Gerlof looked up at Jonas Kloss. ‘Go and get help,’ he said. ‘Run over to my cottage – as quick as you can, Jonas!’
The boy sped away.
Gerlof was alone now. He called out to John, but got no reply, apart from a series of low groans.
After what seemed like an eternity, he heard the sound of sirens. An ambulance drove into the clearing, followed by fire fighters with hoses, to try to stop the fire spreading across the dry ground.
A shadow fell over him; someone shone a light into his eyes.
‘There are people trapped under the mill,’ Gerlof whispered.
No one took any notice. The shadow turned out to be a fire fighter; Gerlof looked up at him and opened his dry lips.
‘There are people inside,’ he said, a little louder this time.
‘How many?’
‘Two men. Can you—’
The fire fighter immediately turned away, shouting orders to a colleague.
After a few minutes they produced air cushions and pushed them under the collapsed mill; they pumped them up and crawled in beneath the beams.
Shouts and orders.
Eventually, Gerlof saw two figures being carried out and laid on blankets on the grass. They were only silhouettes, but he recognized both of them.
Aron Fredh’s body was lifeless.
John was moving slightly.
The paramedics bent over him, trying to revive him. Gerlof couldn’t see past them. He began to move, shuffling across the grass; he stretched out his hand, between the feet of the paramedics. He groped blindly until he found something bony. It was a hand, John’s cold hand.
He held it tightly, but there was no response.
The activity around John grew more intense as the paramedics worked feverishly – then suddenly stopped. They straightened up, and one of them let out a long breath and took a step backwards.
Gerlof held on to the hand anyway. He didn’t let go until the paramedics gently opened his fingers and placed a yellow blanket over his friend, and another around his shoulders. But John’s blanket was laid over his face, like a shroud, and at that moment Gerlof knew that there was nothing more that could be done.
Jonas
Jonas had to stay in hospital in Kalmar for four days after the events at the mill. He didn’t really know why, but the doctors talked about ‘trauma care’. He thought he was absolutely fine – his life was much easier now than it had been for ages.
He was alone most of the time. Mats was already back home in Huskvarna, and his father had been allowed to leave the hospital two days ago but had been back to visit Jonas.
He had looked sad and tired when they talked about Öland.
‘We need a break from that place,’ Niklas had said before he left.
But Jonas really wanted to go back, and when his mother came to pick him up he persuaded her to take him over to the island before they went home.
An hour after the doctors had given him the all clear, they were driving across the bridge.
‘I wasn’t really ill,’ he said as they drove on to the island. ‘I think they just wanted to keep an eye on me, see how I was feeling.’
‘And how are you feeling?’ his mother asked.
‘Fine … I’m not really sure. But it’s not good.’
‘What’s not good?’
‘Everything …’ Jonas said. ‘Everything that happened.’
‘No. But it’s over now.’
They drove on in silence, almost all the way to Stenvik. The shop was closed. The campsite was closed, too. It was a bit sad; the whole village felt kind of empty now, Jonas thought, at least compared to the way it had been in July.
The place wasn’t completely abandoned, however. There were cars outside a few houses on the coast road, and the odd blue-and-yellow pennant still fluttered in some of the gardens. But there were hardly any people around.
His mother wanted to visit Villa Kloss, but Jonas wasn’t keen, so she just drove past, and he could see that the police cordons were still there. The collapsed roof and the shattered windows had been covered with sheets of white plastic.
The ridge was deserted, and the cairn was now a huge crater in the ground.
Jonas knew that they had dug out the crevice in the rock while he was in hospital. His father had told him that they had found Uncle Kent’s body outside the bunker. Jonas had no idea who would sort out Kent’s house.
And Aunt Veronica? Apparently, she had been questioned by the police.
Jonas didn’t really care what happened to Villa Kloss; he didn’t want to go back there.
He glanced at his mother. ‘Can we go the other way?’
She nodded and turned the car northwards.
