Читать книгу Fog Island: A terrifying thriller set in a modern-day cult - Mariette Lindstein, Mariette Lindstein - Страница 14

8

The routines she had hated so much at first turned out to be what made her enjoy life on the island. They had the same schedule every day; all was so minutely planned that there was no time to think about anything but work, food, and sleep. It was easy to fit in. Each person was there on equal terms. Everyone took part in the same routines.

They woke at seven — at least, those who had mastered their internal clocks did. Sofia was dependent on Madeleine. There were no worries about how to dress; all you had to do was shower, put on your uniform, and head for the dining room, where breakfast was served. Always the same breakfast: poached eggs, whole-grain bread, and organic marmalade.

Then it was time to go to the courtyard in front of the manor and fall in line for morning assembly.

Bosse always led the assembly. He took roll call and talked about situations and priorities. Madeleine and Sofia formed one line together, as they were Oswald’s personal staff and worked directly under him. The other lines were for the household staff, the guest services crew, those who worked on the farm, and the administrative staff.

Each day, she kept an eye out for Benjamin Frisk but to no avail. She stared at each line, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but was disappointed time and again.

A few weeks after Sofia’s arrival, a faint but growing unrest began to spread through the ranks. Bosse became stiff and distant. The staff seemed restless. Madeleine had stopped attending assembly.

One night, Sofia asked Elvira what was going on.

‘It’s the renovation of the staff quarters,’ Elvira said. ‘No one has wanted to ask you to help out, because Franz created your project himself, but the rest of us have been working a couple hours a day on the first floor. Haven’t you seen us?’

She supposed she had. You had to walk through a cloud of sawdust and piles of boards and tools to get to the dining room. But she hadn’t made the connection between the work and the morale of the group until now.

‘But what’s so difficult about doing renovations?’ Sofia asked.

Elvira laughed. Sofia wondered if she’d misjudged her — she suddenly seemed so pleasant.

‘Well, on the second floor, where we live now, Franz had to hire a contractor to get it all done. But now he says we have to finish the first floor on our own. It’s a type of test, you know?’

Sofia was sincerely grateful that Oswald had drawn up that library project. She was in charge of her own day and could work at her own pace.

*

One day Oswald showed up at morning assembly. He appeared without warning behind Bosse, who was once again droning on about how important the renovation project was. It was a comical sight, because everyone but Bosse could see Oswald. Once Bosse realized why each staff member’s gaze had frozen on a point behind him, Oswald just smiled and said, ‘Go on. Don’t mind me. I’m only listening.’

It continued for a few days. Oswald would come to the assembly and just stand there with an amused smile on his lips. This made Bosse anxious. He began to stutter, trip over his words, and lose his train of thought as he spoke. He started bringing notes with him. An awkward silence descended upon the staff, who were swept along in Bosse’s despair and suffered with him.

Then one day, Oswald took over. He waved dismissively at Bosse, who immediately ducked into line like a dog afraid of being beaten.

‘You are all an incredible resource,’ said Oswald. ‘You just haven’t realized it yet.’

Murmurs of agreement cropped up here and there.

‘I only want you to finish renovating your new living quarters. Can you manage that?’

Their positive response came in unison, as if with military precision.

‘Well there you go!’ Oswald said. ‘Bosse can stop nagging you now, and you can stop pretending that you don’t know what to do!’

They looked at him with great anticipation; they wanted him to keep talking because a sudden sense of solidarity had arisen. But he was done with them.

Sofia stayed behind as the staff scattered, hoping he would notice her. He did, and waved her over.

‘What do you say, Sofia? Do you believe, too, that people have more potential than they realize?’

‘Definitely, I’m sure they do.’

‘Good, because that’s my life’s motto. I hate mediocrity.’

She didn’t quite know what he expected her to say, and she felt that anxiety that came from standing before Oswald in silence. Later on she would learn that she didn’t need to say anything at all. Oswald didn’t speak with his staff. He spoke to his staff.

When he spoke to you, you were only supposed to make eye contact, and, when fitting, nod or express agreement. But she hadn’t come to this realization yet, so she nervously scraped one foot through the gravel.

‘Are you working on my library program?’ he asked.

‘That’s all I do.’

‘And what do you think of it?’

‘It’s fantastic,’ she lied. Or, rather, exaggerated.

His face brightened a bit.

‘Good, good. Keep at it. I want to see everything — the layouts, the computer systems, your list of books to purchase, the whole lot.’

Then he took a quick step forward, so he was standing very close to her.

‘Your hair,’ he said. ‘It’s nice when you put it up like that.’

He looked at the bun she had, with great effort, gathered on the very top of her head.

‘Thanks.’

‘Although I like it better down.’

‘Oh, but Bosse said —’

This was as far as she got before he ran a finger down the back of her neck.

‘Wear it loose tomorrow. Bosse’s an idiot.’

‘Okay, I will.’

He smiled at her, but the warmth in his eyes was gone.

‘You’re new here, but you should know that I don’t have a boss. Least of all Bosse. You can get back to work now.’

His touch was still burning her skin as she hurried across the courtyard.

*

One night in September, she became fully aware of the coming autumn for the first time.

She was on her way back to the library after the evening assembly. A cold wind swept across the courtyard, tugging at her blazer and finding its way under her clothes, to her body. As she looked up, she realized that the aspens and birches were almost completely yellow. There was a fresh tension in the nature around her. Those migratory birds that were left seemed restless, as if they knew what awaited in their long journey south. The trees bent in the wind, full of nervous creaks and rustles. She was struck by the fact that she would be spending the entire winter on this island. The trees would lose their leaves. The whole island would become bare and bleak. The autumn fog everyone talked about would move in from the sea.

