Текст книги "Still Waters"

Автор книги: Viveca Sten

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CHAPTER 77

Henrik was sick with worry. As a doctor he knew exactly what would happen if Nora had taken her insulin and not eaten. He tried to convince himself that she must have eaten enough to be safe, wherever she was. But why wasn’t she at home? And why was the food on the table untouched?

He reproached himself for the arguments of the past few days. Twenty-four hours at sea hadn’t changed his opinion—he had still been angry when he came ashore—but he had decided to ignore the issue. He had already made his feelings clear, end of story. He just didn’t understand why women needed to talk things through all the time. Much better to get to the point as quickly as possible, make a decision, then stick to it.

Now he bitterly regretted his uncompromising attitude.

He pictured Nora’s face on the day Adam was born. She had been so proud. Completely exhausted, of course, but indescribably happy. Her hair had been plastered to her forehead with sweat, as if she’d run a marathon. Which of course she had, in a way. She held her newborn son close, beaming with joy and triumph. “Isn’t he wonderful?” she had said. “Isn’t he amazing? Our son.”

There was a strange taste in Henrik’s mouth, a mixture of acidity and something metallic. At first he couldn’t identify it, but then he realized what it was. He had experienced exactly the same thing when Mats, his best friend at school, fell off his bike. Mats had been unconscious for several minutes, and during that time Henrik had been more scared than he had ever been in his twelve-year-old life.

It was the taste of deep anxiety. Pure fear.

He had been to see Signe and had concluded that there was nothing he could do for her; they were waiting for the air ambulance to take her to the hospital.

Now he was with Nora’s parents. Thomas had also returned. Henrik shook his head in despair. “No one’s seen Nora. It’s as if she’s gone up in smoke.”

The shrill ringtone of Thomas’s phone made them both jump. Thomas’s voice was barely recognizable as he answered with a roar. “Hello!”

“It’s Carina.”

“What’s happened?”

“I’ve spoken to the coast guard and Stockholm Radio. Neither of them had anything in particular to report, apart from the usual weekend drunks. But Stockholm Radio did say that a sailor called in and said there was a fire in the old lighthouse on Grönskär. They’ve tried to contact the curator for confirmation, but he was on another island. He’s on his way over to see if anything’s happened. I don’t know if it’s important, but you did say I should call about the least thing, and Grönskär isn’t far from Sandhamn.”

Thomas looked at Henrik. “There’s a fire in Grönskär lighthouse. Could she be there?” He called out to Nora’s parents, “There’s a fire in Grönskär lighthouse. Could it have anything to do with Nora?”

Her father looked horrified. “We were there today, on an excursion with the Friends of Sandhamn.”

Susanne appeared in the doorway, her arms wrapped around her body. Her face was ashen. “But what would she be doing over there? At this time of night?”

“Shit.” Thomas suddenly realized he had missed something when he was in Signe’s house. There had been a life jacket on the floor when he’d walked in through the greenhouse. It didn’t belong there and was completely out of character for Signe Brand, who was always so tidy. But if she had just been out in a boat, that might explain it.

And the fact that Nora’s boat was still moored by the jetty.

“I think she’s on Grönskär,” Thomas said. “We’ll take the Buster.”

CHAPTER 78

Henrik and Thomas raced down to the jetty. Henrik hardly had time to cast off before Thomas revved the engine. He blessed his years with the maritime police, where he had learned to handle boats at high speed and in difficult nighttime conditions.

But he still didn’t see the rigid inflatable boat—commonly called a RIB—before it was almost upon him.

It came hurtling through the sound as if it had been fired from a cannon; it had no lights and was ignoring the speed limit of five knots. It must have been doing forty knots, maybe more.

It raced across the surface of the water, a miracle of speed that wasn’t remotely under the control of its young, intoxicated driver.

Loud rock music pulsated from the speakers, but Thomas barely had time to register the noise before they were on the point of colliding. He did, however, see the driver’s terrified face and could hear the sound of young girls’ laughter, which quickly turned into hysterical screams. They were so close that he could smell rubber from the other boat.