A man in blue overalls was painting the gig outside Gerlof’s boathouse, the one where Jonas had sought shelter all those weeks ago.
Gerlof. Jonas had often thought about him while he was in hospital.
‘Turn off here,’ he said to his mother, and they drove inland along the northern village road – but after only a hundred metres or so, Jonas asked her to stop by a little track leading to an iron gate. ‘I won’t be long,’ he said as he got out of the car.
He went through the gate and into the garden. Nothing had changed except that the flag was flying at half-mast.
The birds were singing, and beyond the flagpole he saw Gerlof sitting in his chair as usual, his head drooping.
It was as if Jonas knew what was going to happen. Gerlof had his straw hat pulled well down, his walking stick in his hand; he looked exactly the same as he had all summer. But as Jonas approached he raised his head and nodded.
‘Good morning, Jonas,’ he said. ‘Back again?’
Jonas stopped in front of him. ‘Yes, but I’m going home now.’
‘Are you all right?’ Gerlof asked.
‘Yes …’
‘You saved me, Jonas,’ Gerlof said after a pause. ‘When I was lying by the mill. You dragged me away from the fire.’
Jonas shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘Maybe,’ he said.
Gerlof looked over in the direction of the sea. ‘They’ve found the Ophelia.’
Jonas was confused for a moment, then he remembered. ‘The ghost ship?’
‘The ghost ship was real,’ Gerlof went on. ‘It was found the day before yesterday, with the help of echo-sounding equipment. It was out in the Sound, towards the north, at a depth of thirty metres. Someone had blown holes in the hull.’
Jonas just nodded; he didn’t want to think about the ship any more. He listened to the birds singing away in the bushes, and remembered that there was something else he wanted to say, something he wanted to apologize for. A broken promise.
‘I told somebody something.’
‘What?’ Gerlof said.
‘I told my dad and Uncle Kent about Peter Mayer.’
Gerlof held up a hand. ‘I know. It’s easily done, Jonas … But in that case, perhaps what happened to Peter Mayer on the road outside Marnäs was no accident?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jonas said quietly. ‘I didn’t see. Uncle Kent was chasing him, and they disappeared in the darkness and …’
He fell silent.
‘There was nothing you could do,’ Gerlof reassured him. ‘It was all down to the adults. As usual.’
Jonas thought for a moment. ‘It’s not good,’ he said. ‘All the stuff that happened.’
Gerlof seemed to understand what he meant. ‘No, it’s not good at all. John’s funeral is next week.’ He sighed and went on, ‘But this whole century hasn’t been too good … War and death and misery. I’m glad it’s almost over. I’m sure the twenty-first century will be much better.’
He smiled wearily at Jonas and added, ‘That will be your time.’
Jonas didn’t know what else to say. He could hear the engine of his mother’s car idling on the road, so he took a step towards the gate. ‘I’ve got to go now.’
Gerlof nodded. ‘The summer is over.’
He held out his hand
, and Jonas shook it. He walked to the gate, then turned around. Gerlof looked lonely in his garden. But he raised his hand one last time, and Jonas waved back.
Epilogue
It was a sunny day in the middle of August when Gerlof said goodbye to John in Marnäs churchyard.
John was lying in a beautiful white coffin, which was definitely closed. Gerlof waited and listened, but of course there wasn’t a sound from the coffin during the ceremony.
The grave was to the west of the church, well away from the Kloss family graves, but Gerlof didn’t want to go over there. Instead, he walked slowly along the path towards the gate. Up above, he could see two big birds; they looked like buzzards. They were on their way south, as if they had begun their long journey to Africa.
Already? Was the summer really over, for the migrant birds, too?
‘Gerlof?’ said a voice beyond the churchyard gate. ‘Would you like a lift?’
It was John’s son, Anders, and he was pointing to his car.
Gerlof had already refused a lift from his daughters Lena and Julia, who were going straight back to Gothenburg, but he nodded to Anders and allowed himself to be helped into the passenger seat.
