Echoes From the Dead (2 page)

And she certainly didn’t miss the patients, constantly moaning about their ridiculous little problems when they didn’t have a clue about real unhappiness.

“Have you got a note from your doctor?” asked the voice.

“Yes.”

“Have you seen your doctor today?”

“No, last Wednesday. My psychiatrist.”

“So why didn’t you call earlier?”

“Well, I haven’t been feeling very well since then …” said Julia, thinking, Nor before then, either. A constant ache of longing in her breast.

“You should have phoned us the same day …”

Julia heard a distinct breath, perhaps even a sigh.

“Okay, this is what I’m going to have to do,” said the voice.

“I’m going to have to go into the computer and make an exception for you. Just this time.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Julia.

“One moment…”

Julia stayed where she was by the window, looking out onto the street. Nothing was moving.

But then someone came walking along the sidewalk from the busier road that cut across; it was a man. Julia could feel icecold fingers clutching at her stomach, before she realized that this man was too old, he was bald and in his fifties and dressed in paint spattered dungarees.

“Hello?”

She saw the man stop at a building on the opposite side of the street, key in a security code, and open the door. He went in.

Not Jens. Just an ordinary, middleaged man.

“Hello? Julia?”

It was the voice again.

“Yes? I’m still here.”

“Right, I’ve made a note on the computer to say that your doctor’s note is on the way to us.”

“Good. I…“Julia fell silent.

She looked out onto the street again.

“Was there anything else?”

“I think …“Julia gripped the receiver. “I think it’s going to be cold tomorrow.”

“Right,” said the voice, as if everything were perfectly normal.

“Have you changed your account details, or are they the same as before?”

Julia didn’t reply. She was trying to find something ordinary and normal to say.

“I talk to my son sometimes,” she said in the end.

There was a brief silence, then the voice could be heard

again:

“As I said, I’ve made a note …”

Julia hung up quickly.

She remained standing in the kitchen, staring out of the window and thinking that the leaves out on the street were forming a pattern, a message she couldn’t understand however long she gazed at it, and she longed desperately for Jens to come home from school.

No, it would have to be from work. Jens should have left

school many years ago.

What did you become in the end, Jens? A firefighter? An attorney?

A teacher?

Later that day she was sitting on her bed in front of the television in the narrow living room of her oneroom apartment, watching an educational program about adders; then she changed channels and watched a cooking program where a man and a woman were frying meat. When that finished, she went back into the kitchen to see if the wineglasses in the cupboards needed polishing. Oh yes, if you held them up to the light, you could see tiny white particles of dust on the surface, so she took the glasses out one by one and polished them. Julia had twentyfour wineglasses, and used them all in rotation. She drank two glasses of red wine each evening, sometimes three.

That evening, when she was lying on her bed beside the TV, wearing the only clean blouse left in her closet, the telephone in the kitchen began to ring.

Julia blinked when it first rang, but didn’t move. No, she wasn’t going to obey it. She wasn’t obliged to answer.

The telephone rang again. She decided she wasn’t at home, she was out doing something important.

She could see out of the window without raising her head, even if all she could see were the rooftops along the street, the unlit streetlamps, and the tops of the trees stretching above them.

The sun had gone down beyond the city, and the sky was slowly growing darker.

The telephone rang for the third time.

It was dusk. The twilight hour.

The telephone rang for the fourth time.

Julia didn’t get up to answer it.

It rang one last time, then there was silence. Outside, the streetlamps were starting to flicker, beginning to spread their glow over the tarmac.

It had been quite a good day.

No. There weren’t any good days, actually. But some days

passed more quickly than others.

Julia was always alone.

Another child might have helped. Michael had wanted them

to try for a brother or sister for Jens, but Julia had said no. She had never felt sure enough, and in the end Michael had stopped asking.

Often when Julia didn’t answer the telephone, she got a recorded message as a reward, and when it had stopped ringing this evening, she got up from the bed and picked up the receiver, but all she could hear was the rushing noise.