Thomas gripped the wheel so hard that his fingers hurt. He tried to avoid the RIB by veering sharply to the left, as hard as possible. The sudden maneuver caused the Buster to list heavily, and water splashed in over the port side. And still it seemed as if the RIB was heading inexorably toward them. He realized in despair that there was no escape; time had run out.

With only inches to spare, they avoided a direct collision, but the other boat was so close that it touched the Buster’s hull. The petrified driver, who had been trying to move to starboard, lost control. The impact made the prow jerk sideways, and the speed at which the RIB was traveling increased the effect. The engine let out a high-pitched roar, and the RIB was standing on its right-hand side above the dark water. For a moment it balanced there as the occupants desperately tried to hang on, but then gravity took over and the boat tipped over with a dull, heavy thud. The passengers were hurled into the sea as the hull came crashing down in a cascade of water.

“Where the hell did that come from?” Henrik yelled. The sudden changes of direction had thrown him down on the deck; he had managed to grab ahold of a cleat and clung on for dear life.

Thomas had great difficulty in steering the Buster, which listed heavily once again. When he had regained control he swung around and went back to the RIB, which was floating upside down surrounded by screaming teenagers.

“Are you OK?” he shouted to Henrik, who was hauling himself upright.

“Black and blue, but I’m on my feet.”

Thomas tried to peer through the darkness as he headed for the capsized RIB. “Can you see anything?” he asked Henrik.

Henrik leaned over the rail. “I can see seven, no, eight or nine people in the water, I think. Could be more.”

“We need help,” Thomas said, painfully conscious of how vital it was to find Nora. But they couldn’t just leave the teenagers to their fate. He took out his phone and called Peter Lagerlöf, one of his best friends in the maritime police. Thomas sent up a silent prayer that Peter would be on duty. And that his boat was somewhere near Sandhamn. With a limited number of boats at their disposal, there was no guarantee that the maritime police would be able to help immediately.

He was in luck.

The police launch was just off Korsö, only minutes away. Peter would inform the coast guard so Thomas could devote himself to the immediate situation.

Thomas carefully maneuvered the Buster toward the teenagers. Three hysterical girls were treading water as they tried to cling to the RIB. Several were screaming for help farther away. Thomas slowed down and let the engine tick over so he and Henrik could haul the shocked, soaking girls on board.

“How many of you were on the RIB?” Thomas asked.

“I can’t remember,” one of the girls sobbed as she sank down onto the seat. The other two were stunned silent.

“How many of you were in the boat?” he tried again. “This is important; you have to try to remember.”

The girl looked at him, her eyes glassy. “I don’t know. There were, like, lots of us. We were just messing around.”

God, he thought with a shudder. They’re just kids. Teenagers playing with grown-ups’ toys. They have no idea how to control the power in a boat like that.

Henrik leaned over the side to haul up a young boy. He grabbed the boy’s arms, but just as the youngster was about to climb aboard, his friend who was next to him became hysterical.

“Me first, me first,” he screamed, clinging to his friend’s shoulders and pushing him under the water.

Thomas didn’t dare let go of the wheel in case the boat began to drift.

“Henrik,” he yelled. “Stop him—he’s drowning the other kid!”

Henrik bent down and seized the boy’s drenched shirt with his left hand. Then he punched him hard with his right hand.

“Calm down!” he said. “Otherwise you’ll be swimming home! We’ll take care of both of you.”

The boy stiffened, then let go. With staring, horrified eyes, he kept still as Henrik helped the two of them on board.

In his peripheral vision Thomas could see the police launch approaching. He sighed with relief. Every minute they lost before finding Nora increased the danger she was in.

The launch was picking up several teenagers out of the water.

“Sebastian,” sobbed one of the girls sitting in the Buster. “Has anyone seen Sebastian?”

“What did you say?” Henrik asked.

“Sebastian was driving the boat. I asked him to drive the boat. Where is he?”

Henrik glanced at Thomas. He shook his head, and Thomas looked around. He couldn’t see anyone else in the water.

“You have to find him. It’s all my fault,” the girl said.

“Could he be underneath the RIB?” Henrik said quietly to Thomas.