Shivering, she slipped through the library door, hoping to find a bit of warmth, but the cold wind had found the cracks in the draughty old building. She turned on the radiator, then decided to check her email, even though it was against the rules. She was one of the few staff with computer access; it was strictly for research purposes. But she had written a long email to her parents and had been waiting for a response for several days.

An answer was waiting, but it wasn’t from her parents. Instead, a message in large type had appeared at the top of her own email. A rejection of sorts.

INFORMATION ABOUT THE INTERNAL PLANS OF THE ORGANIZATION IS CONFIDENTIAL AND MAY NOT BE SHARED WITH OUTSIDERS.

Someone had censored her email. She had no idea that anyone had been reading what she wrote to her family. She hadn’t even known it was possible to censor email. An uncontrollable wave of fury welled up inside her. She immediately knew who was behind this.

In a rage, she put on her jacket and shoes and headed back into the wind. She found Bosse bent over a folder in the staff office.

The door was open, so she stepped in and stood before him, her hands on her hips.

‘Have you been reading my email?’

‘Sure! I read everything the staff sends out.’

‘What’s wrong with you? Those are private; you have no right to read them.’ Her voice had risen into a shrill falsetto.

‘Sofia, it’s okay. I don’t care what you say in them. I only care about the security of the group.’

‘The security of the group? I was writing to my family.’

‘You were writing about your plans for the library, down to the tiniest detail. That doesn’t concern them.’

She was just about to start shouting, but it was obvious that he wouldn’t give in. He’d done this before — gone along with some idiotic rule he probably hadn’t even come up with himself. Besides, Sofia’s emphatic tone had brought all the work in the big room outside to a grinding halt, and many watchful eyes were on them now. A few colleagues had stood up and were aiming looks of disapproval at her.

She stormed out of the room, determined to declare war as soon as she had gathered her thoughts.

It was impossible to concentrate on her job once she returned to the library. The wind was even stronger now; it whistled in the eaves. The windows were even rattling.

She turned on her computer and decided to surf the net, mostly just to defy Bosse. She Googled her name. It had been a long time, but her rage made her feel brave and she wanted to make sure that Ellis had stopped blogging about her.

Up popped a new page called ‘Sofia Bauman’s Blog,’ and she clicked on it right away.

At first she thought it must be a mistake, that the face staring back at her belonged to someone else. Or that it was an old entry. But then she began to read the text and realized at once that Ellis hadn’t vanished from her life after all.

Save Sofia Bauman from the cult! the headline read, and the text underneath continued along the same lines. There was even a picture of Franz Oswald in the corner, horns drawn onto his forehead.

She sat perfectly still for a long time, trying to calm herself as a burning chill spread along her nerves.

She didn’t even want to know how many people had read the blog; she only wanted it to go away. She wanted something to happen to Ellis, a terrible accident, anything, as long as it would put a stop to him from here on out. It was inconceivable that he could still make her feel so awful even when she was on an island out in the archipelago.

How can he even get at me out here? she thought, then decided that in fact, he couldn’t.

But then she thought about the blog again and wondered what would happen if Oswald got wind of it.

We’ve spent a whole day looking for the diary, the family history — whatever the hell it is.

Lily is tired and whiny, and I feel like I might smack her at any moment.

‘I don’t want to be here, Fredrik. It’s too warm and icky and it smells nasty. Can’t we do something fun instead? Please?’

‘We have to find the book,’ I say, gritting my teeth.

‘But why is it so important to find some old book?’

‘There’s stuff in it I’m going to use.’

‘For what?’

‘To prove who I am.’

‘Oh, come on. Hey, can’t we go now? Take a swim or something?’

I stand up, take her by the arms, and give her a firm shake.

‘Who is in charge here, huh? Stop nagging me, or else . . .’

She is frightened and recoils. And at that moment I figure out what happened and I let go of her.

‘She hid it, of course,’ I say. ‘That bitch hid it away.’

‘What bitch?’

‘Mom. She doesn’t want me to find it.’ I decide to switch tactics on Lily. ‘Listen, if you find the book I’ll take you down to the village and buy you some ice cream, and then we can go for a swim at the cliff.’

Her whole face lights up.

‘Promise?’

‘I said it, didn’t I?’

She’s suddenly full of energy. She darts around until the dust swirls up, pulling out drawers, yanking things off the shelves. And then the unthinkable happens. Suddenly she’s standing there with a book in her hands, wrinkling her nose as she tries to make out what it says inside.

‘Give it here!’ I shout. Because I know, I just know, that she’s found it.

I yank it from her hands and sink to the floor, flipping pages and looking for the part that just has to be there. And when I find it, it’s like the doors of heaven open, revealing angels, strings, harps, the whole nine yards. Adrenaline surges through my body like a rising flood.

That’s when I see a little corner poking out from the back cover of the diary — something is hidden there.

I pull the envelope out and open it. Photographs fall into the book.

I moan when I see what they are.

The girl in the picture can’t be more than twelve or thirteen. She’s standing against a wall, naked, her hands bound high over her head. She’s in profile, but I recognize the man pressed up against her body, a whip in his hand. He’s younger in the picture, but it’s definitely him.

This is so huge, so timely, that I almost forget to breathe.

I just stand there, listening to Lily’s gasping breaths behind me.

Whoever left the pictures there was careless, idiotic.

But they’re a windfall for me.