The Voices Beyond: (Oland Quartet Series 4) (50 page)

Gerlof thought for a moment. ‘If I remember correctly, there’s a bolt securing the trapdoor from underneath. We’d have to knock it off – and fast.’

The man nodded. ‘I’ll find a suitable stone.’

Gerlof turned his attention back to Jonas. ‘Can you come with us just to make sure?’

Jonas hesitated, but in the end he agreed.

Gerlof smiled. ‘We have to be very, very quiet.’

Gerlof was trying to keep up with John and Jonas, but he was too slow. He was tired, and his feet were dragging on the ground. He was making a noise, rustling in the dry grass, which was no good at all.

He had to stop.

He saw John bend down and pick up a stone, long and flat like a hammer, then carry on with Jonas Kloss at his side.

Gerlof followed them at a steady pace. He knew his way around here; it was less than a hundred metres from his own garden on the other side of the trees and, over to the left, he could see the cairn. The real one from the Bronze Age, the one that was still intact.

The grove was becoming denser all around them, but in a narrow clearing up ahead they saw a tall shadow with spreading sails – the mill. Gerlof’s own father had brought his grain here sometimes; the mill had already been old all those years ago. It had been built at least a hundred and fifty years earlier, before the trees grew tall, when its sails could catch the wind from every direction. In northern Sweden, the mills had been driven by water, but here on the island there were no rivers, just the constant wind blowing across the flat landscape.

The wind had picked up, and the mill was visibly swaying.

The tall structure rested on a single round wooden post so that the body of the mill could be turned to bring the sails into the wind. But it was many decades since the sails had last moved; they were broken now, and the mill stood among the trees like a deserted watchtower.

No, not deserted – a dark-blue Ford was parked among the trees just outside and, a few metres away, Gerlof saw Veronica’s car. He was out of breath and could communicate only by gestures, but he waved to John to indicate that they should keep going.

As they drew closer to the mill, they could see flickering lights through the gaps in the walls and hear the low murmur of voices.

The space beneath the mill was about a metre high. It was dark under there, but Gerlof bent down and saw that the trapdoor next to the post was still there, secured with a heavy iron bolt.

Good. But had the wood swollen or warped over the years, meaning that the trapdoor was now stuck?

They would just have to take that risk.

He waved silently to John, and his old friend stooped down and began to creep towards the mill, with Jonas still beside him. The man and the boy edged underneath the mill, next to the post; they became two shadows.

Gerlof held his breath. There was nothing more he could do now except wait.

Then he heard a series of blows against the floor of the mill as John struck upwards as hard as he could: one, two, three, four blows.

There was a rattling sound, and then the trapdoor loosened and came crashing down.

‘So here we are,’ Aron said to Veronica Kloss, his relative and his enemy.

She didn’t respond.

‘Here we are in the mill,’ he went on. ‘When the wind comes and the sails begin to turn, there is nothing that can stop the grinding process.’

Veronica still didn’t speak, but she had finished writing. The piece of paper with her confession on it was full. She held on to the pen but pushed the paper across to Aron. He carried on looking at her, and wiped his forehead. It was warm inside the mill, thanks to the paraffin lamps, but he had a temperature as well.

‘My wife needed care … I just wanted a small piece of land,’ he said slowly. ‘I just wanted the croft. That was what I’d dreamed of coming back to as an old man … Rödtorp, down by the water.’

‘You would never have got it,’ Veronica said.

‘No. You knocked it down to make sure of that.’

Veronica turned and looked at her son, who hadn’t made a sound.

‘It’s all about security,’ she said. ‘And planning for the long term. No one is going to come and take the Ölandic from us. Certainly not some bastard who turns up after sixty years, wanting our land … So I sent you away from Stockholm and I took care of your sister in the home, before she could start talking. Kent and I were in complete agreement; there was no way we were going to let you in.’

‘That was a mistake,’ Vlad said.

Veronica pointed at his bloodstained shirt with the pen. ‘That doesn’t look too good,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘You’re bleeding, Aron.’

Vlad shook his head, but he could feel the sweat trickling down his brow. ‘Not any more.’