She put the phone down and opened the cupboard above the

refrigerator. The bottle of the day was standing there, and as usual the bottle of the day was a bottle of red wine.

To be perfectly accurate, it was the second bottle of red wine of the day, because at lunchtime she’d finished off a bottle she’d started the previous evening.

The cork came out with a soft popping sound as she opened the wine. She poured a glass and knocked it back quickly. She poured a fresh glass.

The warmth of the wine spread through her body, and now

she could turn and look out through the window. It had grown dark out there, the streetlamps illuminating only a few round patches of tarmac. Nothing was moving in the glow of the lamps. But what was hiding in the shadows? It was impossible to see.

Julia turned away from the window and emptied her second

glass. She was calmer now. She had been feeling tense since the conversation with the benefits office, but now she was calm.

She deserved a third glass of wine, but she could drink that more slowly, in front of the TV. She might put on some music soon, Satie perhaps, take a pill, and get to sleep before midnight.

Later the telephone rang again.

On the third ring she sat up in bed, her head bowed. On the fifth she got up, and by the seventh she was finally standing in the kitchen.

Before the telephone rang for the ninth time, she picked up the receiver. She whispered:

“Julia Davidsson.”

The reply was not a rushing noise, but a quiet, clear voice: “Julia?”

And she knew who it was.

“Gerlof?” she said quietly.

She no longer called him Dad.

“Yes … it’s me.”

There was silence once more, and she had to press the receiver closer to her ear to hear.

“I think … I know a bit more about how it happened.”

“What?” Julia stared at the wall. “How what happened?”

“Well, how it all… with Jens.”

Julia swallowed.

“Is he dead?” she asked.

It was like walking around with a numbered ticket in your hand. One day your number was called, and then you were allowed to go up and collect the information. And Julia thought of white fragments of bone, washed up on the shore down in Stenvik, despite the fact that Jens had been afraid of the water.

“Julia, he must be”

“But have they found him?” she interrupted him.

“No, but…”

She blinked. “Then why are you calling?”

“Nobody’s found him. But I’ve”

“In that case, don’t call me!” she screamed, and slammed the phone down.

She closed her eyes and stayed where she was, beside the

telephone.

A numbered ticket, a place in the queue. But this wasn’t

the right day, Julia didn’t want this to be the day when Jens was found.

She sat down at the table, turning her gaze to the darkness outside the window, thinking nothing, then looked at the telephone again. She got up, walked over to it, and waited, but it remained silent.

I’m doing this for you, Jens.

Julia picked up the receiver, looked at the scrap of paper which had been stuck to the white kitchen tile above the bread bin for several years, and dialed the number.

Her father answered after the first ring.

“Gerlof Davidsson.”

“It’s me,” she said.

“Julia. Yes.”

Silence. Julia gathered her courage.

“I shouldn’t have slammed the phone down.”

“Oh, it’s …”

“It doesn’t help.”

“No, well,” said her father. “It’s just one of those things.”

“What’s the weather like on Oland?”

“Cold and gray,” said Gerlof. “I haven’t been out today.”

There was silence once more and Julia took a deep breath.

“Why did you call?” she said. “Something must have happened.”

He hesitated before replying.

“Yes … a few things have happened here,” he said, then

added, “But I don’t know anything. No more than before.”

No more than I do, thought Julia. I’m sorry, Jens.

“I thought there was something new.”

“But I’ve been doing some thinking,” said Gerlof. “And I

think there are things that can be done.”

“Done? What for?”

“So that we can move on,” said Gerlof, then quickly went on: “Can you come over here?”

“When?”

“Soon. I think it would be a good idea.”

“I can’t just take off,” she said. But it wasn’t that impossible she was signed off work longterm. She went on: “You have to tell me … tell me what it’s about. Can’t you tell me that?”

Her father was silent.

“Do you remember what he was wearing that day?” he asked

eventually.

