End of Summer

by Anders de la Motte

  ‘Hello, everyone. I’m Isak . . .’ The man leaves a brief pause, as if he isn’t sure if he should give his surname. ‘When I was five, six years old, I lost my best friend. He disappeared and I never found out what really happened. Nothing was the same after that, not for my family or the little village where we lived. It was as if there was a big vacuum that no one could quite fill. I still think about him a lot. Wonder what happened to him.’

  Isak’s accent suggests that he comes from somewhere further north, but there’s something about the rhythm of his speech that doesn’t entirely support that. He glances at her, as if waiting for guidance before going on. But she sits motionless. The sense of wellbeing conjured by the earlier stories is gone now, and she can hear the ice start to move.

  Isak waits a little longer for her to say something, and is about to go on when the bitter bearded man called Lars opens his mouth.

  ‘You’re saying your friend disappeared?’ His tone is sharp but still interested. Lars has never addressed anything said by another member of the group before, preferring instead just to voice his own anger and revenge fantasies.

  Isak leans back in his chair. The expression on his face is no longer quite as confident, and his smile looks slightly strained now.

  ‘Well . . . He was out playing one evening. When his mum called him in, he didn’t come. The whole village spent over a week looking for him, but he was never found. He was just . . . gone.’

  The sound of the ice is growing louder, swallowing the last remnants of gratification provided by the earlier speakers. She is about to move on to another participant when Lars asks another question, one that changes everything.

  ‘You mean like Billy Nilsson?’ Lars sounds almost excited. He turns to address the other members of the group. ‘You remember him, don’t you? That boy who went missing in the early eighties?’

  A murmur goes through the group. She ought to intervene, take control of the conversation. But she can’t.

  Lars gets to his feet, and now there’s life in his otherwise vacant eyes. He steps forward into the circle, seeking support from the others. ‘The story of Billy Nilsson’s disappearance was treated like a soap opera by the tabloids. People hardly talked about anything else. Billy was almost five years old, lived out in the sticks in Skåne. Is that who you’re talking about? Was Billy your friend?’

  Isak is squirming uncomfortably now, trying to catch her eye. Lars has broken the rules. He’s encouraging the others to do the same, and she should have stepped in and stopped him already. Instead she is sitting perfectly still on her chair. Her head and body are stiff with the chill pumping through her veins.

  ‘He was abducted, wasn’t he?’ a high-pitched voice says from her right. It belongs to an acne-scarred woman in her fifties. Annika, or possibly Anita. Veronica’s brain has suddenly lost their names.

  Lars throws his arms out eagerly to encourage someone else to speak. Several voices chime in as the crack in her chest goes on growing wider.

  ‘My parents wouldn’t let me go out on my own for months after that.’

  ‘Did they pay a ransom?’

  ‘Did they ever find out who took him?’

  She realised that Isak is staring straight at her. The expression in his eyes is almost pleading now, but there’s something else there too. Something she can’t identify. Pain, perhaps, possibly even sympathy?

  ‘Bloody awful business.’

  ‘His poor family.’

  The crack grows wider, freeing up the dark water beneath. She opens her mouth, gasping for the air that will let her scream. Yell at them to shut up. That she doesn’t want to go through the ice. That she doesn’t . . .

  ‘Sit down, Lars!’ Ruud’s firm voice brings the cacophony of voices to an abrupt halt. Lars remains standing, and stares defiantly at Ruud as he slowly approaches the circle.

  ‘We can ask questions, can’t we?’

  ‘You know the rules. Questions about feelings, not details.’

  ‘OK, sorry.’ Lars holds his hands up. Then turns towards Isak and points at him with a rough, callused finger. ‘How did you feel when your friend Billy went missing? Do you know who took him?’

  Veronica tries to force her body to obey her, tries to say or do something, anything. But all she and all the others in the group can do is stare at Isak.

  Ruud strides into the circle and stops between Lars and Isak. ‘That’s enough, Lars.’

