Uncle Harald hasn’t held back. The park is decorated with hundreds of coloured lanterns. The lottery booth has been turned into an outdoor bar with two white-clad bartenders mixing cocktails with shop-bought spirits. The rifle range has wine and beer kegs set up on it, and there are already long queues. It’s a mild evening, summer is still clinging on. The weather forecast has promised thunder, but so far there’s no sign of that except a faintly sticky feeling in the air. The sky is cloudless and high above the harvest moon is shining so unnaturally bright and large that it almost looks like part of the set-dressing.
Five large outdoor barbecues, staffed by the same number of sweating cooks, are spreading an appetite-teasing smell through the August evening. A jazz band is playing on the outdoor stage, then a dance band will take over in the rotunda after the food. No local group of amateurs, either, but one of the famous bands you sometimes see on television. And all over the park, at strategic intervals, are big green banners to remind everyone who’s paying for all this.
At first Veronica can’t help feeling that everyone’s staring at her. She regrets the dress she bought on impulse in town, thinking that it feels far too short now. She keeps tugging at the right sleeve of her little cardigan to make sure her scar isn’t visible. But then she runs into Lidija and some of the women who work for her, and, as the noise and alcohol levels start to rise, she begins to relax.
She bumps into Aunt Berit and Uncle Sören and receives unexpectedly warm hugs. Then she has to let Aunt Berit drag her round and introduce her to a load of people she hasn’t seen in years. She doesn’t even feel annoyed when someone points out for the tenth time how like her mother she is. She sees other familiar faces. Marie, the nurse from the old people’s home. Sven Postie, the Strid brothers, Patrik Brink’s father, Cecilia and the girls. She behaves herself, even hugs her sister-in-law and asks where Mattias is, and is told that he’s still at work but will be joining them later. Her dad’s with them, but he’s busy shaking hands with a long row of people. She waits until he’s alone, then pushes her way through to him and touches him on the arm.
‘Hello, Dad.’
‘Hello, Vera. So you came.’ He looks surprised, but not angry.
She’s been thinking about what to say. She even practised in the car on the way to town and back. At the last minute she decides to scrap all the lines she rehearsed, and keeps it simple instead.
‘You were right about Isak. I’m sorry, Dad.’
He looks at her sternly. Then his face softens, and he smiles that gentle smile that never quite reaches his eyes.
‘I know you mean well, Vera. Has he . . . ?’
‘He’s gone, yes.’
‘Good.’
Without thinking, she gives him a hug. Holds him tight, as if she never wants to let go. He lowers his shoulders and wraps his arms round her, and strokes her hair.
‘My little girl,’ he murmurs.
She buries her head against his chest. Breathes in his smell. He says something else, she barely hears it, but at that moment it doesn’t matter.
‘Ebbe!’ Uncle Harald’s voice makes them let go of each other.
Her uncle seems to be in an excellent mood. He’s wearing a Stenström shirt and a pale linen suit that looks tailor-made. He shakes her dad’s hand warmly, then kisses her on the cheek. Tess and Tim are there too, with Patrik Brink standing right behind them like a shadow.
She says hello to everyone, and it suddenly dawns on her that she’s surrounded by almost her entire family, and that for once she doesn’t find that oppressive.
Uncle Harald guides them to the table reserved for family. Her dad is seated beside her, with Patrik Brink on the other side. The food is good, as is the wine. Uncle Harald gives an admirably short welcome speech from the stage. He manages to be funny and entertaining, and gets a loud round of applause for his efforts. Dad doesn’t say much during dinner, but Patrik talks about what’s become of other old friends, and behaves like a perfect gentleman. He keeps refilling their wineglasses, which almost seem to be emptying themselves.
After the food the dance band starts to play, and first she dances with her dad, then with Patrik and Uncle Harald.
‘You and Ebbe seem to have patched things up,’ he says. ‘It’s been a long time since I saw him this happy. He ought to get out and see people more often. Mattias and I are trying to get him to move into the village, to be closer to his grandchildren.’
