The Chinese wood oil was dripping from his brush, and the sweat was pouring down Jonas’s face. He swept the brush back and forth across the decking. When he had done four planks, he took a break and drank at least half a litre of water (guaranteed clean bottled water) before resuming his task.
Only a few planks left, then he could go for an evening swim. Uncle Kent’s decking would soon be finished; next week, he would move over to Aunt Veronica’s and do the same thing all over again.
The sight of wood ingrained with dirt and the smell of Chinese oil — that was what this summer meant to Jonas.
As the sun began to sink towards the strip of land on the horizon, he decided to call it a day. He let out a long breath; he would go for a swim, then he was free for the evening. Uncle Kent had announced that he would be holding an inaugural barbecue to celebrate the newly renovated decking, but Jonas didn’t want to be there. He had a feeling that Uncle Kent was somehow keeping an eye on him. He had picked Jonas up in the car from Kristoffer’s earlier on, even though Jonas was perfectly capable of walking home on his own.
He fetched his trunks and went across the coast road, out on to the deserted ridge.
For the first few days after midsummer, he had avoided going down to the shore alone. His fear of the water hadn’t completely gone, but he had no intention of letting it get the better of him.
The blue viper’s bugloss coming through the stones had started to dry out and turn dark purple. The grass was yellow, and the bushes had begun to lose their leaves. Only the cairn looked unchanged, apart from the fact that another rock had fallen down. How many were lying on the grass now — was it ten or eleven? Jonas quickly walked past, without stopping to count them.
He ran down the old stone steps that led to the dip, then on to the shore. It was only about fifty metres but, halfway, he suddenly stopped.
He had heard something down in the dip. From the old quarry, where the stonemasons had left behind a V-shaped wound and broken rocks.
A scraping noise, over to the right. Jonas looked, but all he could see was pink rock and grey gravel. No people.
But the noise came again, several times. It sounded as if someone was hacking rhythmically at the ground, with either a pick or a spade.
No, not at the ground. Underground.
Jonas couldn’t see very far, because there was a large rocky outcrop jutting out in front of him. However, if he stepped down into the bottom of the dip, he would have a better view.
The ground was very uneven here; he was wearing his old trainers, so he had to be careful, occasionally jumping from stone to stone. There was some kind of thorny bush growing through the gravel and clutching at him, but he managed to wriggle past. Now, he could see further.
There was a metal door set in the rock, almost directly below the cairn up on the ridge.
The bunker. Now he remembered. Gerlof had mentioned it, too.
He vaguely recalled from previous summer holidays that the bunker had always been secured with a rusty old padlock — but now the door was open. And that was where the scraping noises were coming from.
Someone was in there.
Not the cairn ghost, he knew that. Gerlof had said there was no ghost.
So he moved a little closer. He had never seen inside, but he and Casper had played outside the door, winding each other up and wondering if there were dead soldiers in there.
The noise continued.
Jonas took one more step. Now he was only a couple of metres from the entrance to the bunker, and he could see the sun shining on a dusty cement floor. But the light reached only a short distance; beyond that point, it was pitch black.
He listened hard. Perhaps Mats and their cousins had opened the door? They had been at home during the day, but he didn’t know where they’d gone after that. They never bothered to tell him what they were doing.
Were they sitting inside the bunker in the darkness, watching him right now? If so, he couldn’t risk looking like a coward. If he turned away, he would do it quickly and resolutely, as if he had something important to do.
Or perhaps he would stay. Walk right up to the door and see what was in there. He took one step, and waited. The noise from inside had stopped.
So he took another step.
There was a wide block of stone in front of the door, like some kind of threshold. Jonas didn’t stand on it but leaned forward so that he could stick his head into the bunker. He held his breath and listened.
The air was very still, with a musty smell. He was looking into a small room, with another narrow doorway at the far end, where the sunlight didn’t reach. The first room contained only one piece of furniture: a rickety wooden table. One of the legs was broken, but someone had used a block of stone to keep it more or less level.
There was something on the table.
Jonas blinked and looked again; it was still there. Small and flat, thinner at one end.
Now he could see what it was: a gun.
Jonas suddenly forgot that he wasn’t supposed to go inside the bunker; he was too curious. Was it a real gun?
He stepped inside, on to the cement floor. He reached out and picked up the gun.
It was very heavy — and old: the wooden butt was covered in scratches. But it was definitely a real gun.
He looked up; he had heard a slight noise, a faint scraping, and he held his breath again. The sound was coming from the inner room, from the darkness. Someone was in there.
The ghost?
Jonas had to get out.
He quickly wrapped the gun in his beach towel and backed out of the bunker.
He decided not to bother going for a swim; he wasn’t hot any more. He made his way back through the dip and up the steps, back on to the ridge, still clutching his treasure from the bunker.
He ran past the cairn, across the road to Villa Kloss and back to his own little chalet. He closed the door and drew the curtains, then sat down on the bed to look at his acquisition.
A real gun.
The Homecomer
The Homecomer was standing in the darkness in the bunker’s inner room. He was still holding the pick, but it was resting on the ground. He had used it to break through the cement wall at the back, where there were the most cracks, and now there was a pile of earth and stones at his feet. However, he still had a few metres to go before he was far enough in, right under the cairn.
There was no treasure there, he was well aware of that. But he kept on going anyway.
As he was just about to raise the pick, he heard a noise behind him.
He stopped and held his breath. He could hear a faint shuffling from the outer room, like cautious footsteps, and he realized he hadn’t closed the door. But it was evening; no one should be down in the dip at this time of day. And since the bunker was hidden from the coast road and the houses on the other side, he knew that no one had seen him go inside.
Perhaps it was a mistake to work here while the sun still hovered over the Sound, but it was a question of time and energy. He couldn’t do everything at night.
Now it sounded as if the person in the other room had turned around and was on their way out.
The Homecomer tried to relax; his legs were beginning to stiffen up.
Silence descended, but he didn’t move for several minutes. Finally, he put down the pick and edged towards the door.
The outer room was empty. The metal door was half open.
The sunlight enabled him to see the bare surface of the rickety wooden table — and then he remembered what he had done. He had put the Walther there. He had wanted to keep it free from dust and dirt, so he had left it there while he broke down the wall.
And now the table was empty.