End of Summer

by Anders de la Motte

  He sounds genuine, but on the other hand he’s lied before, in a very convincing way.

  ‘What for?’ she says. ‘If you’re not my little brother, how come you’re so obsessed with something that happened twenty years ago and has nothing to do with you?’

  He hesitates, and seems to be thinking before he replies. ‘You remember I told you that I found my adoption records this spring, after my mum died?’

  He pauses again, waiting until she nods.

  ‘It didn’t come as a surprise. I knew all along that I was adopted, even if I didn’t remember my biological family very clearly. My adoptive parents never wanted to talk about it, and when I found those papers I understood why. My biological mother’s name was Pernilla. She was left on her own when I was five, and she wasn’t able to look after us. So my sister Åsa and I ended up being adopted by two different families. I managed to track her down. She lives in Gävle now, she’s expecting her first child. She remembers me and our parents well, even though she said she’d done her best to forget us. Our biological mother died of cancer in 1989, and our father . . .’

  He smiles in that usual way of his, but Veronica has no trouble seeing the seriousness behind it. Then the sadness. And she suddenly realises what he’s about to say, understands which piece of the puzzle he’s been keeping from her. She even understands why.

  ‘Our biological father’s name . . .’ Isak goes on in a toneless voice, ‘was Tommy Rooth.’

  Chapter 62

  V

  eronica lowers the shotgun, puts the safety catch back on and gestures to Isak to sit down on the bed.

  ‘Åsa was shocked at first when I found her,’ he says. ‘She slammed the door in my face, and threatened to call the police if I didn’t leave. After a while she calmed down. She was seven years old in the summer of 1983, and still remembers everything all too well.’

  He takes off his gloves and runs his fingers through his blond hair.

  ‘Åsa’s spent most of her life trying to forget all about it, which is hardly surprising, really. Who wants to remember their father if he’s a child killer?’ He tries another smile. ‘I had a pretty messy upbringing. Children’s homes, supervision orders, a few months in prison. Mostly small stuff. Break-ins, car theft, illegal driving.’ He makes a weary gesture with his hands. ‘I’ve been involved in a few fights. But I always felt that violence wasn’t really my thing. I’m more the type who gets beaten up rather than the other way round, if you know what I mean?’

  Veronica catches sight of her reflection in the mirror of the make-up table, and sees that her jaw is clenched in a rigid grimace that reminds her of her mum. She relaxes her face.

  ‘After seeing Åsa I started to think about it all,’ Isak goes on. ‘She had already thought through everything a thousand times, but to me it came as a bolt from the blue. If our dad was a child killer . . .’ He stops and looks at her with a resigned expression. ‘Then what did that make me? Like father, like son?’

  ‘So you decided to try to find out more? You came down here and poked about, then you came looking for me in Stockholm.’

  He nods slowly.

  ‘Maybe it sounds stupid, but I was hoping I might find something to go on. Something that could explain why Tommy did what he did. Or, even better, something to prove he was innocent. Something Åsa and I could cling on to.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this at the motel? After we . . .’

  ‘I almost did, but I didn’t dare. Sometimes it’s easier to lie. Besides, I like you.’

  She takes a deep breath and tries to make sense of her thoughts. Strangely enough, she doesn’t feel particularly upset. More resolute, contented, almost. As if she’s actually managed to accomplish something. Isak’s telling the truth now, she’s certain of that. She can even understand why he hid behind layer upon layer of lies. Now that his secret is out, it’s possible to appreciate how exposed he must feel. How vulnerable he is. Suddenly she feels almost sorry for him. He too is a victim, just like her. Yet another person who – even though he didn’t know it until very recently – is also living under the shadow of the summer of 1983.

  ‘Why did you leave a pebble on Mum’s grave?’

  He shrugs his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. A way of showing respect, maybe. Of asking for forgiveness, from me and Åsa. I know, it sounds stupid.’

  He falls silent and looks away.

  ‘And what were you hoping to find in here?’ she says.

