Shadow of Fog Island

by Mariette Lindstein

  ‘Thanks, Annie. And listen, I have a surprise.’

  ‘What is it? Please, tell me!’

  ‘It’s not something I can describe in words. It’s something you have to experience.’

  A moment of confusion followed their conversation. The sexy outfit she’d so carefully laid out wouldn’t work on the bike. But hadn’t he intimated that they would be having sex? Why dress up? She had already set out her best underthings, but she needed a layer between them and the leather gear. She selected a clingy, low-cut dress that barely covered her ass. Running around the apartment, she tossed various objects in her purse. Time was short – she only had an hour to make it onto the morning ferry.

  On the ferry ride over, she thought of his hands, and all the places on her body they would soon be touching. She could no longer hold back and fired off a quick tweet: New life starts today. Big things happening. It only took a few seconds for the curious responses to start arriving, but she would leave them hanging, dammit. The next tweet had to be a photo of her and Franz together.

  The manor felt deserted, as always. Large portions of the lawn were dead and there were dandelions everywhere. She didn’t even want to talk to any of the members – she would tell Franz that evening that they simply hadn’t listened to her. She asked the guard in the booth for the key to the Harley. He seemed taken aback, but he didn’t dare to argue.

  She had several hours before the ferry would head back, so she made a circuit around the island on the hog, going hell for leather along the eastern side. Surely Franz wouldn’t mind. Lunch was at a sleepy little café in the village that served dry sandwiches. As she ate she read all the emails from clients she’d been ignoring recently. She became so impatient for the ferry to leave that she almost destroyed a fingernail biting at it. What would Franz think? Just as the thought flew through her mind, his name popped up on her phone screen. He said he just wanted to make sure she would make the ferry. That he couldn’t wait to see her. He described a shortcut to the city where you could get up to blazing speeds.

  ‘Take that road and think of me,’ he whispered.

  There was a chill in the air when the ferry docked at the harbour, although the sun was still high in the sky. She pulled her leather jacket tight around her neck, feeling suddenly stressed. She wanted to get there before it got dark.

  For the first stretch she was on her own. The brisk air nipped at her cheeks. The pale green, leafy treetops whizzed by, like a veil over everything. She couldn’t remember a time she had felt so happy.

  But then her thoughts clouded over. The analogy about the spider popped up out of the blue. Something was nagging at her, something he’d said. She shoved the thought aside but it returned, stronger this time. The spider that never leaves its web. Not a single little fly gets out alive – so he’d said. Yet it had happened. With both the intermediary loser and Bauman. After slowing down unconsciously, she sped back up again, annoyed. Suddenly, for an instant, it was as if she was outside her own body. She experienced a fleeting moment of freedom, as if she were emerging from a cocoon. Everything became clear, like the mist dissolving out on Fog Island. This instant, which lasted only a millisecond, was enough to distract her. Just as she landed back in the present moment and regained control over the bike, a steel cable appeared ahead of her. Shining in the sunlight low across the asphalt. For a brief, magnificent moment she was floating in the blue sky. Blue everywhere, only blue. And before she could figure out what was happening, before she even suspected, everything went black.

  36

  Simon would have missed the TV spot if Wilma hadn’t called. Inga Hermansson had foisted the TV onto him, saying he would feel less lonely at night. But he never used it – he read the news in the paper, surfed the internet, or read books instead. Inga’s worry about Simon’s lack of company was sometimes tiresome. She didn’t understand that he actually liked the solitude. She even brought him magazines about men’s fashion and that sort of crap. As if he would dress up in fancy clothes and go hit on girls on the island.

  But now Sofia’s friend Wilma had gotten her hands on his number. He’d never met her, but Sofia talked about her sometimes. Wilma gave a perfunctory introduction. In the background he could hear voices and music – she was in a bar or restaurant.

  ‘Thought I would tip you off. Just saw the news here at this sports bar. Sofia’s and your idol has been released and the chaos has already begun. Watch the next broadcast and you’ll see. I have to go now. And hey, can you send the SVT Play link to Sofia, so she can watch it online? I’ll leave it up to you to decide whether she can handle it. Although it’s probably inevitable.’