Thomas hesitated. It wasn’t impossible. If Sebastian hadn’t managed to swim away he could well be there, hopefully in an air bubble. “Here, take the wheel,” he said to Henrik. He pulled off his jeans and sweater and dived into the water, which was surprisingly warm given that it must be at least sixty feet deep out here. With strong, rapid strokes he swam over to the capsized RIB. Resting one hand on the hull, he tried to listen for any sounds, any indication that there might be someone underneath. Then he took a deep breath and dived under the boat.

It was pitch black and virtually impossible to see anything. He fumbled around for a few seconds before he was forced to swim back out and come up for air. When he came up for the third time, the police launch was alongside. Peter was on the foredeck with a floodlight.

“Have you got an underwater flashlight?” Thomas yelled.

Peter nodded and shouted something to one of the other officers. He lay down on his stomach and handed the flashlight to Thomas, who took another deep breath and dived once more.

By the eerie glow of the flashlight he could see the boy, trapped between the wheel and the driving seat. His hair was floating outward around his head, like seaweed swaying in the current.

Thomas tried his best to free him, but he was running out of oxygen and had to swim back up to the surface to catch his breath.

“Did you see anything?” Peter asked as Thomas reappeared, gasping.

“There’s a boy under the boat,” Thomas panted. “But I couldn’t get him out. I’ll try again.”

He took several deep breaths, then went back down. Now he knew where the boy was and found his way more quickly. Suddenly Peter appeared beside him. Thomas signaled to him to take ahold of one leg and pull when he counted to three.

Using their combined strength, they managed to free him, and the other crewmembers on the police launch heaved the body on board.

“Is he still alive?” Thomas asked. Deep down he was already painfully aware of what the answer would be, but the question had to be asked.

One of the police officers looked at him sympathetically. “They don’t get any deader than this,” he said, gazing sadly at the young boy lying on the foredeck. “There’s nothing we can do. It’s too late.”

CHAPTER 79

The sky was beginning to grow light in the east. Too many minutes were ticking by. It was giving Thomas stomach cramps. He agonized over the choice between staying to help at the scene of the accident and heading out to Grönskär. But they had to keep searching for Nora, and the maritime police, who had now been joined by the coast guard, appeared to have the situation under control.

Several other passing boats had also stopped and offered their help. No one could save the unfortunate driver, who wasn’t much older than sixteen.

“Henrik, which way do you think is quickest?” Thomas shouted into the headwind. “Through the harbor and out via Korsö sound, or north of Kroksö?”

“North of Kroksö,” Henrik yelled above the noise of the engine. “If you go through the harbor we might meet another idiot, and we can’t afford that!”

Thomas couldn’t work out whether he was crying or he just had seawater on his face. They had lost at least thirty crucial minutes.

His expression was grim as he increased his speed. He didn’t know he was capable of driving so fast.

After ten minutes he saw the outline of Grönskär. The trip had felt like an eternity.

He frowned, trying to spot the fire, but he couldn’t see anything. The lighthouse was standing just as it had always stood. No smoke, no flames.

Carina had said that the curator was on his way, but he couldn’t see any sign of life on the barren island.

They moored the boat at the concrete jetty and made their way up to the lighthouse over the slippery rocks as quickly as they could.

There were no lights in the tower. Henrik cupped his hands around his mouth and called out Nora’s name.

No reply.

Thomas stopped at the foot of the tower and shouted as loud as he could.

“Shh.” Henrik tugged at his arm. “I thought I heard something.”

They both stood motionless, straining to pick up the sound. They heard only the waves crashing against the rocks and the cry of a lone merganser in the distance.

Thomas had an idea. “Call her phone,” he said. “If she’s unconscious she won’t be able to answer, but we might hear it ringing.”

Henrik took out his phone and called. From a bush to the left of the door came the theme from Mission Impossible.

“That’s her phone,” Henrik said. “That’s Nora’s ringtone. She must be nearby!” He ran toward the lighthouse and found the phone. But the door was locked, with the padlock in place. “She might be inside. We have to get in. Have you got anything in the boat that we could use to smash the lock?”

“Only an anchor and a paddle.” He looked at Henrik, his face set. “But I do have something else.” He reached inside his jacket and took out his service pistol, then he took a step back. “Out of the way.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Out of the way!” Thomas snapped. He had no time for explanations.

