‘Let’s dig,’ he said quietly.
Aron was staring down at the coffin. He whispered something — just one word.
‘What? What did you say?’
‘America,’ the boy repeated. ‘That’s where I’m going.’
‘Really?’ Gerlof was sceptical. ‘How old are you, Aron?’
‘Twelve.’
‘In that case, you’re too young.’
‘Sven’s going to take me. I’m going to be a sheriff when we get there!’
‘Oh yes?’
‘I’m a good shot,’ Aron said.
Gerlof didn’t ask any more questions. He didn’t know who Sven was, but he’d heard of America. The promised land. Things weren’t going too well in America at the moment, with the Wall Street Crash and high unemployment, but the attraction was still there.
At that moment, standing on top of Edvard Kloss’s coffin, Gerlof decided to stop being a gravedigger. He would leave Stenvik and his strict father. He didn’t want to go to America; he would go to sea instead. He would take himself off to Borgholm and get a job on some cargo ship travelling between the island and the mainland.
Do something that would give him more freedom. Become a seaman in the sunshine.
‘How’s it going?’ Bengtsson shouted from above his head. Gerlof looked up.
‘Fine.’
He and Aron, the future sheriff, began to dig, and they quickly cleared all the earth from the lid of the coffin.
‘Done!’
Bengtsson threw down the ropes. Gerlof managed to get them around each end of the coffin, then climbed out of the grave as quickly as he could.
Edvard Kloss was lifted out and carried into the cool sacristy.
‘Put it down,’ the priest said quietly.
The coffin was placed on the stone floor with a scraping sound.
Then there was silence. Edvard Kloss was dead.
And yet he had knocked.
Dr Blom arrived twenty minutes later, carrying his black medical bag. His shirt was soaked in sweat and his face was bright red with the heat, and he was clearly in need of an explanation. He asked just one question, his voice echoing loudly beneath the vaulted stone ceiling: ‘What’s going on here?’
The men waiting in the aisle looked at one another.
‘We heard something,’ the priest said eventually.
‘You heard something?’
‘Yes.’ The priest nodded in the direction of the coffin. ‘A knocking noise from down in the ground... Just when they started filling in the grave.’
The doctor looked at the lid of the coffin, filthy and covered in scratches from the spades.
‘I see. In that case I’d better take a look.’
The Kloss brothers stood in silence as Bengtsson removed the screws and lifted the lid.
Lazarus had spent four days in his grave, Gerlof recalled. ‘Lord, by this time he stinks,’ his sister, Martha, had said to Jesus as they stood before the stone.
The lid was off now. Gerlof didn’t move closer, but he could still see the body, washed and arranged for its final rest. The arms were crossed over the big belly, the eyes were closed and there were black bruises on his face, possibly from the wall that had killed him. But Edvard Kloss was smartly dressed; the corpse was wearing a black suit made of thick fabric.
‘If you dress the deceased as well as you speak of him, he will have a smile on his face when he is lying in his coffin,’ Gerlof’s grandmother used to say.
But Edvard Kloss’s mouth was no more than a narrow, straight line, his lips hard and dry.
Dr Blom opened his leather bag and bent over the corpse; Gerlof turned away, but he could hear the doctor muttering to himself. A stethoscope rattled against the stone floor.
‘No heartbeat,’ the doctor said.
There was silence, then came Gilbert’s voice, sounding strained:
‘Open a vein so we can be absolutely sure.’
That was enough for Gerlof. He went out into the sunshine and stood in the shade of the church tower.
‘Now will you have a beer?’
Bengtsson came over, carrying two fresh bottles.
This time, Gerlof nodded and gratefully accepted a drink. The bottle was ice cold, and he raised it to his lips and drank deeply. The alcohol went straight to his head and slowed down his thought processes. He looked at Bengtsson.
‘Has this happened before?’
‘What?’
‘Have you heard noises before?’
The gravedigger shook his head.
‘Not personally, at any rate.’ He gave a tight little smile, took a swig of his beer and looked over at the church. ‘But of course the Kloss brothers are a bit different... I have a problem with that family. They just take whatever they want. All the time, all over the place.’
‘But Edvard Kloss...’ Gerlof said, struggling to find the right words. ‘He can’t have...’
‘Calm down,’ Bengtsson broke in. ‘This isn’t your problem.’ He had another drink, and added: ‘In the old days, they used to tie the hands together. When someone died, I mean, so that they’d lie still down there in the coffin. Did you know that?’
Gerlof shook his head and didn’t say another word.
After a few moments the church door opened, and Gerlof and Bengtsson quickly hid the bottles of beer. Dr Blom stuck his head out and waved them over.
‘I’ve finished.’
‘And he’s...’
‘He’s dead, of course. No sign of life whatsoever. You can put him back where you got him from.’
The interment was repeated. The coffin was carried out of the church, the ropes were slipped underneath and it was lowered into the grave. Gerlof and Bengtsson started shovelling earth into the hole once more, clutching their spades with a certain amount of grim determination; they were feeling a little unsteady after the beer. Gerlof looked around for Aron Fredh, but both the boy and the man with the limp had disappeared.
Everyone gathered around the grave, including Dr Blom, who was holding tightly on to his leather bag.
The earth thudded against the coffin lid.
Then the sound came again: three sharp raps from down in the ground. Quiet but clear.
Gerlof froze in mid-movement, his heart pounding. Suddenly, he was completely sober, and frightened. He looked across at Bengtsson on the other side of the mound of earth; he, too, had stopped dead.
Sigfrid Kloss looked tense, but his brother, Gilbert, seemed to be absolutely terrified. He was staring at the coffin as if mesmerized.
Even Dr Blom had stiffened at the sound. Gerlof realized the scepticism was gone, but the doctor shook his head.
‘Fill in the grave,’ he said firmly.
The priest was silent for a moment, then he nodded.
‘There’s nothing more we can do.’
The gravediggers had no option but to comply. Gerlof shivered in spite of the sunshine, but he set to work. His spade felt as heavy as an iron bar in his hands.
The earth began to thud against the coffin lid once more; the rhythmic beat was the only sound.
After twenty shovelfuls the lid had begun to disappear beneath a layer of earth.
There was still no other sound in the churchyard.
But, suddenly, someone sighed next to Gerlof. It was Gilbert Kloss, edging towards the grave. The sigh sounded like a long, heavy exhalation; he lifted his feet and moved slowly across the grass. He stopped by the open grave and tried to take a deep breath, but his lungs managed only a thin whistling.
‘Gilbert?’ Sigfrid said.
His brother didn’t reply; he stood there motionless, his mouth open.
Then he stopped breathing, and his eyes lost focus.
Gerlof watched as Gilbert Kloss fell sideways by the grave. He saw Bengtsson simply standing there staring, along with the doctor and the priest.
Sigfrid called out behind them; Gerlof was the only one who rushed forward, but he was still several steps away when Gilbert’s heart stopped beating.