Echoes From the Dead

35

“Gerlof! Where is it, Gerlof?”

Gerlof opened his eyes reluctantly, awakened from yet another warm dream about sailing. He blinked into the slashing rain.

“What?” he said hoarsely — or maybe he just thought he said it.

He was still lying on his back down on the shore. There was a throbbing pain in his right leg.

Up above him on the grass, like a great shadow against the evening sky, stood Gunnar Ljunger. The hotel owner wore his ugly yellow jacket with the advertising slogan.

Was he really standing there? Yes, it wasn’t a dream. But Ljunger wasn’t smiling his chummy smile now, Gerlof noticed. Instead there was an angry furrow between his eyes.

“Where’s my phone?” he wanted to know.

Gerlof swallowed; his mouth was dry and he could barely speak.

“Hid it,” he whispered.

“Have you called anyone?” demanded Ljunger.

Gerlof shook his head wearily. He hadn’t been able to call, had he? All those little buttons. It was impossible to know which one to press.

“Where is it? Have you shoved it up your ass?”

“Come down here and look for it, Gunnar,” hissed Gerlof quietly.

But Ljunger didn’t move. And Gerlof knew why; if Ljunger came down onto the shore, his shoes would leave deep prints behind. Not even the rain would get rid of them.

The cell phone was in Gerlof’s trouser pocket, not particularly well hidden, but Ljunger had to figure out how he was going to get hold of it.

“You’re tough, Gerlof” was all the hotel owner said, straightening up. “But I see you’ve fallen and hurt yourself.”

Gerlof didn’t seem to have a voice anymore, because when he opened his mouth, no sound emerged. His lips felt frozen stiff.

“ ‘Most peaceable are the dead,’ ” said Ljunger calmly, looming above him. “ ‘Death is harsh but honorable, so sing hey and ho...’ That’s Dan Andersson, in case you didn’t know. I love his songs, and Evert Taube’s old songs about the sea and sailors, too. It was actually Vera Kant who got me listening to them. She had lots of old records.”

“She had land and money,” whispered Gerlof into the sand.

“What?”

“Vera’s land. Her money... That’s all this is about.”

Ljunger shook his head. “It’s about a lot of things,” he said. “Land and money and revenge and big dreams... and love for Öland too, as I said. I love this island.”

Gerlof watched him reach into his jacket pocket and take out a pair of leather gloves.

“I think it’s time for you to go to sleep now, Gerlof,” Ljunger said. “And when you’ve done that, I’ll find my phone. You shouldn’t have taken it.”

Gerlof was tired of listening to Ljunger. Talking and talking. The hotel owner stood up there on the grassy ledge talking and talking, refusing to leave him in peace, just as a faint rushing noise had begun to make itself heard in the darkness.

“Time to say thank you and good night,” said Ljunger. “I think we’ll—”

He suddenly fell silent and turned his head.

The rushing sound could be heard higher and higher above the shore, like roaring water; it was as if the wind out over the sea was increasing to storm force.

The noise was swiftly becoming a roaring gale that ripped at Gerlof’s thin clothes.

He could also see that the figure up above who was Ljunger had turned his face up to the sky in silent amazement.

Gerlof looked up. A shadow swept over him.

An enormous body with blinking eyes was hovering above the shore. Its upper half was dark and its lower half was pale; it was making a constant clattering noise.

Ljunger was no longer standing there watching over him. He was gone, he’d run away — like a troll who has been discovered and unmasked, he was running away along the gravel track with long, desperate strides.

Gerlof stared. The roar increased. Huge blades clattered round, round. The fat, ungainly body dipped forward, slipped in over the meadow, and began to descend.

The helicopter landed carefully, and Gerlof closed his eyes.

He felt neither joy nor relief; he felt nothing. His brain was still waiting for the ship of death to come and take him out to sea. But it didn’t come. He opened his eyes again.

The clattering of the rotor blades died away, and the door opened. Two men wearing helmets clambered out, stooping. They were wearing uniforms like gray overalls; they were pilots or flying policemen, and they were moving quickly across the grass toward Gerlof.

One of them had a thermal blanket under his arm, and the other was carrying a white bag. Gerlof began to understand why they had come, and breathed out.

The helicopter was there for him. He was going to live.