He took ahold of the pistol with both hands, removed the safety, and carefully aimed at the padlock.

The shot sounded like a clap of thunder. The sound rolled across the rocks and disappeared into the sea. The padlock fell to the ground, landing among the purple heather.

“Come on, quick!”

Thomas led the way up the steps, two at a time. It was dark inside, with the acrid stench of smoke. Henrik coughed. There was no doubt that something had been burning in here.

When they reached the first level, Thomas stopped.

The door was fastened with a sturdy hasp. Through the old-fashioned bail handle someone had taken the additional precaution of barricading the door with a large black spanner made of iron, the kind that was used in times gone by to loosen nuts as big as the palm of a hand.

It was jammed.

“Nora,” Henrik shouted, hammering on the door. “Nora, are you there?”

Thomas altered his grip on the spanner, tugging at it so hard that he could taste blood in his mouth. Henrik tried to help as best he could, but it was impossible to move. The spanner was held in place against the sturdy wooden door by its own weight.

Thomas let go, his hands aching. He looked at the door, wondering if it was possible to kick it down. Probably not. It had been built to last for centuries. Like everything else in the lighthouse, it had been constructed of the finest wood, using old-fashioned expertise. It would have required the strength of a giant to break it down.

He kicked it anyway, out of pure rage.

It didn’t move.

“This is no good—it’s completely stuck. We’re going to have to chop through it.” He turned to Henrik. “See if you can find an axe or something. There are houses on the island—there might be someone at home who can help us.”

Once again he tried to move the heavy iron spanner, but it wouldn’t budge. The feeling of hopelessness was unbearable. He saw Emily’s little body in his mind’s eye, lying there motionless, her lips blue; it had been so painfully obvious that she would never breathe again. He felt equally helpless now.

He couldn’t lose Nora, too. There must be something he could do.

He pulled at the spanner, his knuckles white with effort, straining the muscles that had been honed over many intense handball matches. The spanner moved a fraction but dropped back as soon as he let go. He felt as if he might explode with frustration. The smoky air brought tears to his eyes. He banged on the door again, calling out Nora’s name over and over, but there was no reply.

Henrik hurtled down the lighthouse steps. When he got outside, he stopped and looked around.

To the north, less than a hundred yards away, stood the old lighthouse keepers’ houses. To their left, he could see a large house made of stone, in complete darkness. Behind it there was another house, and a short distance away the old master keeper’s residence painted Falu red. There were no lights showing there either.

He ran to the stone house and tugged at the door. It was locked. He tried to look in through the windows, but it was difficult to see anything in the darkness.

“Hello, wake up, wake up!” he yelled as loud as he could, banging on the door, but the only response was the echo of his own voice.

He rushed over to the master keeper’s house and tried the door handle, pushing and pulling at it with all his might, but to no avail. The house was silent and deserted.

Desperately he looked around for some kind of chopping tool. The outline of Sandhamn was silhouetted against the horizon in the west. He couldn’t believe he had sailed into the harbor earlier, not knowing that his life was about to fall apart.

He pictured Nora trapped in the lighthouse, surrounded by flames. He bit his lip hard to push away the image. He had to stay calm. He was an experienced doctor and had seen his fair share of terrible cases.

But they hadn’t involved his own wife.

What would he say to the boys if they didn’t find her? How would he live with the knowledge of what his last words to her had been?

At that moment he would have sold his soul to the devil for an axe.

Down by the old small boat harbor on the northern part of the island he could just see a number of roofs. Perhaps there might be some tools in the old boathouses?

He ran with his fists clenched, panting. Suddenly he slipped on the grass, which was wet with dew, and fell over before getting back on his feet. His elbow struck a rock. He heard the sickening sound but didn’t have time to think about the pain; he just kept going.

Everything was quiet down by the water.

He tried the handle of the first door. Locked.

Shit, shit, shit.

There was a small window around the side. Henrik needed a decent-size stone; down by the water’s edge he found a substantial rock covered in seaweed. He picked it up and hurled it at the window with all his strength. The sound of breaking glass was like a pistol shot in the silence of the night. He quickly reached inside and unhooked the catch so he could open the window wide and climb in.