  Simon didn’t have time to respond before she hung up. He didn’t even know if his brick of a TV worked, but it turned out all he had to do was press the on button and the screen lit up. Wilma had called just in time, because the next news broadcast would be on in five minutes. Simon was curious. What was Oswald up to now? As if the fact of his freedom wasn’t bad enough, he would be back on this beautiful island again. Simon thought of Jacob, and was filled with gloom. What if it was too late now for Jacob to escape?

  The news began with a piece on a motorcycle crash outside Gothenburg. A road surrounded by lush, green fields and birches, full of police cars, ambulances, and the hustle and bustle of rescue workers. At first Simon didn’t understand what it was about, but then the voice said that an Anna-Maria Callini, defence attorney for spiritual leader Franz Oswald, had perished when the motorcycle she was riding left the road. She had been thrown off and killed instantly. Simon heard his own voice, as if through a thick fog. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! He slapped his forehead, full of rage.

  But then he was abruptly yanked back to the news, because there stood Oswald, dressed in pressed trousers and a sports coat, stopping for a quick interview in what looked like a hotel lobby. There was a large group of reporters present.

  ‘Can you comment on the fact that Anna-Maria Callini was riding your motorcycle when she died?’ one asked, holding a microphone to Oswald’s face.

  ‘She was supposed to pick it up for me. That’s all. A favour, nothing more.’

  ‘Can you comment on your relationship?’

  ‘It was strictly a business relationship,’ Oswald said as a tiny wrinkle of irritation appeared on his forehead. ‘Listen, boys,’ he went on. ‘Anna-Maria was one of the best lawyers in the country and her death is a tremendous loss, not only for me but for the entire justice system. I will be returning to ViaTerra now. We will cease all work for a week. I ask you to leave us in peace during this time of sorrow.’

  He even managed to squeeze out an actual goddamn tear, Simon thought. This is insane.

  The voice of another reporter came from behind Oswald.

  ‘How does it feel to know that she was riding your bike? From what I understand, that bike cost a fortune.’

  Oswald’s face shifted colour in a split second, from relatively pale to angry red.

  ‘How could you even bring that up?’ he snapped. ‘How fucking shameless are you?’

  Yes, he actually swore, but somehow it sounded proper. Simon went cold inside when he realized that this news feature would only help Oswald’s image. That he had once again wriggled his way out of an unpleasant situation. Simon’s heart rate had increased without his noticing, and now he could feel the sweat breaking out on his palms. All at once he knew he had to call Sofia. It didn’t matter if it was four in the morning in California. But the phone rang and rang; she never picked up. Simon assumed she was sleeping.

  He tried to call again when he woke up the next morning, but there was still no answer. Yet he wasn’t worried – she was probably out with friends. He remembered that Wilma had asked him to send that link to the news clip, so he sat down at his computer, found the program, and sent it off, hoping fervently that she would get back to him.

  When Simon got home that evening, there was still no response from Sofia. Something felt wrong. He couldn’t quite put his finger on
it, but that magical contact they’d always had felt broken.

  That night, Simon went to bed with a heavy heart.

  37

  Damian Dwight leaned back in his lounge chair. He tried to relax, to take in the beautiful pool, the palm trees, the blue sky. The quiet and the calm. Yet he felt like his skin was crawling. His drink had gone warm and tasted like cat piss. The woman soaking up the rays beside him, drenched in suntan oil, annoyed him. They were only two in the pool area, and there must have been a hundred chairs, so why did she have to choose the one right next to him? On a typical day he probably would have hit on her, but this situation was far from normal. All this suspense was making him paranoid. His childhood eczema had returned, appearing on the insides of his elbows and knees. His mind was churning, as if his thoughts were competing to see which could come up with the worst imaginable scenario.