And let you build your wind farm, she thinks, but says nothing. From the corner of her eye she sees Patrik dancing with Tess. She notices that he’s holding Uncle Harald’s wife a bit closer than he held her. She turns her head slightly, and sees Patrik’s father watching the couple intently.
‘I’m glad you decided to stay,’ Uncle Harald goes on. ‘It means a lot to me to have the family gathered together. An awful lot.’
The whole time they’re dancing he smiles and nods at the people around them. That irritates her, makes her feel like some sort of trophy. The prodigal niece who’s returned and is now being shown off to everyone.
‘Yes, I suppose this matters to you. Showing that the family stands proud.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’ He still isn’t looking at her. ‘What’s wrong with wanting the best for your family?’
‘Oh, because I suppose a man who can’t look after his family can hardly look after a whole district?’ It sounds sharper than she intended, but she doesn’t regret saying it.
Uncle Harald looks down at her and raises his eyebrows slightly. ‘You’ve inherited your mother’s temperament as well, I see.’
She doesn’t care for his tone, nor the thought that she’s become a pawn in a game. And on top of that, something else has started buzzing about inside her head. Words she thought she heard her dad whisper into her hair a short while ago. And all of a sudden that feeling from the bus station is back again.
The music fades away, until it is eventually unable to drown out her dad’s voice in her head.
My little girl. You weren’t to know . . .
Not know what? What is it they’re not telling her? What are they keeping from her?
She lets go of her uncle. ‘If you’re so bloody concerned about the family’s reputation, maybe you should keep a closer eye on who your wife’s dancing with, and how,’ she says, then turns and walks quickly towards the exit.
*
She’s standing a short distance from the rotunda, breathing in the evening air and wishing she had a cigarette, when someone takes hold of her arm and pulls her aside. It’s Mattias. He’s dressed smartly and has just showered, his hair is still wet.
‘Come with me.’ He leads her round to the back of the building. He doesn’t let go of her arm until they stop. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Vera?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That Isak, or whatever the hell his name is. Dragging him down here with you. Are you really that fucking stupid?’
She knows he’s right, but she’s drunk and her dance with Uncle Harald has left her in a terrible mood.
‘At least I was trying to do something, unlike you!’
‘Trying to do what? What did you think you were going to achieve by confiding in a stranger? Dragging him home to present him to Dad, even though I warned you. Even though I explained to you . . .’
He shakes his head angrily, and seems to lose the rest of the sentence.
‘Look, I . . .’
He doesn’t seem to want to hear her explanation. And, if she’s honest, she hasn’t actually got one that would do anyway.
‘You don’t understand how things work down here. You can’t just show up and stir up loads of old shit and then piss off again, leaving me to clear up after you.’
‘Piss off again? You want to talk about people just pissing off? You were the one who pissed off and left me on my own here! Or have you managed to forget that?’
Mattias looks at her in surprise. Then he holds his arms
out.
‘For God’s sake, that was over fifteen years ago. We were children. Our ideas, our dreams – they were just childish.’
‘You promised,’ she says. She can hear her teenage self in her voice.
Mattias sighs. ‘You don’t get it . . .’
‘Of course I do. You promised that we were going to get away from here together.’ She gestures towards the rotunda and the party going on within. ‘Instead you let them keep you here. Cecilia, Uncle Harald, Dad.’
Mattias sighs and shakes his head. ‘You don’t get it, Vera,’ he says again.
He pulls out a packet and offers her a cigarette, then lights them both. He waits until they’ve taken a few drags.
‘No one forced me to come back here,’ he says. ‘It was my decision.’
She looks closely at him, trying to work out if he’s joking, or – even worse – lying. She can’t see any sign that he is.