He could see the outline of various tools; in one corner, an axe was propped against the wall. He could have wept with relief. He grabbed it and climbed out of the window.

In his haste, he cut his shin badly, a nasty gash several inches long. He automatically registered that the wound would need stitching or it would leave a scar.

With blood dripping from his left leg, he raced back up the hill toward the lighthouse. He tore open the door and hurtled up the steps to the first level, where Thomas was waiting.

“Here,” he panted.

He could barely speak. His lungs were aching from the exertion, and the smoky air didn’t help. He had to bend down and rest his arms on his knees to stop himself from fainting.

Thomas grabbed the handle of the axe and took a swing at the door. He struck it again and again. On the fourth blow, the handle came off. The huge spanner fell to the floor, the metallic clang echoing through the lighthouse. Thomas stepped over it and tore open the door in a single movement. Henrik saw Nora lying on the floor, curled up on her side. The air was full of smoke, and it was almost pitch dark.

Henrik fell to his knees beside his wife and checked her pulse. In a second, he had transformed from a desperate husband to a physician.

“She’s in hypoglycemic shock. We need to get her to the hospital immediately.”

He put his arms around her shoulders and raised her gently so her head was resting on his lap. She was unconscious.

“Call the air ambulance. We need to get glucose into her at once. It’s the only way to counteract hypoglycemia; we have to inject the sugar straight into the bloodstream.”

Henrik looked at Thomas with terror in his eyes.

“I don’t know if we’re going to make it.”

Sandhamn, July 2005

Where shall I begin? What is done cannot be undone. But I have to explain what happened.

Krister Berggren was my nephew. He came to see me on Easter; he told me that he was my nephew, Helge’s son. I didn’t even know he existed. His mother had kept the identity of his father secret all those years.

When my brother, Helge, was twelve years old, he was sent to a school in Vaxholm. The distance meant he could come home only on the weekends, and in winter only if the steamboat could get through the ice. Therefore he boarded with the Berggren family in Vaxholm.

The youngest daughter in the family was called Cecilia. She was two years older than Helge, and as time went by, he fell head over heels in love with her. Their love bore fruit, and Cecilia became pregnant with Helge’s child when he was sixteen and she was eighteen.

Cecilia’s parents contacted Father, who was furious. He brought Helge back home to Sandhamn immediately, and then he paid Cecilia’s parents a significant sum of money. In return, he demanded that the matter be kept quiet, and that the child be given up for adoption as soon as it was born.

Just before he died, Father told me the whole story. Helge, on the other hand, said nothing. We never spoke of it. I don’t think he had any contact with Cecilia from the day he was put on board the boat back to Sandhamn. Perhaps he didn’t even know that he had a son; shortly after he returned, he went to sea following a terrible argument with Father.

Krister had only one thing on his mind when he came to see me: he wanted his inheritance. He looked me straight in the eye and threatened to force me to sell my house unless I bought him out. As if I had that kind of money! He had spoken to a lawyer who had assured him that the law was on his side.

I was beside myself. My home means everything to me. This is where I took my first breath and where my mother fell asleep forever. My life would be destroyed if he took it from me.

I offered Krister a bed for the night, hoping that I would be able to talk some sense into him the following day. I lay awake all night, sick with worry. There had to be a solution. How could I make Krister understand that this house wasn’t just a piece of property that could be sold on a whim?

The next day, I suggested that we should go out and lay nets, just as Helge and I used to do before he fell ill. Perhaps that would have some effect on Krister, help him to understand how unreasonable he was being.

It was a beautiful day. A pale winter sun hovered just above the horizon, and the sea was calm. I took him to Ådkobb, which was Helge’s favorite spot for laying nets.

As soon as I had laid the first net, I felt a sharp movement and saw silvery scales shining in the water. I called Krister to come and look, but when he leaned forward to get a better view, he put his hand on the cowl of the outboard motor to support himself. I hadn’t fixed the clamps properly when the motor was pushed up. As it dropped back down, Krister lost his balance and fell into the water, straight into the net.

I reached for the nearest rope and made a loop so that he could slip it around his waist, intending to try to haul him back on board. For some reason he had refused to put on a life jacket. “They’re only for women and kids,” he had muttered when I offered him one.

