Kloss didn’t reply. Lisa was relieved when he got to his feet and moved towards the door. She still remembered the slap he had delivered, and she couldn’t relax when Kent Kloss was around.
‘So we’re done?’ she said.
Kloss stopped in the doorway. ‘Not exactly.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We haven’t finished yet.’ Kloss was smiling, but the hunted look was still in his eyes. ‘Keep working,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
He walked out and shut the door behind him.
Lisa stayed where she was, feeling the walls of the caravan closing in on her. The heat was oppressive; it felt as if some kind of explosion were imminent.
Jonas
There wasn’t a sound. It was quarter past ten, and the sun had gone down; a white half-moon was drifting slowly across the Sound, occasionally veiled by thin, wispy clouds. The heat along the coast had been swept away by a cool sea breeze this evening.
Jonas was lying in his little chalet, listening to voices chatting and laughing on the coast road. Boys’ voices, but deeper than his own.
It was his brother, Mats, and their cousins. They were down on the ridge with some of their friends from other houses in the village. They all had their bikes and mopeds with them; the older boys met up in different places every evening — down by the restaurant or the jetty, or up by the main road.
Jonas had given up trying to keep tabs on them. He was lying on his bed on top of his very own secret: the gun he had found in the bunker. He still hadn’t told anyone about it, not even his dad.
He didn’t know if he could trust his father.
Or whom he could trust, in fact.
The laughter outside continued. Jonas ought to get to sleep, but it was impossible. The air inside the chalet was too warm, and he felt wide awake. Eventually he sat up, reached under the mattress, felt the butt of the gun and pulled it out.
It was big and heavy. He felt as if he had grown in stature, just from holding it.
He tucked the barrel into the waistband of his trousers at the back, then pulled on his shirt. He left it loose, just like the gangsters in films did to hide their guns.
Then he went out into the night.
It was dark, but still mild in spite of the breeze. Dry summer air, with the scent of flowers and herbs.
He could see the group of boys over on the ridge, still laughing. He walked through the garden in front of Villa Kloss, picking his way among a series of marker posts that had been driven into the ground; someone was obviously planning a building project. He crossed the coast road, feeling the gun rubbing against his back with every step he took.
As he got closer, he could see that there were five boys in the group. He recognized Mats, who was sitting on his bike. His brother seemed to have grown taller since midsummer, as did Urban and Casper.
The boys fell silent as he approached.
‘It’s your kid brother,’ someone said.
Nobody said hello, but they all turned to look at him.
Perhaps this was the moment to produce the gun, but Jonas didn’t do that. He just went over and stood between Mats and Casper, as if he were one of the gang.
The boys resumed their discussion; apparently they had been talking about girls.
‘Of course they ought to shave,’ someone said.
‘Under the arms, anyway.’
Someone laughed. ‘And in other places!’
‘I shave under my arms, too,’ Mats said firmly. ‘I mean, you can’t have a girl lying with her head on your arm if you haven’t shaved there... She’d feel as if she had a grizzly bear in her face!’
They were all laughing now. Jonas had nothing to say; he was an outsider.
But he did have one advantage.
He took a step forward and stood next to cousin Casper. He fumbled behind his back and got hold of the gun.
‘Look what I’ve got,’ he said quietly to Casper.
He pulled out the gun. He had intended to hold it up so that everyone could see, but it was too heavy, so he just held it in front of him, with the moonlight shining on the barrel.
Once again, they all turned to look at him, and the conversation about girls came to an abrupt end.
‘It’s a gun,’ he said, in case anyone hadn’t realized.
A hand reached out, but he moved the gun away. ‘I found it,’ he said.
‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ Mats said.
Jonas shook his head — he was in control. He would just press the trigger a little bit, a little bit more...
Suddenly, a bright light swept over the group. ‘What’s all this?’
There was a familiar voice behind the light: Uncle Kent’s. He must have come up from the shore; he was carrying a torch.
Jonas lowered the gun. He would have hidden it behind his back, but it was too late; Uncle Kent had already seen it.
‘Give it to me.’
It wasn’t a polite request. He was already holding out his hand, and he took the gun off Jonas.
Kent drew him aside and leaned closer. Jonas could smell alcohol on his uncle’s breath.
‘It looks real. Where did you find it?’
What could Jonas say?
‘Down in the dip,’ he said eventually.
‘And whose is it?’
‘Don’t know.’
Kent pushed the gun into his waistband, just as Jonas had done.
‘Show me, JK,’ he said. ‘Show me exactly where you found it.’
The boys were all looking at him now; he was definitely the centre of attention. There was nothing to say; he set off along the ridge and down the stone steps. Kent followed him, lighting the way with his torch.
When they reached the dip, Jonas turned north and led Kent to the door of the bunker. It was closed and locked.
‘It was here,’ he said.
‘By the door?’
Jonas shook his head. ‘The bunker was open.’
Kent shone the beam of his torch on the rusty metal door and the padlock.
‘So someone has a key...’ he muttered. ‘Unless they’ve changed the lock.’
He went over and tugged at it, but it didn’t move.
‘There was someone inside,’ Jonas said. ‘It sounded as if he was digging.’
‘Digging? Someone was in there digging?’
Jonas nodded, and Kent stood in silence for a moment, then straightened up. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Good. Let’s go home.’
Kent turned and made his way back to the stone steps. The gun was still tucked in his waistband, as if it belonged to him now.
The Homecomer
Trapped and frightened... The Homecomer had dreamed the old dream again, the nightmare about a little boy being forced to crawl in beneath the barn wall.
‘In you go,’ Sven had growled, sweaty and stressed in the forest. ‘Get in there and fetch his money.’
Into the darkness. Aron had crawled in over the cold earth, in beneath the hard wooden wall. Past the nails reaching out for him. One of them had scratched his forehead, but he had kept on going.
Towards the body.
Edvard Kloss, his real father, who was lying there underneath the wall.
Trapped. Motionless.
Aron had felt something hard in Edvard’s trouser pocket: a wooden snuff box. He took it, and fumbled in the other pocket, where he found a fat wallet and pulled it out.
At which point the body twitched. There was a whimpering sound, and a hand closed around Aron’s arm.
Edvard Kloss was still alive.
Aron had panicked in the darkness. He raised the hand holding the wooden box and struck at the body. Hit his father on the head, on the temple, several times. Over and over again.
Edvard fell silent, and the hand around Aron’s arm lost its grip.