‘I know what you’re going to say. I know what you think. That’s why I find it so hard to talk to you. Because you’re judging me the whole time.’ He sucks on the cigarette. ‘I’m actually really fucking sick of having to feel ashamed of staying here. I’m sick of having to defend myself to you.’
‘Two types of people grow up in the Shadowland – that’s what you said,’ she snaps. ‘Those who stay, and those who leave. We were going to leave together!’
‘I was eighteen! What the hell did I know about anything? Leave or stay, us or them. That’s how you see the world when you’re young. When you haven’t lived long enough to know any better.’
She folds her arms and glares angrily at him.
‘If you live in the country you’re automatically at a disadvantage,’ he goes on, looking away. ‘You get labelled as backward-looking, you have no ambition, no imagination, you’re frightened of change and you’re secretly racist. You have to put up with pathetic jokes about playing the banjo and squealing like a pig. As if everything real, smart and important takes place in the cities, because that’s where real life is, and everywhere else is just irrelevant.’ He turns towards her again. ‘You think like that too, don’t you?’
She doesn’t answer, just goes on glaring at him. Mattias shrugs his shoulders.
‘After two years in Stockholm I realised that I enjoyed life in the countryside. I like people knowing who I am, knowing my parents and grandparents. I realised this is where I belong. That’s why I came back. That’s why I stayed. Not because anyone forced me.’
He takes another drag on the cigarette, then blows the smoke over his shoulder.
‘Obviously I should have told you. Should have tried to explain. But you were so angry, you were in such a rush to get away from here. And after that . . .’
We weren’t best friends anymore, she thinks.
‘This is my life, Vera,’ he sighs. ‘You can think whatever the fuck you like about it, but you can’t just show up when it suits you, cause chaos and then have the nerve to judge me.’
She understands what he means, and feels almost ashamed. But her drunken anger is stronger that any sense of shame.
‘Haven’t you got a family you can lie to?’ she snaps. ‘How does infidelity fit with all this talk of belonging?’
Mattias treads the cigarette butt into the gravel. ‘Go to hell, Vera,’ he says. He sounds sad and angry in equal measure.
*
Out in the car park she totters a little on her heels and drops the car key on the ground. She’s really far too drunk to drive, but she can’t imagine there are going to be any spot checks in Reftinge this evening. Mattias and Uncle Harald will have come to some sort of arrangement about that, just like everything else. She’s so tired of this place. Tired of all the unspoken agreements, all the lies and secrets.
She has no desire at all to go back to Ängsgården. No desire to sleep in a creaking bunk bed in an impersonal cabin listening to the Polish workers’ drunken partying in the other cabins. She takes her shoes off, throws them on the passenger seat and gets into the car. She gets the engine started on her second attempt and drives home.
Chapter 61
B
ackagården is in almost total darkness when Veronica pulls into the yard. Only one solitary outside lamp is lit above the cart shed. Her dad’s still at the party, which suits her fine. All she wants is to get out of this damn dress, wash the make-up off and go to bed. First thing tomorrow morning she’ll ask her dad for a lift to the station, and then she’ll never set foot in this dump again.
The air feels closer now, there’s thunder on the way. Heavy clouds have rolled in across the sky, only occasionally letting the moon shine through. She looks for the spare key in the window box, can’t find it and swears. But when she tries the front door anyway, to her surprise she finds that it’s unlocked. She stands in the dark hallway for a few moments, trying to convince herself that her dad just forgot to lock up, but deep down she knows he never forgets anything. And these days he even locks the study door at night.
She listens hard, and at first hears nothing but the ticking of the old wall clock in the dining room. Then she thinks she can hear a faint sound from upstairs. She stiffens. There’s someone up there. Maybe even the burglar Mattias mentioned. And because she drove up to the house with her headlights on, there’s a high risk that he’s seen her coming. That he knows she’s standing down here in the darkness. Alone.