Suddenly I noticed that the rope I had used was actually the anchor rope, with the heavy grappling hook attached to the other end. The realization came in an instant. If I didn’t pull him out of the water, life would go back to normal. Nobody would be able to take my home away from me. Everything would be just as it had been before.

Without really thinking, I picked up the anchor and threw it overboard. My arms carried out the movement of their own accord. The last thing I saw was his head being dragged down into the cold, dark water.

Afterward it was as if there was a kind of white winter’s mist surrounding that day. It almost felt as if it had never happened. But then Krister’s body washed ashore. I knew at once that it was my nephew. I didn’t know what to do. Night after night I lay awake, thinking.

And then Kicki Berggren turned up. One day she was just standing there, knocking on my door. She was a greedy woman, and she claimed that she was Krister’s cousin. According to her, his death meant that she would inherit in his place. If I didn’t agree to give her half the house, she would force me into it.

I heard myself offering her a cup of tea before we continued our discussion. It was as if someone else was speaking.

As I was getting the tin containing my homemade tea blend out of the pantry, I spotted the bottle of rat poison. It had been on the top shelf for years. With trembling hands, I picked it up. The red label with its skull and crossbones seemed to glow in the dim light.

Then I knew what to do. When the tea was ready, I poured it into two mugs and added a significant amount of the poisonous liquid to one of them. Then I put some homemade jam tarts on a plate and took them into the other room. After Kicki had finished her tea, I asked if she could come back the following day. In an unfamiliar, hollow voice I asked for some time to think over the situation. The same unfamiliar voice promised to give her my decision within twenty-four hours. We arranged to meet the following day at twelve o’clock. But Kicki never came back.

Helge’s old medication is standing here beside me on the kitchen table as I write this letter. It’s morphine; I got it from the hospital when he was dying. Now it is needed one last time.

Kajsa is rubbing around my legs, whimpering uneasily. She’s a clever girl; she knows that something is wrong. She is looking at me with such a pleading expression that I can hardly go on writing. But Nora is locked inside Grönskär lighthouse and must be rescued as soon as possible. We were there together this evening, and she knows what I have done. I couldn’t risk her stopping me from doing what I must do, so I had to lock her in. I don’t know how I managed it, but somehow I found the strength to jam the door with the big, heavy spanner I found in the corner. Then I took her boat and came back.

Tell Nora that I really am very sorry I locked her in.

A few final words: This is my own decision. No one has the right to take my home away from me. This is where I was born, and this is where I will die. Signe Brand

With a little sigh Signe put the pen down. She folded up the letter, placed it in an envelope, and propped it up against a candlestick on the kitchen table. Then she took another piece of paper, scribbled down a few lines, and slipped it in an envelope. Slowly she got to her feet, crossed the kitchen, and got out a box of matches.

“Come along, Kajsa,” she said, patting the dog on the head.

She picked up the kerosene lamp from the kitchen table, the lamp that Grandfather Alarik had bought in Stockholm, to the delight of the entire family. She had been just a little girl at the time, but she still remembered how beautiful the lamp had been when Grandfather had brought it home.

Carefully, she lit the wick and adjusted it so that the lamp spread a warm glow all around.

With the lamp in one hand and the morphine in the other, she went out into the greenhouse. With practiced movements she prepared two syringes of morphine; her experience of looking after Helge during his illness had not gone to waste.

Kajsa had settled down at her feet, on her favorite rug.

As she injected the dog, the tears poured down her wrinkled cheeks. She stroked Kajsa’s soft, velvety fur and tried to hold back the sobs. Kajsa whimpered but didn’t move; she made no protest as Signe injected the morphine.

Signe sat motionless with Kajsa’s head resting on her knee until the dog stopped breathing.

Then she tipped out a handful of tablets and swallowed them with some water. She picked up the other syringe and emptied it into her left arm. She wrapped a blanket around herself, one that she had crocheted many years ago. She was a little bit cold, but it didn’t really matter anymore. Her final action was to turn off the kerosene lamp.

She could just about make out the horizon and the familiar outline of the islands in the night. She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair for the last time.