringing with it a wonderful warmth as it made its way to his stomach.

  ‘There are plenty of people who don’t like the Aronsson family,’ Rask said. ‘Most of the money Harald Aronsson used to buy up all the land round here came from his father’s dealings during the war, everyone knows that. Assar Aronsson was a tight-fisted sod, he never made a bad deal. Harald’s more polished than his father. I’ve heard he’s got contacts in the bank, he knows exactly who’s short of cash and would have no choice but to accept a disgracefully low offer for a bit of forest, farmland or property. He’s getting rich at others’ expense. But despite that, the whole family sit in the front pew in church. Aronsson, his sister, her miserable wretch of a husband and their kids. Water-combed hair, fancy clothes, sanctimonious as hell. But no one ever dares say a word. And as for his sister – that’s another whole story no one ever mentions.’

  Rask made an impatient gesture and Sailor reluctantly handed the bottle back to him.

  ‘I went to school with Magdalena Aronsson. She was pretty damn attractive even then. Red hair, long legs, well developed in all the right places. There were plenty of us who tried our luck. Magda wasn’t exactly unsullied goods, if you know what I mean.’

  Rask grinned, revealing some of the chewing tobacco. Sailor did his best to smile back.

  ‘Magda liked to be courted, she liked flirting. And old man Aronsson and her big brother watched her like hawks. Anyone who came a bit too close got a serious seeing to from Harald and his gang. I had to lie about how I got those black eyes when I got home, say I’d fallen off my moped. But Magda went on encouraging me. Leading me on. When old Aronsson died I wasn’t the only bloke who hoped the path was clear at last.’

  He spat for a third time.

  ‘But Magda took off to Copenhagen. Presumably looking for something better than us peasants. So it’s something of an irony that she ended up marrying Ebbe Nilsson, her brother’s best friend, which is about as close to in-breeding as you can get, right?’

  Rask drained the bottle, then tossed it into the water. Sailor looked on with regret.

  ‘So, yeah . . .’ Rask grabbed the rope, unhooked the anchor from the railing and dropped it back in the water. ‘There are plenty of people round here who’d have good reason to want to give the Aronsson family a bloody nose. If our chief of police had any balls at all, he’d have made a list and ticked them off one at a time instead of making us do pointless stuff like this. And you and I both know who he should have started with, don’t we? Your hunting buddy, Tommy Rooth.’

  Sailor didn’t respond, just watched the line run between Rask’s hands, little by little, until the anchor reached the bottom far below in the muddy darkness. He took hold of the oars and pulled rather lazily at them. The boat glided half a metre through the water, then stopped abruptly when the rope pulled tight.

  ‘Got something,’ Rask said. ‘What sort of crap do you reckon it is this time, then? Fish, fowl, or something in between?’

  He started to pull at the line but it barely moved.

  ‘Back up a bit,’ he commanded. Bracing himself against the bottom of the boat, he tried again. Whatever the anchor had got hold of, it didn’t want to budge. ‘Damn!’

  Rask stood up and took the strain again before trying to pull the line.

  The movement caused the boat to lean and for a moment Sailor thought it was going to tip over. Then it suddenly righted itself.

  ‘Whatever it is, it’s big,’ Rask groaned as he went on tugging. ‘A log, probably.’ He carried on pulling at the line. Sticky green slime was sticking to it as it was hauled back into the boat.

  Sailor could see the water starting to move. Reluctantly, as if it didn’t want to let go of whatever was caught in the anchor. He realised he was holding his breath.

  ‘OK, here we go,’ Rask said with a groan.

  The water started to bubble. Something dark came into view below the surface, followed by something lighter. An object that made Sailor’s stomach clench. Head, shoulders, something that looked like an arm.

  Without warning the drag-anchor suddenly let go of the bundle and Rask tumbled backwards. He hit his head on the bench and the boat rocked wildly to starboard. Dark water poured over the side and Sailor leaped to his feet to shift the weight the other way. Too late. The water dragged the side of the boat down and the thick, stinking sludge swallowed the boat, Rask and Sailor himself.

