“What do these guys ever know? And the rest of the island is OK?”
“The village, yes. The receptionist at the campsite had a body in the cupboard. Looks like the man bit the veins on his own wrists. It’s writers and their antics, said the receptionist, winking and grinning as if he wasn’t quite right either. They took him to psychiatric hospital on the mainland for observation.”
“OK.”
“We found another body on the road, he’d been shot and hasn’t been identified yet.”
“Is that all?”
“We’re still looking, there may be more.”
“There’s a chopper. The boss must be coming. Let’s go.”
The drops hanging from the beams on the cellar ceiling started to bubble, move and tremble. Steam, smelling of old, long disappeared woods, was coming from them, combining into long, thick ribbons, which were wrapping themselves around the front of the tank, sinking into the ground. The vanishing drops were bursting and names were falling out of them. Rays of sunshine forced themselves in through the rubble, making bright patterns in the air. On their way through the light, the names became red for a moment then tumbled over, some of them floated for a while but sooner or later they all became dust before they even reached the floor. The dust fell on the ground with a faint rustle, turning around like a vortex and then disappeared through the cracks and into the soil.
I don’t wanna hear a love song…