Читать книгу The Nightmare - Ларс Кеплер, Lars Kepler - Страница 9

Penelope is standing at the helm with a light blue sarong wrapped round her hips and a white bikini top with a peace sign over the right breast. She is bathed in summer light coming through the windscreen. She carefully steers round Kungshamn lighthouse, then manoeuvres the large motor cruiser into the narrow strait.

Her sister Viola gets up from the pink sun-lounger on the aft-deck. She’s spent the past hour lying there wearing Björn’s cowboy hat and an enormous pair of mirror sunglasses, sleepily smoking a joint.

Viola makes five half-hearted attempts to pick up the box of matches with her toes before giving up. Penelope can’t help smiling. Viola walks into the saloon through the glass door and asks if Penelope would like her to take over.

‘If not, I’ll go and make a margarita,’ she says, and carries on down the steps.

Björn is lying out on the foredeck on a towel, using his paperback of Ovid’s Metamorphoses as a pillow.

Penelope notices that the base of the railing by his feet has started to rust. Björn was given the boat by his father when he turned twenty, but he hasn’t been able to afford to maintain it properly. The big motor cruiser is the only gift he ever got from his father, apart from a holiday. When his dad turned fifty he invited Björn and Penelope to one of his finest luxury hotels, the Kamaya Resort on the east coast of Kenya. Penelope only managed to put up with the hotel for two days before travelling to the refugee camp in Kubbum in Darfur in western Sudan, where the French aid organisation Action Contre la Faim was based.

Penelope decreases their cruising speed from eight to five knots as they approach the Skurusund Bridge. The heavy traffic high above on the bridge can’t be heard at all on the water. Just as they’re gliding into the shadow of the bridge she spots a black inflatable boat by one of the concrete foundations. It’s the same sort used by the Special Boat Service: a RIB with a fibreglass hull and extremely powerful motors.

Penelope has almost passed the bridge when she realises that there’s someone sitting in the boat. A man crouching in the gloom with his back to her. She doesn’t know why her pulse quickens at the sight of him. There’s something about the back of his head and his dark clothes. She feels as if she’s being watched, even though he’s facing the other way.

When she emerges into the sunshine again she shivers, and the goosebumps on her arms take a long time to go down.

She increases their speed to fifteen knots once she’s past Duvnäs. The two on-board motors rumble, the water foams behind them and the boat takes off across the smooth sea.

Penelope’s phone rings. She sees her mother’s name on the screen. Perhaps she saw the discussion on television. Penelope wonders for a moment if her mum is calling to tell her she did well, but knows that’s just a fantasy.

‘Hi, Mum,’ Penelope says when she answers.

‘Ow,’ her mother whispers.

‘What’s happened?’

‘My back … I need to get to the chiropractor,’ Claudia says. It sounds like she’s filling a glass from the tap. ‘I just wanted to find out if Viola’s spoken to you?’

‘She’s here on the boat with us,’ Penelope replies as she listens to her mother drink.

‘Oh, good … I thought it would do her good.’

‘I’m sure it will do her good,’ Penelope says quietly.

‘What food have you got?’

‘Tonight we’re having pickled herring, potatoes, eggs …’

‘She doesn’t like herring.’

‘Mum, Viola called me just as …’

‘I know you weren’t expecting her to come with you,’ Claudia interrupts. ‘That’s why I’m calling.’

‘I’ve made some meatballs,’ Penelope says patiently.

‘Enough for everyone?’ her mother asks.

‘Everyone? That depends on …’

She tails off and stares out across the sparkling water.

‘I don’t have to have any,’ Penelope says in a measured tone.

‘If there aren’t enough,’ her mother says. ‘That’s all I meant.’

‘I get it,’ she says quietly.

‘So it’s poor you now, is it?’ her mother asks with barely concealed irritation.

‘It’s just that … Viola is actually an adult, and …’

‘I’m disappointed in you.’

‘Sorry.’

‘You always manage to eat my meatballs at Christmas and Midsummer and …’

‘I can go without,’ Penelope says quickly.

‘Fine,’ her mother says abruptly. ‘That’s that sorted.’

‘I just mean …’

‘Don’t bother coming for Midsummer,’ her mother interrupts crossly.

‘Oh, Mum, why do you always have to …’

There’s a click as her mother hangs up. Penelope stops talking and feels frustration bubbling inside her as she stares at the phone, then tosses it aside.

The boat passes slowly across the green reflection of the verdant slopes. The steps from the galley creak and Viola wobbles into view with a martini glass in her hand.

‘Was that Mum?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is she worried I’m not going to get anything to eat?’ Viola asks with a smile.

‘There’s food,’ Penelope replies.

‘Mum doesn’t think I can take care of myself.’

‘She’s just worried,’ Penelope replies.

‘She never worries about you,’ Viola says.

‘I’m fine.’

Viola sips her cocktail and looks out through the windscreen.

‘I saw the debate on television,’ she says.

‘This morning? With Pontus Salman?’

‘No, this was … last week,’ she says. ‘You were talking to an arrogant man who … he had a fancy name, and …’

‘Palmcrona,’ Penelope says.

‘That was it, Palmcrona …’

‘I got angry, my cheeks turned red and I could feel tears in my eyes, I felt like reciting Bob Dylan’s “Masters of War” or just running out and slamming the door behind me.’

Viola watches as Penelope stretches up and opens the roof hatch.

‘I didn’t think you shaved your armpits,’ she says breezily.

‘No, but I’ve been in the media so much that …’

‘Vanity got the better of you,’ Viola jokes.

‘I didn’t want to get written off as a troublemaker just because I had a bit of hair under my arms.’

‘How’s your bikini line going, then?’

‘Well …’

Penelope lifts her sarong and Viola bursts out laughing.

‘Björn likes it,’ Penelope smiles.

‘He can hardly talk, with his dreadlocks.’

‘But you shave everywhere, just like you’re supposed to,’ Penelope says with a note of sharpness in her voice. ‘For your married men and muscle-bound idiots and …’

‘I know I have bad taste in men,’ Viola interrupts.

‘You don’t have bad taste in anything else.’

‘I’ve never really done anything properly, though.’

‘You just have to improve your grades a bit, then …’

Viola shrugs her shoulders:

‘I did actually sit the high-school paper.’

They’re ploughing gently through the transparent water, followed high above by some gulls.

‘How did it go?’ Penelope eventually asks.

‘I thought it was easy,’ Viola says, licking salt from the rim of the glass.

‘So it went well, then?’ Penelope smiles.

Viola nods and puts her glass down.

‘How well?’ Penelope asks, nudging her in the side.

‘Top marks,’ Viola says, looking down.

Penelope lets out a shriek of joy and hugs her sister hard.

‘You know what this means, don’t you?’ Penelope says excitedly. ‘You can study anything you like, you can have your pick of the universities, you can chose whatever course you like, business studies, medicine, journalism.’

Her sister blushes and laughs, and Penelope hugs her again, knocking her hat off. She strokes Viola’s head, then arranges her hair just as she always did when they were little, takes the clasp with the dove from her own hair and uses it to fasten her sister’s, then looks at her and smiles happily.