  Lars glowers at Ruud. His eyes are bloodshot, the skin around them puffy and translucent. His cheeks are covered by a fine tracery of broken veins and the tip of his nose is mottled pink and blue.

  The two men are about the same height, but Lars is thirty years younger and in considerably better shape. Even so, Ruud doesn’t appear to be remotely scared of him.

  ‘You’ve been drinking, Lars,’ Ruud says quietly, in an almost friendly voice. ‘You know that isn’t allowed. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

  Lars opens his mouth, clenches his fists and takes half a step forward. For a moment it looks like he’s going to hit Ruud. Veronica holds her breath, the rest of the room seems to be doing the same. Ruud doesn’t move. Just goes on looking impassively at the other man. Lars’s gaze starts to waver. He glares at Isak, then at her, then Ruud once more.

  ‘You can all go to hell!’

  He turns on his heel and knocks two of the folding chairs over, breaking the circle. They skitter off across the floor like huge autumn leaves made of grey metal.

  Ruud waits until the door has slammed shut behind Lars.

  ‘The rules exist so that everyone can feel safe,’ he says. ‘Each of you chooses what you want to share, and how much. No one has the right to question or cross-examine anyone else. Is that understood?’

  He looks around the remains of the circle, and is met with embarrassed nods of agreement from each of the participants.

  ‘I think it might be time to bring today’s session to an end, what do you say, Veronica?’

  The sound of her name breaks her paralysis. She manages a murmur of agreement, takes a deep, cold breath and adds mechanically: ‘See you next week.’

  She gets to her feet and takes a couple of unsteady steps. But by now Isak is already halfway to the door.

  ‘Sorry, Veronica, but I’ve got a question.’ It’s Sture with the combover, who has evidently realised that he never got the chance to finish talking about his dead brother. He holds her up for five long minutes, and because Ruud is watching her she does her best to look like she’s listening carefully. She doesn’t actually hear a word of what Sture is saying. All she can hear is a ringing metallic sound, like the hum of the rails in the metro the moment before a train arrives. The sound of thick ice about to crack.

  Chapter 8

  Summer 1983

  ‘A

  nd you’re absolutely certain of what you saw?’

  The two men sitting on the grass in front of Månsson were wrapped in yellow blankets from the ambulance. The summer heat had had a couple of hours to dry them off, but they still looked like a pair of drowned rats. Their faces were streaked with grey, their hair and clothes soaked with a mixture of mud and algae that made them stink worse that chicken shit.

  ‘It was the boy,’ Rask said. ‘He’s down there. Isn’t that right, Sailor?’

  The other man didn’t answer, just gave a non-committal shrug of his shoulders.

  ‘You don’t seem quite so certain, Olsson,’ Månsson said, leaning closer. Sailor avoided meeting his gaze and looked down at the grass.

  ‘We’re sure,’ Rask said curtly. ‘Why would we lie?’

  Because you’re two of the biggest drunks around, and you still stink of drink despite the stench of the mud, Månsson thought. But he decided to keep that thought to himself for the time being. Reminded himself that even a broken clock tells the right time twice a day.

  Behind him some other men were trying to salvage the boat with the aid of a tractor. It was almost entirely subme
rged in the mud. Another larger boat was positioned in the middle of the marl pit, and for almost three quarters of an hour the men on board had been dragging the pond with double hooks at the spot Rask had pointed out, without finding anything.

  Månsson had leaped into his car the moment he got the news. He had organised another boat with dragging equipment within an hour. The movements of the men out in the new boat gave a clear indication that their initial determination had been replaced by nagging doubt, which was pretty much what he felt.

  ‘We saw him as clearly as we can see you now,’ Rask said, having evidently realised that his credibility was in question. ‘But that marl pit’s bottomless. He could be way down there.’

  ‘Three metres,’ Månsson said.

  ‘W-what?’

  ‘It’s barely three metres at its deepest, according to the guys out there.’ He gestured towards the boat. ‘Didn’t you notice when you went for your little swim?’

