The Voices Beyond: (Oland Quartet Series 4) by Johan Theorin Page B
Authors: Johan Theorin
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cleared.
This was the spot. This was where the croft had stood. But a giant appeared to have stamped all over it, brushed the bits and pieces to one side, then moved on.
The Homecomer looked at what was left for a little while, then backed away. That was enough.
He turned around and increased his speed – and almost bumped into the other two. Pecka and Rita were crouching down in the undergrowth; Pecka was holding a pair of binoculars and looking in the direction of the dock.
The Homecomer saw that there was a small cargo boat moored by the quayside; it looked rusty, possibly abandoned. But then he noticed movement on deck. People were moving around by the hatches leading to the hold, and on the bridge.
‘We know their schedule,’ Rita said. ‘They’ve brought goods ashore for the past two days, and she sails straight after midsummer.’
The Homecomer didn’t say anything, but Pecka nodded.
‘That’s when we’ll do it.’
They carried on watching the boat in the middle of a cloud of buzzing flies, but the Homecomer couldn’t forget the remnants of his childhood, deep in the forest.
The New Country, June 1931
The flies are buzzing inside the carriage, the wind is strong as they speed along, and the train whistle blows. Aron has watched the trains crossing the alvar all his life, but he has never been on one. It’s a real adventure, chugging across the island just a few carriages behind the engine, straight through the flat landscape. A journey through emptiness, through the grassy plain that is the alvar, but it’s still exciting. Aron sticks his head out of the window, feeling the wind in his hair. The steam train is moving faster than the odd cars and buses he sees on the road.
Sometimes they travel past a barn, which brings back memories of last summer, when the barn wall collapsed and everything went quiet in the darkness.
The wall had fallen to reveal a black gap underneath, like the opening of an underground crypt. Aron had stood stock still, staring at it. Then Sven had placed a hand on his back and given him a shove.
‘
In you go
,’ Sven had growled, sweaty and stressed. ‘
Get in there and fetch his money.
’
Aron had done as he was told. He had lain down on the grass and wriggled under the wall.
Into the darkness. He had crawled in over the cold ground, in under the hard, wooden wall. A nail had scratched his forehead, but he had ducked and kept on going.
Towards the body.
Edvard Kloss, lying there under the wall.
Trapped. Motionless.
Aron shudders in the cold wind as he gazes out of the train window. He doesn’t want to remember that night.
But the farms alongside the railway line don’t seem to bother Sven. When he sees the farmhands working by the barns, he raises a hand and waves.
‘Do you know them?’ Aron asks.
‘No, but all workers are my brothers. They, too, will be liberated from their back-breaking toil one day!’
After Kalleguta, the railway turns sharply to the west, towards the station in Borgholm. Outside the town the sea appears once again, like a blue ribbon in the west. Aron has never travelled on the ferry to the mainland either; he has never crossed the Sound.
When they arrive they alight from the train at the big stone building, then wander through the straight streets. The black-suited residents of the town glance at Aron and Sven’s simple clothes as they pass by. Aron can hear them speaking quietly behind them.
‘They were gossiping about me,’ Sven says. ‘They know who I am.’
‘Do they?’
Sven nods, his lips compressed into a thin line.
‘They haven’t forgotten my quarrels with those who were out to exploit the poor.’
They carry on down towards the harbour, where a dozen or so small cargo boats and a couple of ferries are moored, with a large yacht in solitary splendour slightly further away.
In the restaurant they each have an omelette, which costs two kronor and fifty öre. Sven has a glass of beer, Aron a soft drink.
After
This was the spot. This was where the croft had stood. But a giant appeared to have stamped all over it, brushed the bits and pieces to one side, then moved on.
The Homecomer looked at what was left for a little while, then backed away. That was enough.
He turned around and increased his speed – and almost bumped into the other two. Pecka and Rita were crouching down in the undergrowth; Pecka was holding a pair of binoculars and looking in the direction of the dock.
The Homecomer saw that there was a small cargo boat moored by the quayside; it looked rusty, possibly abandoned. But then he noticed movement on deck. People were moving around by the hatches leading to the hold, and on the bridge.
‘We know their schedule,’ Rita said. ‘They’ve brought goods ashore for the past two days, and she sails straight after midsummer.’
The Homecomer didn’t say anything, but Pecka nodded.
‘That’s when we’ll do it.’
They carried on watching the boat in the middle of a cloud of buzzing flies, but the Homecomer couldn’t forget the remnants of his childhood, deep in the forest.
The New Country, June 1931
The flies are buzzing inside the carriage, the wind is strong as they speed along, and the train whistle blows. Aron has watched the trains crossing the alvar all his life, but he has never been on one. It’s a real adventure, chugging across the island just a few carriages behind the engine, straight through the flat landscape. A journey through emptiness, through the grassy plain that is the alvar, but it’s still exciting. Aron sticks his head out of the window, feeling the wind in his hair. The steam train is moving faster than the odd cars and buses he sees on the road.
Sometimes they travel past a barn, which brings back memories of last summer, when the barn wall collapsed and everything went quiet in the darkness.
The wall had fallen to reveal a black gap underneath, like the opening of an underground crypt. Aron had stood stock still, staring at it. Then Sven had placed a hand on his back and given him a shove.
‘
In you go
,’ Sven had growled, sweaty and stressed. ‘
Get in there and fetch his money.
’
Aron had done as he was told. He had lain down on the grass and wriggled under the wall.
Into the darkness. He had crawled in over the cold ground, in under the hard, wooden wall. A nail had scratched his forehead, but he had ducked and kept on going.
Towards the body.
Edvard Kloss, lying there under the wall.
Trapped. Motionless.
Aron shudders in the cold wind as he gazes out of the train window. He doesn’t want to remember that night.
But the farms alongside the railway line don’t seem to bother Sven. When he sees the farmhands working by the barns, he raises a hand and waves.
‘Do you know them?’ Aron asks.
‘No, but all workers are my brothers. They, too, will be liberated from their back-breaking toil one day!’
After Kalleguta, the railway turns sharply to the west, towards the station in Borgholm. Outside the town the sea appears once again, like a blue ribbon in the west. Aron has never travelled on the ferry to the mainland either; he has never crossed the Sound.
When they arrive they alight from the train at the big stone building, then wander through the straight streets. The black-suited residents of the town glance at Aron and Sven’s simple clothes as they pass by. Aron can hear them speaking quietly behind them.
‘They were gossiping about me,’ Sven says. ‘They know who I am.’
‘Do they?’
Sven nods, his lips compressed into a thin line.
‘They haven’t forgotten my quarrels with those who were out to exploit the poor.’
They carry on down towards the harbour, where a dozen or so small cargo boats and a couple of ferries are moored, with a large yacht in solitary splendour slightly further away.
In the restaurant they each have an omelette, which costs two kronor and fifty öre. Sven has a glass of beer, Aron a soft drink.
After
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