  He shrugs again. ‘I don’t honestly know. After what you said about the bedrooms, and your dad keeping everything exactly as it was the night Billy went missing, I suppose I just wanted to come and see them with my own eyes. One last try, maybe.’

  Veronica goes over to the make-up table he had been going through, the drawers are all open. She catches sight of jewellery boxes and shiny fabrics as she closes them. There’s a framed photograph of Mum on top of the table, and beside it a vase containing twelve perfect Magdalena roses set in an almost equally perfect arrangement. One of the roses is standing slightly crooked, probably because Isak happened to nudge it. She puts it back in position. The petals are as soft as velvet. The scent is enchanting. She hasn’t been in here for twenty years, and just like when she was in Billy’s room it’s like stepping straight back into her childhood. A place where time has stood still. The door to the wardrobe is open. Inside Mum’s dresses and jackets are hanging in a row. She runs her hand over the garments, then leans forward and smells them.

  My little mouse. My little mouse . . .

  Isak moves so quietly that she doesn’t hear him stand up. She sees the movement out of the corner of her eye, turns round and is about to raise the gun. But he just walks over to the window and looks out. She closes the wardrobe door, making sure to hold the shotgun in such a way that she can quickly lift it up again.

  ‘Do you think he came from down there?’ Isak is pointing to the far end of the garden. ‘Tommy Rooth, my dad. Do you think he came through the maize and took your little brother that summer?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She goes and stands just behind him and looks out. The thunder has started to rumble, but the harvest moon is still peering out between the heavy clouds from time to time, turning the rose bushes below into burnished metal.

  ‘Do you ever get the feeling that you’re missing something?’ Isak murmurs. ‘That there’s something going on right in front of your eyes, something you don’t understand, no matter how hard you try?’

  She starts. That description is precisely how she’s been feeling over the past few days. Perhaps that isn’t so strange – they’re both part of the same tragedy, after all. Sharing the same sorrow.

  ‘Some of my clients want to know how you can comprehend the incomprehensible. But sometimes there just aren’t any good answers.’

  He nods slowly. The moon gets swallowed by the clouds and the garden goes dark. The first lightning is already visible on the horizon. In the distance, off above the field of maize, the red eyes of the wind giants are winking.

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you. The first night I was here, I broke into the old barn. I found something there, something that worried me.’

  He’s interrupted by a sudden noise, the sound of a large engine approaching. Then more of them.

  ‘You need to get away from here!’ she says. ‘Right now!’

  Chapter 63

  T

  he yard outside is lit up by car headlamps. Doors open and close, shadowy figures move towards the house.

  ‘Did anyone know you were coming here?’ she whispers to Isak as they hurry down the stairs.

  ‘I don’t think so. But I stopped down by the park to make sure your cars were there. Someone could have seen me then.’

  ‘And where’s the motorbike?’

  ‘On the gravel track on the far side of the maize.’

  ‘OK. Dad mustn’t find you here. Sneak out the back way and I’ll try to delay them.’

  He nods and tak
es a few steps towards the kitchen. Then he stops, turns back and looks like he’s about to say something.

  ‘Get going!’ she hisses, waving him away.

  She quickly puts the shotgun back in its hiding place under the stairs, and only just gets back out into the hall before the front door opens. It isn’t her dad. Instead Uncle Harald and Sören the grocer are standing outside. Smart dress shirts, rolled up sleeves, hard eyes.

  ‘H-hello – what are you doing here?’ she says, unable to hide her awkwardness at having been caught out.

  ‘Where is he?’ Uncle Harald says.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your friend. Isak Rooth. Tommy’s son. Where is he?’

  Uncle Harald pushes past her and hurries into the kitchen. Sören grabs her arm hard and pulls her after him. The terrace door is wide open. The light from various torches is playing across the grass. She hears dogs barking, voices shouting.

  ‘He’s here! Get him!’

  The barking turns into a howl, mixed with a cry of pain.

  ‘What the hell were you thinking, Vera?’ Sören says as he drags her out into the garden. ‘Bringing him here and letting him in? Rooth’s son. In your mother’s house.’