  Rask pretended not to notice the sarcasm. ‘So it can be pumped out, then? Get the fire brigade and drain the shit out of it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Månsson muttered. He had already considered that, as well as calling in a team of divers. He doubted if anyone would volunteer to go into that sludgy water to fumble about blindly over the bottom. Who knew what sort of rubbish had been dumped in the marl pit over the years? And even if anyone did volunteer, he wasn’t sure if it was worth the risk based solely on the claims of these two witnesses.

  Månsson glanced at his watch, then looked sternly at the two men once more. Sailor was still staring vacantly down at the grass, and even Rask looked less certain now. Another half hour, he said to himself. Then he’d call off the operation and send these two drunks home.

  Movement in the corner of his eye made him turn round. The men in the boat were moving differently now. Quick, resolute movements. A taut line.

  ‘We’ve found something,’ one of them called. ‘Something big.’

  Månsson took a few steps towards the water. He shaded his eyes with one hand to see better. The boat was no more than four metres out, and he looked on as the men tried to attach another drag-anchor to the object below. After a couple of attempts they succeeded.

  ‘OK, let’s get it up!’ The two lines stretched tight as they were slowly hauled in.

  Rask was on his feet now and came to stand next to Månsson, so eager that one of his feet ended up in the water.

  The lines were slowly pulled in. The boat rocked with the weight of the object caught in the anchors. Rask spat nervously on the grass. Månsson felt his heart start to beat faster.

  The lengths of rope were getting shorter. The water surrounding the boat started to move, reluctantly giving up its secret.

  ‘Th-there!’ Rask gasped. ‘There he is!’

  A dark figure, covered with brown sludge, but still recognisably human, emerged from the water. A torso, two arms. Månsson took a deep breath. His heart leaped into his throat.

  They’d found him! They’d found little Billy.

  It was like a weight being lifted from his shoulders. Billy’s death was an accident. A terrible, tragic accident that no one around there would ever forget. But at least he had done his job. Resolved the issue. And no one would be able to claim otherwise.

  The body was pulled slowly from the water until it was hanging over the side of the rocking boat with its legs still in the water.

  Månsson suddenly realised that something wasn’t right. The proportions were all wrong. This wasn’t a young boy. More like a grown man. Or something that looked like one. The head was a hessian sack, and there were no hands. Stuffing was poking out of the worn overalls in places.

  ‘A scarecrow,’ one of the men in the boat shouted. ‘It’s a fucking scarecrow.’

  Chapter 9

  T

  he box is on the top shelf of the clothes cupboard in the bedroom, and Veronica has to stand on a stool to reach it. There’s a thick, furry layer of grey dust covering the lid, and the cloud of dust motes disturbed when she pulls the box towards her, together with the half bottle of wine she’s drunk to pluck up courage, almost make her fall.

  She puts the box down on the coffee table, then sits and looks at it for several minutes. The red wine is combatting the chill inside her, and she takes another few mouthfuls before she feels brave enough to open the lid.

  On top is a bundle of yellowed newspaper cuttings held together by a paperclip. The headline and grainy images on the first one drives an icicle straight through the warmth of the wine.

  Who took little Billy? The mystery that’s still tormenting a rural community fifteen years later.

  She pours herself some more wine and almost downs it in one gulp. The warmth returns. The cutting is dated summer 1998. Which means five years have passed since she last opened this box. Five years since she last added to her private treasure trove of grief. That must have been just before she moved here. Before she started working as a therapist. Long before Leon.

  Obviously she should have thrown all the cuttings out instead of dragging them here and hiding them in the cupboard. Her therapist would no doubt have been able to tell her precisely what psychological mechanism is stopping her, but even though they’ve seen each other twice a week throughout the time she’s been off sick, she hasn’t told him about Billy. She doesn’t talk about Billy to anyone. She’s kept him and her mum hidden under the ice, and has thought herself safe.

  She puts the crinkled cuttings aside without reading any more of them. Beneath them she finds the brown envelope. She quickly empties her glass. Waits until the wine has softened the room before opening the envelope.