That day.

“Yes.” She’d helped Jens to get dressed herself that morning, and afterward she’d realized he was dressed for summer, despite the fact that it was autumn. “He was wearing yellow shorts and a red cotton shirt,” she said. “With the Phantom on it. It had been his cousin’s, it was one of those transfers you could do yourself, with the iron, made of thin plastic …”

“Do you remember what kind of shoes he had on?” asked

Gerlof.

“Sandals,” said Julia. “Brown leather sandals with black rubber soles. One of the straps across the toe of the right one had come loose, and several straps on the left one were about to come loose too… They always did that at the end of the summer, but I’d stitched it back on…”

“With white thread?”

“Yes,” said Julia quickly. Then she thought about it. “Yes, I think it was white. Why?”

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Gerlof replied: “An old sandal is lying here on my desk. It’s been mended with white thread. It looks as if it would fit a fiveyearold … I’m sitting here looking at it now.”

Julia swayed and leaned against the countertop.

Gerlof said something else, but she broke the connection and there was silence once again.

The numbered ticketthis was the number she had been

given, and soon her name would be called.

She was calm now. After ten minutes she lifted her hand from the receiver rest and keyed in Gerlof’s number. Her father answered after the first ring, as if he’d been waiting for her.

“Where did you find it?” she asked. “Where? Gerlof?”

“It’s complicated,” said Gerlof. “You know how I… you

know it’s not so easy for me to get about, Julia. It’s just getting more and more difficult. And that’s why I’d really like you to come here.”

“I don’t know …” Julia closed her eyes, hearing only the rushing noise on the telephone. “I don’t know if I can.” She could see herself on the shore, see herself walking around among the pebbles, carefully collecting all the tiny parts of the skeleton she could find, pressing them close to her breast. “Maybe.”

“What do you remember?” asked Gerlof.

“What do you mean?”

“About that day? Do you remember anything in particular?”

he asked. “I’d really like you to think about it.”

“I remember that Jens disappeared … He …”

“I’m not thinking of Jens at the moment,” said Gerlof. “What else do you remember?”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand …”

“Do you remember the fog lying over Stenvik?”

Julia didn’t speak.

“Yes,” she said softly. “The fog …”

“Think about it,” said Gerlof. “Try to remember the fog.”

The fog … The fog was a part of every memory of Oland.

Julia remembered the fog. Thick fog in northern Oland wasn’t usual, but sometimes in the autumn it drifted in from the sound.

Cold and damp.

But what had happened in the fog that day?

What happened, Jens?

OLAND, JULY 1936

The man who is to have so much sorrow and fear throughout Oland later in life is a tenyearold boy in the middle of the 1930s.

He owns a stony shore and a large expanse of water.

The boy is called Nils Kant; he is sunburned and is dressed in shorts in the summer heat, and he is sitting on a big round stone in the sunshine, down below the houses and the boathouses in Stenvik. He is thinking: All this is mine.

And it’s true, because Nils’s family owns the shore. They own large tracts of land in northern Oland; the Kant family has owned this land for centuries, and ever since his father died three years ago, Nils has felt that it is his responsibility to take care of it. Nils doesn’t miss his father, he remembers him only as a tall, silent, strict man who could be violent sometimes, and Nils thinks it’s a good thing that only his mother, Vera, is waiting for him in the wooden house above the shore.

He doesn’t need anyone else. He doesn’t need friends; he

knows that there are children of all ages living in the villages along the coast, and older boys where he lives who are already working in the quarrybut this particular stretch of shore belongs only to him. The millers in the mill up above and the fishermen who use the boathouses up on the ridge are no threat.

Nils gets ready to jump down from the stone; he’s going to have another swim, one last swim before he goes home.

“Nils!” shouts a high, boyish voice.

Nils doesn’t turn his head, but he can hear the gravel and the pebbles on the slope up above the shore loosening and trickling down, then rapid footsteps approaching.