  The torches have stopped moving and are all pointing in the same direction. The dogs are barking excitedly but stop instantly when Uncle Harald bellows at them.

  The long grass is wet and cold under her bare feet. She tries to pull free, but Uncle Sören just pulls her arm up higher, forcing her onto tiptoe. He pushes her ahead of him, towards the torches. He doesn’t let go until they get there. The men are standing in a circle. Patrik Brink is there, holding two of Uncle Harald’s largest dogs by the leash. The two Strid brothers are next to him. Hunched shoulders, bulky bodies, unused to shirts and smart trousers.

  The dogs are straining at the leash, baring their teeth at Isak, who’s lying curled up in the centre of the circle. One of his trouser legs is wet, ripped to shreds. Beneath it his skin has been torn open.

  Veronica gasps for breath, feeling increasingly nauseous.

  ‘Did you know?’ Uncle Harald hisses. He grabs her by the arm and forces her to look him in the eye. ‘Did you know who he is?’

  ‘I-I . . .’ She tries to gain a bit of time, figure out the right answer. Uncle Harald isn’t prepared to wait.

  ‘Mattias took fingerprints from the cabin at Ängsgården. He wanted to know who your friend really is. We got the results this evening. Isak Welin. A thief and an embezzler with a long criminal record. And Tommy Rooth’s son. So answer me, Vera – did you know he’s the son of the bastard who murdered your brother?’

  ‘Wait . . .’ Isak holds one hand up, but Patrik kicks him in the stomach, hard.

  Veronica stands as if paralysed, watching as the scene unfolds in front of her. The Strid brothers pick Isak up, carry him off towards the rose garden and pin him against the wall. Uncle Harald has let go of her now, but she has no choice but to follow them.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Find out why he’s here. And what the fuck he wants.’

  Uncle Harald suddenly looks as if something’s just occurred to him. He takes hold of her shoulders.

  ‘Has he asked about me? About Timothy?’

  She shakes her head. Tries to remember. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t think so?’ His grip tightens. ‘Think carefully. Has he said anything about Tim?’

  ‘Let go, you’re hurting!’

  ‘Think!’ Uncle Harald’s face is right in front of hers. His eyes are burning, his lips pulled back.

  ‘Were you after Timmy, you bastard?’ Patrik yells at Isak, which makes the dogs start to bark again.

  One of the Strid brothers punches Isak in the stomach. Once, twice, three times. The blows are dry, muffled. The other brother makes sure Isak doesn’t double over.

  ‘No,’ she yells. ‘He hasn’t said anything about Tim. Nothing at all!’

  Uncle Harald doesn’t seem to be listening. He lets go of her shoulders and beckons Sören over to him.

  ‘Do you think he knows?’

  ‘Why else would he be here? Like father . . .’

  ‘Knows what?’ she blurts. But the men turn their backs on her as they form a cluster by the wall.

  Patrik has let go of the dogs’ leashes. He’s holding Isak’s T-shirt and is banging his head against the wall. Isak looks like he’s about to pass out, his eyes are glazed and his eyelids drooping. The only time they move is when the back of his head crashes against the wall.

  Thud.

  ‘Tell us why you’re here, you bastard!’

  Thud.

  ‘Are you after Timmy? Is that it?’

  Thud.

  Thud.

  Blood appears on the wall. The harsh moonlight makes it look black.

  ‘Stop it!’ she says, but no one’s listening.

  ‘Tell us what your father did with Billy!’

  Thud.

  The stain on the wall grows larger.

  ‘Tell us, you fucker!’

  Thud.

  ‘Stop it!’ she yells, and hits Patrik in the back with her fist as hard as she can.

  He stops and all five men turn towards her. Their eyes are empty, almost surprised. As if they’d forgotten she was there.

  ‘Stop it!’ she screams again, with her fist still in the air. ‘You’re killing him!’

  Chapter 64

  T

  he air grows thicker as the thunder rolls closer. The storm will soon be upon them.