Veronica smiled. ‘I think you’re dying, Aron.’

Vlad blinked. ‘So are you.’

She shook her head. ‘I’m feeling fine, Aron. I’m going to live for a very long time … After all, I have our land to take care of.’

Vlad raised the gun and said quietly, ‘Your children will have to do that.’

He was going to say more, but all of a sudden he heard banging. It was coming from underneath him, from the floor.

The old trapdoor was down there – he hadn’t really thought about it until now, but it was shaking, the dust whirling up in the glow of the lamps.

Vlad didn’t have time to do anything. The trapdoor dropped open with a crash, and the boy who had been sitting on top of it fell through, still tied to the chair.

He had lost his hostage.

Vlad stared at the hole for a couple of seconds too long. He didn’t notice that Veronica Kloss was on her feet, he just heard the sound of breaking glass as she kicked over the nearest lamp.

The paraffin flared up, and Veronica flew towards him. She was fast; Vlad didn’t see her until she was standing right in front of him, still clutching the pen. In a single movement, she jabbed it straight into the wound in his belly.

‘That’s from Kent!’ she yelled, before delivering a second vicious blow.

Ice-cold pain in the wound.

Vlad dropped the gun and heard it clatter on to the floor. He fumbled for the pen, trying to pull it out, but Veronica was holding on to it, and pushed him against the wall.

‘It’s over!’ she hissed.

But he shook his head.

Vlad didn’t die; instead, he threw his whole weight against Veronica, pushing her backwards, past the beams and against the opposite wall.

‘Let go of me!’ She was screaming, tearing at him.

They danced around the cramped room, fighting, staring one another in the eye.

The burning paraffin spread all around them. The dry wooden floor had caught fire – but Vlad saw the piece of paper with Veronica’s confession on it whirling upwards in the heat, away from the flames.

The wind was pushing against the mill. It was swaying more and more violently, and it began to list like a capsizing ship. The walls creaked and the floor cracked. Two more lamps fell over and shattered.

Vlad closed his eyes; he felt seasick.

He let go of Veronica.

It’s over, he thought as the whole world began to tip.

‘Catch him!’ Gerlof yelled.

John had knocked off the iron bolt and was hunched beneath the mill. A thin, bound body came crashing through the open trapdoor. A boy.

Gerlof staggered forward, but he was too slow. John wasn’t fast enough either, but Jonas threw himself forward and managed to catch his cousin. He tucked his hands under Casper’s arms and dragged him away.

Through the thin wall, they could hear thuds and crashes, and a woman screaming.

‘They’re fighting!’ John shouted.

The whole mill was shaking. Gerlof saw it swaying above him, like an ancient oak tree. It was being buffeted by the storm, and the struggle inside wasn’t helping. The mill had run out of time – it was too old to remain standing any longer.

As the structure swayed, they heard a cracking sound from the plinth beneath the building. Then a loud bang as the base finally gave way.

Gerlof opened his mouth. ‘Get out, John!’ he shouted.

John hadn’t moved; it was as if he were frozen to the spot, staring at Gerlof. Eventually, he began to shuffle sideways.

Gerlof tried to get out of the way, too, edging backwards with his stick, but he wasn’t fast enough. His stiff legs made him feel as if he were wading through treacle.

‘John?’ he yelled again. He could no longer see his friend, and the mill was coming down. Gerlof heard shouts through the walls, and the sound of breaking glass.

He was still too close. The black shadow grew as it came towards him. He thought about Don Quixote and tried to turn around, to get away.

Something flared up in the darkness inside the mill.

Lamps
, Gerlof remembered.
Paraffin lamps.

Planks and beams crashed to the ground in front of him. Old nails were ripped out, and the air was full of debris swirling around in the wind.

As the mill collapsed, the sails broke.

Gerlof went down, too; he fell backwards on the grass and saw the fire catch hold. The flames began to crackle.

But suddenly he saw a slim figure crawling out of the ruined mill: Veronica Kloss. She didn’t get up; perhaps she had broken something, but at least she was alive. She crawled slowly across the grass towards her son.