  He’d woken several times during the night to check his bank account, but the numbers stared back at him unchanged. The internet was full of sordid headlines and images from the scene of the accident, and some of them made him feel sick. He hadn’t expected her death to affect him. It wasn’t as if she was his favourite person. But that sheet-covered body on the gurney, the overturned motorcycle – suddenly it all seemed so personal. He wasn’t the sort of man who was full of warm feelings for others, so why was this single tear trickling from the corner of his eye? It wasn’t so much that he regretted it, as that he felt duped. A mind-boggling sum that couldn’t be spoken aloud, that had to be written down. The eyes that saw right through him, fully aware he was a little fish that wanted to swim in bigger waters. The challenge had turned him on, the suggestion that of course he too could produce something big and bold. And suddenly there he was, on a deserted country road, holding a thick roll of steel cable. The only bright spot in this whole mess was that the cops were sure it was an accident.

  The woman in the lounger next to his had sat up and was smiling at him expectantly. He took what was left of his drink and dumped it into the pool, mostly to annoy her. But she only laughed. He grabbed his towel and went back to the hotel.

  The receptionist at the counter looked up and smiled when she saw him coming.

  ‘Sir, an express letter has arrived for you,’ she said in shaky English.

  Damian felt something cold mix with the sweat on his back. It spread up to his hairline, where it began to flutter uncomfortably. Just as he was about to open his mouth, she stood up.

  ‘A letter. Here!’ She held up a brown envelope. He took a few fumbling steps forward and accepted the letter, which seemed light, almost weightless. Yet he could feel something firm inside. He didn’t dare to open it, he just wanted to get back to his room.

  ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ the woman asked.

  ‘No, I’m fine. By the way, who delivered this letter?’

  ‘A messenger. DHL.’

  With the illusion that no one knew his whereabouts shattered, he felt even more paranoid. He stood still outside his room for a moment, his mind forcing him to picture the barrel of a gun aimed at him from behind the door. He stuck his card in the reader and opened the door slowly, but there was no one there. A cool breeze came in the half-open window. It was as if the room were breathing faintly in all its emptiness. His laptop was where he’d left it on the desk. All at once he became hyperaware of the envelope in his hand. His name and the hotel’s address were on the front. No return address, but it was postmarked in Sweden. He squeezed it and felt the hard object inside. Once he’d slit the envelope with one finger, he found himself staring at a clothespin. No message, just a well-worn clothespin made of bleached wood. He inspected it as if it were a bomb about to detonate.

  This, he thought, is a message. It couldn’t be any clearer.

  Panic squeezing his throat, he sat at the laptop and logged in. When the bank’s website was unavailable he swore, but he tried again and got in. He logged into his account, and at first he thought he was seeing things – the number in front of him was so astounding that he just sat there gaping like a fool.

  Only once he’d stared at the breath-taking number for a long time did he dare to let out a sigh of relief.

  A whole new life took shape in his mind. But he also felt a twinge of melancholy. He would never see Sweden again. But it couldn’t be helped. Really, it was a minor sacrifice. And he had no choice, after all. Franz Oswald wasn’t the kind of man you wanted to defy.

  He gazed out the window at the palm trees swaying in the breeze. For the first time in several days, he was able to be in the now. He found himself standing there with a sheepish smile on his face.

  38

  Jacob watched as the black Mercedes glided onto the property. He’d been keeping an eye on the front gate all day; he couldn’t help it. He knew everything would change as soon as Oswald set foot at ViaTerra again. It had been so quiet before his arrival, the air trembling with shame and agony. The staff no longer darted back and forth across the courtyard like diligent ants. By now it was too late to make it look like everything had been fine while the boss was away. And no one wanted to be the first to run into Oswald when he returned. So all they could do was wait. And hope.

  Jacob wondered what it would be like. Surely it couldn’t be worse than when Madde was leading them. Was that even possible? There was something about Madde. Her anxious energy. It was never quite convincing when she said ‘Franz said’ or ‘Franz wants this and that.’ Some of those orders didn’t sound like the sort of thing that would have come from Franz Oswald. But then again, she and Bosse were the only ones who’d been in contact with him. So how could Jacob be sure?