Anders got in. ‘Do you want to go to the home?’
Gerlof thought for a moment, then said, ‘Take me down to the cottage; I’d just like to check on it.’
Anders put the car in gear and set off. They drove in silence for a while, until Gerlof said, ‘Did John like me, Anders? Was I nice to him?’
Anders turned on to the main road and said, ‘He never thought about that kind of thing … He did once say that you’d never given him a single order in your whole life.’
‘Really? I thought I gave orders all the time when were at sea.’
‘No. He said you asked questions when you wanted something done. You’d ask if he’d like to hoist the sail, and he would do it.’
‘You could be right.’
Neither of them spoke until Anders turned down on to the village road; as they drove in among the summer cottages, he said quietly, ‘I put her in the water last night.’
‘Sorry?’ Gerlof said; he had been thinking about John.
‘I put your boat in the water … the skiff.’
‘You mean the gig?’
‘The gig, that’s right,’ Anders said. ‘I had nothing else to do, so I dragged her down to the water.’
‘Did she float?’
‘She leaks a bit, but if she stays there for a few days the timbers will swell.’
‘Good,’ Gerlof said, then he went back to thinking about John, and what he could have done differently.
One thing was clear: they should have stayed away from the Kloss family.
After a few minutes they had reached the cottage. Anders stopped by the gate, and Gerlof slowly got out.
‘Thank you, Anders. You take care of yourself … Get away somewhere, have a holiday.’
‘Maybe,’ Anders said.
‘Or find a wife.’
Anders smiled wearily. ‘Not much chance of that around here,’ he said. ‘But life goes on.’
Gerlof didn’t reply; he merely raised a hand and opened the gate. When Anders had gone, he stepped into his garden.
He unlocked the door of the cottage and went straight in, without taking off his shoes. He went and stood in the main room.
Everything was quiet now. The cottage was cool and peaceful. The old wall clock next to the television had stopped, but Gerlof didn’t bother winding it up.
There was a black-and-white photograph next to the clock. It was fifty years old, and showed Gerlof and John on the South Quay in Stockholm, with the church spires of the Old Town in the background. They were both young and strong, smartly dressed in suits and black hats. Smiling into the sunshine.
Gerlof turned away. He looked out of the window at the weathervane, an old man sharpening his scythe. It had shifted during the morning and was now pointing towards the shore. The weather forecast on the radio had also predicted a westerly wind with a speed of three to four metres per second for today. A gentle but steady breeze, blowing offshore. Anything that ended up in the water off Stenvik would quickly drift out to sea.
Interesting.
Here he stood in his cottage, the last of his contemporaries still alive, at the end of the twentieth century. If the world didn’t implode at the turn of the millennium, he would be celebrating his eighty-fifth birthday in exactly ten months. He was born on 12 June, the same day as Anne Frank. When she died in Bergen-Belsen, Gerlof was the captain of a cargo ship negotiating the minefields of the Baltic Sea.
He had now lived for fifty-five years since her death. He had survived the whole of the twentieth century – he had outlived the children killed in the camps, the refugees who had died of hunger, the prisoners who had been executed, the soldiers who had fallen in battle. He had lived longer than millions of people who had been younger than him, so he ought to be satisfied. But the body was greedy; it always wanted one more day.
But not in a hospital bed. Gerlof had made up his mind; he had no intention of ending his days with tubes and wires attached to his body.
He took out his notebook and wrote down a final message. A few words to his daughters, and a couple of requests: ‘Play lots of music,’ he wrote. ‘Hymns are fine, but I’d like some Evert Taube and Dan Andersson, too.’
Then he paused, pen in hand. Should he add anything more? Some pearls of wisdom, polished over the years?
No, that was enough. He put down the pen, left the notebook open and got to his feet. Left the cottage, still wearing his funeral suit.
Leaning heavily on his stick, he made his way out on to the village road, which was empty now. But there were people around somewhere; he could hear a dog barking, then a car door slammed. It was time to go home, get back to work. The summer might not be over, not quite, but the holidays definitely were.