Gerlof raised his head.

John? he thought.

And where was Aron Fredh?

The mill had collapsed.

Aron Fredh was trapped, with one beam across his chest and another resting on his thighs. His legs were crushed, his stomach was bleeding and his body was ice cold.

He knew that this was the end. But the bullet wound no longer hurt, and his brain was still working.

The memories drifted through his mind. He heard voices, saw faces.

His mother’s eyes. His sister’s smile. The final whimper from his father, Edvard Kloss, who had also been trapped under planks of wood some seventy years ago, crushed and dying, but still refusing to take his son’s hand.

Aron blinked away the memories. He could see something shiny and slender poking up among the debris just a metre or so away. The barrel of the assault rifle. But he couldn’t reach it, and it didn’t matter. He was done with shooting.

He thought back to the time when he had been a soldier in the prison camp and had finally managed to get rid of the clumsy Winchester. He had handed it in at the guards’ office and been issued with his first Russian pistol, a Nagant. This meant he could start delivering shots to the back of the neck at close range.

It was more than six decades ago, in September 1936. But he remembered that day. There had been an endless series of executions by firing squad during the autumn, in the gravel pit outside the camp. The sound of shots echoed through the forest from morning till night, but it was such an isolated location that it might as well have been on the moon. No one could see or hear what happened in the battle for a bright future.

When Vlad arrived with his troop of two men, the guards had already lined up those who had been sentenced to death. There were about thirty of them, facing a wall of sand and with their backs to their executioners. They were tied together with rope, long enough to ensure that the others wouldn’t be pulled over when one of them fell.

There was a lot to do. Time to get to work.

Vlad’s comrades that day were called Daniljuk and Petrov, both ready with their own guns in case there was any problem with Vlad’s pistol. They were all looking forward to a meal and a couple of vodkas after work, and they just wanted to get the job done.

The prisoners stood with their heads bowed. One or two whispered to each other or begged for mercy one last time, or gabbled something to themselves in some foreign language.

‘More foreigners,’ Petrov said. ‘There’s no end to them.’

Vlad said nothing. He simply undid the safety catch on his new gun, went over to the first prisoner, placed his left hand on the man’s shoulder and raised the pistol.

And fired.

The pistol jerked and the prisoner fell forwards.

Vlad was already on his way to the next man.

He raised his gun and fired, raised his gun and fired.

Just another day’s work.

But the seventh prisoner in the line did something forbidden – he turned his head towards his executioner. Vlad saw his profile.

He had already raised the gun, but his hand stiffened.

The man in front of him had a sparse beard that couldn’t hide the cuts and bruises on his face – some old, many new. He took a little step to one side, and Vlad saw that he was limping.

‘Do you recognize me?’ the prisoner said quietly.

He was speaking in Swedish. Aron shouldn’t have recognized that faint, hoarse voice, but he did. It was the same voice that had spoken to him one dark night, urging him to crawl under the wall of the barn and take his father’s wallet so that they would have enough money to travel here. To the new country.

Suddenly, Aron couldn’t move. Couldn’t lift his arm.

‘You look well,’ Sven said.

Aron didn’t reply. He didn’t dare reply.

‘Are you happy here?’

Aron looked at his stepfather and tried to think. Happy?

He shook his head briefly.

‘Go back home to Sweden, then,’ Sven went on, ‘and blow the whole lot to kingdom come. Make sure they get what they deserve.’

Aron slowly moved his head; it was almost a weary nod.

He couldn’t talk any more; that wasn’t why he was here.

It was time to do something with the pistol. He
had
to do something right now.

Not fire at all?

Or turn the gun on himself?

Or …

Vlad hesitated for only a second, then he quickly placed his hand on the prisoner’s shoulder and aimed the gun at the back of his neck.

And fired.

Sven sank to the ground, and a little wooden box fell out of his trouser pocket.

Aron’s body jerked; he was back underneath the mill. But he remembered that day in the gravel pit. He had carried on working his way along the line of prisoners, surprised that the pistol was still working. And that he himself was still alive.