  The car stopped outside the main entrance to the manor. The guards came running, both Benny and Sten, and they opened both car doors for him. Those idiots! Oswald stepped out of the driver’s seat. Jacob only caught a quick glance of him in profile. He was wearing a sports coat and had his hair in a ponytail; he tossed the car key to Sten. Benny ran ahead and held open the manor house door. Oswald looked up at the banner they’d hung: Welcome home, Sir! it read. They’d stayed up late to paint it. It had to be perfect. Not a spot of paint outside the lines. But Oswald shook his head. Jerkily and quickly, he walked in through the main entrance. Even from his hiding spot, over fifty metres away, Jacob could feel Oswald’s suppressed rage.

  Jacob wondered how Oswald could be so angry straight off the bat. He’d only just returned home. A few seconds, and they had already managed to infuriate him.

  Oswald slammed the door behind him. Everything grew silent and still. To Jacob, it seemed that it had never been so quiet on the property; it felt like doomsday was near. He had the sensation of having ended up in the wrong place on earth. That this was all a nightmare, and he would wake from it soon.

  Jacob had felt lost for a few years now. He hadn’t been born on a farm like Simon – he’d just been interested in animals for as long as he could recall. It had seemed like the right decision, to take a position on a farm after finishing agricultural school. But then, from the very start, it felt wrong. His relationship with the animals was too personal. He suffered every time the pigs had to be taken to the slaughterhouse; he couldn’t bring himself to euthanize sick animals; he always thought that the livestock quarters were too cramped. And then there was the part he’d never dared to tell anyone else. He thought that the animals spoke to him telepathically. Especially the cows. And although he knew it was physically impossible, there was nothing he could do to force their wordless messages out of his head.

  ViaTerra had seemed like the perfect place for him. Back in the beginning. An organization that believed in the supernatural, and kept animals. If only he had known! And now he was stuck. He had a personal connection to every single cow, to the boar and the ram. It was inconceivable that he would leave them in this chaotic, unpredictable environment. There was no guarantee that anyone would feed them each day if Jacob wasn’t there.

  The silence lasted for several hours, until Corinne from t
he household unit came running into the barn.

  ‘The whole staff has to gather in the dining room!’

  ‘Why are you telling me?’

  ‘I’m Franz’s new secretary. Now hurry, Jacob.’

  ‘Damn, that was fast. What happened to Madde?’

  Jacob desperately hoped Madde wouldn’t be relegated to the barn, so he had to take care of her.

  ‘I have no idea, but I’m sure Franz will tell us.’

  Together they ran to the dining room. He cast a sidelong glance at Corinne before they walked in. She looked nervous; surely she was already sensing what awaited her. But she was Oswald’s type, so thin she looked almost anorexic. And she was only seventeen – ready for Oswald to help himself – and pretty, but not tough like Sofia had been. Jacob wondered how long Corinne would be able to stand the pressure of Oswald’s office.

  The dining room was dead silent when they stepped inside. A few annoyed faces turned to look at them. Almost every chair was full, so they had to sit at the very front. Oswald was already there. He was leaning against the podium he used for his addresses and didn’t even deign to glance their way as they slipped in and took a pair of empty seats. Jacob wondered if Oswald even knew he existed. They’d never spoken, just the two of them. And this very fact made Jacob fear Oswald even more. It felt like if Oswald ever truly fixed his eyes on Jacob, he would be able to read his mind.

  ‘Is everyone here?’

  Oswald looked at Corinne, who nodded and gulped audibly.

  Oswald wasted no time in beginning to shout. It was so loud that several of the staff flew out of their chairs like soldiers coming to attention. This was new – Oswald had always begun his lectures in a mild tone of voice before, dropping a few sarcastic comments before he really got going. But now he was bellowing.

  ‘You are like a flock of stupid, lost geese. There is not a single bastard here I can depend upon. You just don’t have a clue what I want done!’