  Sören the grocer and one of the Strid brothers are dragging her across the yard. She sees the other men lift Isak into one of the pick-ups. His head is hanging limply and he’s barely moving.

  ‘Ebbe could be back anytime now. I don’t want him involved in this any more than necessary,’ she hears Uncle Harald say to Patrik.

  ‘What do we do with her?’ Sören says.

  Uncle Harald throws a heavy ring of keys over to him and gestures towards the cowshed. She doesn’t quite understand what’s going on. Not until they drag her into the shed and over to the locked door of the old milking parlour.

  ‘No!’ She pushes back, trying to brace her feet on the ground. Her terror makes her so strong that the two men holding her eventually have to get Uncle Harald to help shove her into the darkness and lock the door on her.

  She hits something and falls to the floor. It’s ice-cold under her palms, the air raw and sour, just as she remembers. She jumps to her feet in panic, and throws herself against the door, banging on it as hard as she can. She screams until her lungs run out of air. None of it helps. She’s locked in, just like she was when she was little. Shut in the darkness. Something brushes against her foot, it feels like soft fur, and for a couple of seconds all her nightmares merge together. The milking parlour, darkness, foxes, and she screams until her throat is burning.

  She sinks down with her back against the wall. Her sobs make her body shake uncontrollably. She’s trapped. Imprisoned in her own worst imaginings.

  She tries to pull herself together, tries to breathe slowly.

  In

  Out

  Iiin

  Ouuut

  It’s harder than ever. Almost impossible. But after a few minutes the panic starts to recede slightly. This really isn’t any worse than the old mine. There’s no water here, no tons of earth and rock above her head. And sooner or later someone will come and let her out. Uncle Harald, Uncle Sören, or one of the other men.

  They’ve locked her in. Left her here in the dark to get her out of the way. Thinking that she’d just put up with it, and wait nicely for them to come back. Because she’s Vera Nilsson, Ebbe and Magdalena’s girl, who – even though she’s impertinent and stubborn – always does as she’s told.

  Like fuck she does!

  She looks up, trying to get her bearings in the room. There’s a strong smell of rubber, and when she reaches out for the object she knocked into earlier she feels the rough surface of a
tyre. It must be the stack of winter tyres for Dad’s car. The fur-like thing she brushed against turns out, ridiculously, to be a bundle of rope.

  When she walks round the stack of tyres she discovers something else. A faint sliver of silvery light is filtering in through a hole in the wall. She feels around it, and finds planks rather than bricks. She runs her hand over them and finds an edge, a hatch of some sort, roughly in the middle of the wall.

  She squeezes her fingers into the crack, trying to push the hatch up. It moves no more than a couple of millimetres. She tries again, pushing with all her strength. There’s a creaking sound, and the hatch moves a couple of centimetres, letting in a little more moonlight.

  She rests for a while, shaking the lactic acid from her arms. Then she tries again, and again, letting her fury pour from her chest into her arms. The hatch very gradually moves, a little bit at a time, until the gap is big enough for her to be able to crawl through.

  Her dress catches and she tears it as she squeezes through the hole. The grooves on the side of the hatch are full of ancient grease that smears her hands, face and hair. She couldn’t care less. Fury is burning ever stronger inside her, giving her unexpected strength, and all she can think about is getting out.

  The hatch turns out to lead directly into her dad’s workshop. Just like the locked bedrooms upstairs, she hasn’t been in here since she was a child. The light she could see is coming from a window high up in one wall. She might be able to climb up onto the workbench, smash the glass with one of the array of tools neatly hung up on their hooks, but crawling through a broken window, then jumping out and landing on pieces of glass doesn’t seem like a particularly smart idea. Especially not when you’re barefoot.

  She tries the door to the cart shed where her dad usually parks his car. It’s bolted on the outside and won’t budge. There’s another door in the workshop that leads back into the old cowshed. There’s a metal bar across it, held in place by a padlock. She looks around for a suitable tool. She finds a heavy, well-oiled pair of bolt-cutters on a hook and cuts the loop of the padlock as if it were a dry twig.