The coast road was also deserted when he crossed it, although he could see one or two figures swimming over by the jetty.
He walked past the mailboxes and down to the shore without anyone seeing him. A series of small ripples made the water look darker; the wind was definitely blowing offshore.
A few gulls were standing on the rocks by the water’s edge. One of them caught sight of Gerlof and stretched his neck. He began to scream warning cries to the sky, his beak wide open, and the others joined in.
The gig lay beside them with half the keel in the water, just as Anders had said.
Swallow.
She was beautiful, almost like new. Ready to sail away.
Slowly, Gerlof made his way down to her. He placed his stick in the prow, unhooked the line securing Swallow to the anchor pin and grabbed hold of the gunwale so that he could push her out.
But Swallow didn’t move. Gerlof pushed as hard as he could, but it was hopeless. The gig was too heavy, and he was too weak.
The deeper water was irritatingly close, only half a metre from the prow. He made one last attempt, bending down behind the gig and leaning on the stern with every scrap of his strength.
It was impossible. His journey ended here; he couldn’t do it.
‘Do you need some help down there?’
Gerlof turned his head. Two people were standing up on the ridge: a middle-aged man and a teenage boy, both in shorts and sunglasses. The man was smiling. Gerlof had no idea who they were, but he straightened up.
‘Please.’
They came down on to the shore, striding across the rocks.
‘Nice boat,’ the man said. ‘A bit like a smaller version of the ships the Vikings used, wouldn’t you say?’
Gerlof gave a brief nod.
‘She’s pretty old, isn’t she?’
‘She’s seventy-five years old,’ Gerlof said. ‘We’ve been renovating her, my friend John and I.’
It felt good to mention John’s name, in spite of the fact that it was quickly carried away on the wind.
‘Really?’ the man said. ‘I think
it’s great that the old boats are still used here on the island. Are you planning a little trip in her?’
‘Yes. One last trip,’ Gerlof said, then added, ‘For this summer.’
‘In that case, we’ll give you a hand … OK, Michael?’
The boy looked bored. No doubt he couldn’t wait to get back to the mainland.
The man and the boy – father and son, Gerlof guessed – didn’t seem to be suffering from any aches and pains. They stepped forward, grabbed hold of the gig and tensed their leg muscles.
‘On three,’ the man said. ‘One, two … three!’
Swallow slipped straight into the water, almost as if she were on wheels. For a moment, Gerlof thought she might sail away out into the Sound without her captain, but the man held on to the gunwale so that a part of the keel was still in contact with the ground.
‘There you go … All set,’ he said. He looked at Gerlof, then at the boat. ‘But how are you going to get her back ashore?’
‘It’ll sort itself out.’
The man nodded and set off back towards the ridge.
‘Thank you very much,’ Gerlof said. ‘Do you live in the village?’
‘No, we just stopped off in the car … We’re driving around the island looking for a boathouse to buy. Is that one for sale?’
He jerked his head towards Gerlof’s boathouse. ‘I don’t think so,’ Gerlof said. ‘So where are you from?’
‘Stockholm. We live in Bromma, but we’re spending a couple of weeks touring Öland.’
‘I see.’
They weren’t just from the mainland, they were from Stockholm. There were a lot of things Gerlof could have said to them, but he restrained himself.
‘Welcome to Öland, in that case,’ he said instead. ‘I hope you like it here.’
‘We love it.’
He watched as father and son disappeared in the direction of the coast road.
They were alone on the shore once more, Gerlof and his boat.
He must be careful not to make any mistakes now; with the help of his stick, he managed to step up on to one of the rocks next to Swallow; laboriously, he climbed aboard. First the right leg, then the left.
He could have used one of the oars, but he might as well carry on with his stick. He placed the end on the rock he had just been standing on and pushed as hard as he could. The boat slipped easily out into the water without scraping.
The Voices Beyond: (Oland Quartet Series 4) Page 41