A shiver runs down her spine and her first instinct is to turn and run back to the car, drive off and fetch help. But out of nowhere anger takes over. The cupboard under the stairs is just a few metres away. Four silent, barefoot steps and she’s there. She listens out for the sound of footsteps on the stairs as she removes the loose plank. Nothing but silence. The shotgun is exactly where she left it. She takes it out, and creeps cautiously to the foot of the stairs. Tucking the butt against her cheek, she aims the barrel towards the upper floor. She hears a faint creak from one of the floorboards up there. The intruder is still there, and has nowhere to go.
She slides her thumb over the safety catch. Then she moves softly up the stairs, one tread at a time. She avoids the fifth and seventh steps because she knows they creak. For a few moments she’s a teenager again, sneaking quietly and carefully up the stairs so that she can lie plausibly tomorrow when Dad asks her what time she got home. A lie that was important to both of them, for different reasons.
Halfway up she hears the sound again. A floorboard creaking faintly as someone moves their foot. The sound is coming from the right-hand side of the house. Her heart is beating fast, but she’s no longer frightened.
At the top of the stairs she stops, and sweeps the landing with the gun. She keeps her eye focused along the barrel, with her thumb on the safety catch and her index finger on the trigger. It’s darker up here and it takes a few moments for her eyes to get used to it, but when they have she sees that the key is sitting in the lock of her mum’s room and that the door is ajar.
She moves quietly towards it. More sounds from within. She holds her breath and listens. She can hear breathing, and the rustle of fabric against fabric. The squeak of a drawer being opened. Things being moved. Still holding the gun to her cheek with her right hand, she gently nudges the door open with her left.
The moon is shining straight through the window, bathing the whole room in silver light. The air is filled with the scent of roses, of Mum’s perfume, and for a fraction of a second it almost overwhelms her.
Everything looks just as she remembers it. The double bed with its flowery bedspread, and beside it the make-up table with its mirror and stool. On one wall, above Mum’s little bureau, there’s a large photograph. Mum’s looking into the camera, and she’s probably smiling, but the moonlight in the room is distorting her face, giving it a look of infinite sorrow.
The man in the room has been so focused on what he’s doing that he hasn’t heard her coming. He’s wearing gloves and has his hoodie pulled up over his head, and he’s bent over the make-up table with his back to her
, rifling through Mum’s jewellery. She takes aim at his back and takes the safety catch off.
‘Stand absolutely still! Or I’ll blow your head off!’
The man starts. He raises his arms and slowly turns round, in spite of her command. She curls her finger around the trigger. Her pulse is roaring in her temples.
‘D-don’t shoot, Veronica, it’s me.’
She recognises both the voice and the blue eyes before the man slowly pushes his hood back. Isak.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ is the first thing she thinks of to say when her initial shock has subsided. She holds the shotgun aimed at his chest, and raises it slightly when he seems to be about to take a step forward.
He holds his hands up towards her. ‘Please, guns make me nervous. Especially when they’re pointing at my face.’
He’s trying to sound jokey, but she can hear that he’s scared. She goes on aiming at him.
‘Were you thinking of stealing my mum’s jewellery?’
He doesn’t answer, and slowly lowers his arms and lets them hang by his sides. ‘It’s not what you think. I’m not a thief.’
‘Really?’ She nods towards the make-up table, its drawers hanging open. ‘You knew the house would be empty during the party. You knew where the spare key was. Although – how did you get here?’
‘I borrowed a motorbike in town.’
‘You mean you stole it?’
He doesn’t deny it, just shrugs his shoulders slightly.
‘You’ve been here before,’ she says. ‘Out in the rose garden. You were the person I was chasing.’
He holds his arms out in a gesture that she interprets as a yes.
‘And my flat?’
He nods reluctantly. ‘I saw that the window was open. I never meant to steal anything, not then, and not now.’
‘No? So what are you doing here in the middle of the night?’
He takes a deep breath, then sighs. ‘I’m trying to find out the truth. Find out what really happened to Billy.’
End of Summer Page 28