  The first picture was taken by a photographer back home, and shows her little brother dressed smartly and sitting on a white antique chair. Blond hair, inquisitive, bright blue eyes, a hint of a snub nose. He’s laughing towards the camera, probably because the photographer was pulling a face. There are similar pictures of her and Mattias further down in the box, taken when they were roughly the same age. The same chair, the same grey-brown backcloth, the same carefree laughter. She turns the photograph over. It’s dated 3 February 1982, eighteen months before he went missing.

  The bottle of wine has somehow emptied itself, so she goes into the kitchen to get another. The red eye of the telephone glares judgementally at her.

  She turns her back on it and goes over to the sofa.

  The next photograph is a family portrait, probably taken at the same time. Mum is sitting on a chair, with her and Mattias on either side of her and Billy on her lap. Dad is standing behind her with one hand on her shoulder. The stilted pose was the photographer’s idea, her parents definitely never used to touch each other like that. The proud look in her dad’s eyes is, however, genuine, as it stares out through the photo. Mum is glancing down at Billy. She must be thirty-three in the picture, almost exactly the same age as Veronica is now. They’re even more alike than she remembers, almost frighteningly so. Hair colour, shape of face, posture. The tender way her mum is looking at Billy feels painful to see. She closes her eyes for a few seconds, telling herself that the similarity goes no deeper than appearance. That she and Mum are very different people.

  To the right of her mum stands Mattias, looking uncomfortable. He turned fifteen a week after the photograph was taken. His shirt, suit and tie were all new, and at least one size too large, and Mum made him shave off the little moustache he was so proud of, making his top lip look slightly pink. He didn’t protest. Didn’t say a word. Because Mattias is an obedient boy, always does what’s expected of him.

  Billy is beaming at the camera, just like in the other picture. With his blond hair and blue eyes, he’s the focus of the photograph. His clothes are light in colour, newly bought, and fit him perfectly.

  As for Veronica, she’s staring out angrily from beneath her strawberry-blonde fringe. The dress she’s wearing is baby-blue, with little white bows along the hem and on the chest. Aunt Helga, who is actually her mum’s aunt rather than h
ers, made it. The dress may have looked pretty on an eight-year-old girl, but in the picture she’s just a few months away from thirteen. She has long, coltish legs, and you can just make out two small bumps beneath the front of the dress. They argued about the dress before the photograph, and as usual when she and Mum argued too long, Dad took her aside and asked her to do whatever made her mum happy.

  Veronica leans over, squints and inspects herself more closely. Her face is turned towards the camera, her chin lowered. She notices that she’s not looking straight ahead, at the photographer, she’s looking at her mum and Billy. She blames the age of the photograph for the dark look in her eyes. All the bright colours in the picture look slightly subdued, and the darker tones, like her eyes, seem almost black in contrast. If she looks at the picture from a distance, it’s almost like someone’s placed a thin, dark veil across it. Like a warning, a premonition of what was to come.

  She puts the photograph down and shakes the feeling off. Just her imagination, of course. An intoxicating cocktail of alcohol and hindsight. Even so, she can’t quite tear her eyes from that twenty-year-old moment.

  Her glass needs filling again, and she reaches for the bottle. She only realises she’s drunk when she misses the glass and spills some wine on the coffee table. Instinctively she wipes her sleeve over the spillage, letting the washed-out cotton soak up the liquid. Then she lifts her arm and studies the growing stain with fascination. She can feel the moisture against her skin, against the scar beneath the fabric. She suddenly realises that the wine looks like blood. She shudders, quickly drops the photographs back in the box and stands up, rather unsteadily.

  She goes out to the kitchen to get the dishcloth and wipes up the rest of the spilled wine. She stops at the telephone, its red eye still glowing, now more in sorrow than reproach. She still has Leon’s last message on the answerphone, even though she keeps promising herself that she’s going to delete it. She’s got rid of everything else: his clothes, toothbrush and razor. The little notes he left on the kitchen table, the things he bought her on their trips. She burned it all in a layby an hour’s drive south. She drenched it all in lighter fluid until the flames devoured the whole lot. Extinguishing all traces of what they had once been.