Lisa broke away from the queue and ran for the door. She needed a bush to squat behind, or a car if the worst came to the worst. But the stairs were too far away, she wasn’t going to get there, wasn’t going to make it outside.
The world was spinning, the cramps in her gut were sheer agony. Far away, she could hear the thump of the Beach Boys track, like a beating heart.
She spotted the door to the VIP room next to the stairs and rushed towards it.
‘Hey, you!’ a voice said behind her.
A fucking security guard. But Lisa couldn’t talk now; she simply opened the door, saw a load of suits sitting around the table but, most important of alclass="underline" an ice bucket. She bent over it and opened her mouth.
It was disgusting, it was embarrassing, but at the same time it was liberating. Just to open her mouth and let it all out.
Behind her she heard ‘Here Comes the Night’ die away; it was followed by a deafening silence.
Unprofessional, Summertime thought. A black mark.
But Lisa was too ill to care. She lifted her head from the rapidly filling ice bucket, took a deep breath, then threw up again.
Jonas
Jonas was woken late on Saturday night by strange grunting noises from the guest chalet next door. Agonized moans, suppressed groans. Then he heard a thud, a glass door sliding open, then more groaning and coughing behind the chalet.
He listened in the darkness. It sounded like Mats out there; was he sick?
Jonas turned over and tried to get back to sleep, but it was impossible. It was too hot, and the moaning and groaning were still going on outside.
Eventually, he got up and opened the door. The night air was still warm, with not a breath of wind. A slender moon shone down on the Sound.
‘Mats?’ he called out quietly.
He got a groan in response and took a couple of steps away from the door. He saw his older brother crouching in the shadows; Mats was on the grass with his head down, like a defeated footballer. He was a pathetic sight and, oddly enough, this made Jonas feel incredibly fit and healthy. He raised his voice: ‘What’s wrong? Are you sick?’
Mats slowly raised his head. There was a pool on the grass beneath him, a pool that shone in the moonlight. ‘Jonas...’ he said. ‘Can you fetch me some water, bro? From the house?’
Jonas went into Uncle Kent’s house, into the kitchen, and found a bottle of mineral water in the fridge. When he got back, Mats had managed to stand up, but his head was still drooping.
Jonas passed him the bottle. ‘Have you been on the beer?’
Mats shook his head. ‘I’ve been cutting the grass over at Ölandic... I don’t know what this is.’
Then he staggered back into his chalet with the water, without saying thank you. Jonas went back to bed; he still suspected that his brother had been out partying.
But that probably wasn’t true, because when he got up in the morning everybody was sick, or so it seemed. Only Jonas and Paulina were up for breakfast. The chalet doors and bedroom doors were closed — total silence reigned in Villa Kloss, for once.
Uncle Kent came into the kitchen after a while, just as Jonas was tucking into a cheese sandwich.
They stared at one another. Jonas hadn’t dared to ask his uncle if he had said the right things during the interview with Cecilia Sander, but she had gone away and hadn’t been in touch since, so surely that meant things had gone well?
‘Good morning,’ Kent said eventually, but his voice was quiet, and Jonas could see that his uncle wasn’t feeling too good either. His face was grey, in spite of his tan.
He didn’t say any more; he opened the fridge and took out a bottle of juice. Grapefruit juice. He looked down at the pale-yellow liquid and seemed to be giving it some thought before finally taking a couple of cautious sips.
The telephone rang; Kent went over and answered it. ‘Yes?’
He listened for a long time, then said wearily, ‘You’re joking. You are joking?’
He listened again.
‘OK,’ he said at last. ‘Yes, I’ve got some problems with my gut as well... It’s like Montezuma’s Revenge. We’ll have to bring in extra staff. Someone must be OK, for fuck’s sake? So bring in whoever you can get hold of. What about the guests?’
There was a protracted silence.
‘Right, well, clean up as best you can. Everyone will have to pitch in... Have we got a suction pump?’
Silence again.
‘OK, I’ll be in right away.’ He sounded exhausted.
He poured the rest of the juice down the sink, then turned to Jonas.
‘JK, if your aunt turns up, tell her we’re in a hell of a mess. There’s some kind of gastric epidemic over at the resort. It’s affecting the staff, and the guests too, apparently. The toilets are starting to get blocked, so I have to get over there. Tell Veronica she can reach me on my mobile.’
Jonas nodded. ‘Mats is sick too,’ he said. ‘He’s been throwing up.’
‘Everybody’s sick,’ Kent said. ‘Aren’t you, JK?’
Jonas shook his head.
‘But you might be,’ Kent said. He threw a final poisonous glance at Jonas, as if the whole thing were somehow his fault, then he was gone, lumbering towards his car.
Jonas made himself another sandwich. It was a bit odd, but he felt perfectly fine. He wondered whether to go over and see Kristoffer.
Tomorrow was the beginning of a new working week. The decking would soon be finished, beautifully sanded and stained dark brown with Chinese wood oil. Then he would get paid. And in a week’s time he would start work over at Aunt Veronica’s house, which would mean he was slightly further away from both the cairn and Uncle Kent.
The thought cheered him up, because there was something bad quivering in the air this summer. Something much worse than gastroenteritis.
Gerlof
Swallow was slowly beginning to regain her former beauty, with the help of new boards and strong-smelling creosote. Gerlof had brought a flask of coffee down to the gig by the boathouse, where John and Anders were busy painting the hull on this warm evening. John looked suspiciously at the coffee as Gerlof poured it out.
‘Have you boiled it properly?’
Gerlof stopped in mid-movement. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You have to boil your drinking water, Gerlof.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s an outbreak of gastroenteritis all along the coast,’ John explained. ‘People have ended up in hospital. It’s a real epidemic. Haven’t you read the paper?’
‘Not yet,’ Gerlof said as he carried on pouring the coffee. ‘I feel perfectly all right.’
‘Stenvik doesn’t really seem to have been affected,’ John said. ‘The problem is mainly at the Ölandic Resort.’
‘That’s unfortunate.’ Gerlof sipped his coffee. ‘Right in the middle of the high season, too... It’s a bit of a disaster, I’d say.’
‘Absolutely. Apparently, the sewage disposal system on the campsite has broken down, things are so bad... and people have started to leave. They’re packing up their tents and caravans and heading home.’
Gerlof had expected John to look pleased, but he knew that if something was bad for one campsite, it was bad for all of them. People who went home because of a bad experience in a holiday village or campsite usually bad-mouthed the whole island.