  Chapter 7

  S

  he knows she’s an addict. Between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five she tried most things: ecstasy and coke at parties, weed and benzos to come down afterwards. And since then she hasn’t been entirely clean either, if she’s really honest. But it wasn’t until she started training to become a therapist that she discovered the sort of drug that worked best for her. Other people’s grief.

  The Friday group consists of eight people. Most of the same people come on both Fridays and Mondays, so she’s managed to learn most of their names by now. Apart from grief therapy, the past week has also offered two groups of alcoholics, a group for addictive gamblers and another for depressed unemployed people. Even if that sort of misery isn’t the same as pure grief, the months she was away have left her sufficiently receptive for the endorphins to flow. And she’s in almost complete control of the ice now. She can open up a crack, just enough for the group to see that she’s one of them, then quickly close it again before she risks being dragged down into the depths.

  Ruud is still hovering at the edge of the room from time to time, but he’s eased up on the monitoring and spends most of his time in his office. That suits her fine, it gives her more of an opportunity to focus on her own interests.

  Elsa, the grey-haired woman with the pearl tears, has been talking again about her daughter who died of cancer, and her grief has gained another half page in the notepad.

  Sture, a pensioner with a thin combover and flaking skin, has just started to speak when the door opens and a blond man in his mid-twenties walks in. He doesn’t hesitate by the door like all the others, but walks straight across the worn carpet. He seems to know exactly where he’s going and why.

  Sture is talking about his grief at losing his brother, but Veronica is no longer listening. There’s something about the new arrival that catches her attention. He’s undeniably handsome, broad-shouldered and slim. His skin is tanned, his eyes are bright blue, and when he notices her looking at him he smiles. One sleeve of his T-shirt is rolled up, and beneath it she can make out the rectangular outline of a packet of cigarettes. He must have picked that up from a James Dean film, but unlike most people who try it, he’s got the confidence to carry it off.

  For a moment she feels a tingle just below her midriff and a dry voice in her head announces exactly how many months it has been since she had sex with anyone but herself.

  The man nods at her, pulls out one of the chairs and sits down. She forces herself to look away, to focus on Sture and his dead brother again. Forces her pen to carry on sucking up his story. But all of a sudden it doesn’t feel anywhere
near as satisfying as it did a few minutes ago. The grief doesn’t seem to want to stick to the page now, and she finds herself glancing repeatedly at the blond man. He’s leaning forward on his chair with his elbows on his knees, and appears to be listening intently to what Sture is saying. His aura is so different to the others’ that the rest of the group’s attention is drawn to him like the moths drawn to the streetlamp outside the window of her flat.

  Eventually even Sture realises what’s going on. He falls silent and stares dumbly in front of him for a few moments, as if he’s not sure what to do. She comes to his rescue before it all gets too embarrassing.

  ‘Thank you, Sture.’

  The other participants murmur quietly. It should now be Mia’s turn to speak. Her husband died in a workplace accident, the tragic nature of which would ordinarily have warranted almost an entire page of the pad. But everyone is looking at the blond-haired man, even Mia, so she decides to bend the rules slightly.

  ‘I see we have a new member – welcome! My name is Veronica Lindh, I’m a conversational therapist.’ She nods towards the man and is rewarded with a smile that looks a little too relaxed in the circumstances. ‘You probably already know, but everyone in this group has lost someone close to them. By sharing our grief, we try to work through it so that we can start to move on. We ask each other questions, but never about details, just about how we feel. We’re careful to show respect and empathy towards each other.’

  She pauses, half expecting his smile to fade, then for him to stand up and apologise for getting the wrong time and group.

  But instead he carries on smiling his slightly too charming smile, as if to confirm that he is exactly where he should be. She turns to a new page in her pad, glancing around quickly to see if Ruud is present, but fortunately he’s nowhere in sight.

  ‘Would you like to introduce yourself and tell us why you’re here?’

  She puts pen to paper and waits.