Better Left Buried (24 page)

He makes his way down step by slow step. I slip out of bed, fully awake now, feeling my way towards the door.

“Stay there,” Jack hisses.

Another creak as he edges down the wooden staircase. I can't see him, but somehow I know he has that gun in his hand.

I should be horrified, I think. I should be pleading with him to drop it.

But all I feel is thankful.

Again a noise, this time a cross between a grunt and a protracted screech. I jump in alarm, my heart in my mouth.

And then I understand.

“Jack,” I call out softly. “Jack, it's okay. Come here.”

Jack bounds up the stairs and joins me by the window. I've pulled back the curtains and the faintest light shines from the moon, framed by clouds, illuminating the lawn and trees below.

Then we see it. Ambling back towards the open gate, huge and dark, its great antlers suspended over its long, pendulous face.

An elk.

“Jesus,” exhales Jack, relief in his voice.

“Probably foraging for food. They come in after the apples. They eat them when they've fallen off the tree and fermented. It makes them tipsy.”

“Nearly gave me a bloody heart attack.” He watches the elk as it lumbers away into the darkness.

“Could be worse. Could have been a wolf.”

“Wolf?” asks Jack. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” I echo. “There's quite a few in Sweden.” I'm smiling, though he can't see. “So you'd better watch out.”

“Sure,” he says in a nonchalant voice, but I sense him shiver beside me in the darkness.

I oversleep, exhausted from the journey. By the time I surface and go downstairs, it's nearly midday. Jack is sitting in the armchair, studying the map we bought yesterday in the garage.

“You should have woken me,” I say.

He shrugs. “I thought you could do with the sleep.”

He points to a large area of blue in the centre of the map. “It's pretty big, isn't it?”

“The lake?”

“More like a small sea, I'd say.”

I nod. “Yeah. It stretches all the way over to Östersund. About five miles across at the widest point.”

Last time we were here Dad borrowed an outboard motor for the boat and we chugged right round the coastline; it took us the best part of a day. Max caught two large fish, and Dad wanted to cook them for supper, but my brother wasn't having any of it.

Live and let live, he said, and let them go.

I glance around the kitchen. My stomach aches and my head is throbbing. I get a glass and run some water out the tap, downing it in several gulps.

“Here.” Jack reaches into his bag, pulling out a muesli bar and holding it out to me.

I pull a face.

“Beggars can't be choosers.” He chucks it on the coffee table and returns his attention to the map. I retrieve the muesli bar and chew in silence. The sticky sweetness is overpowering, but by the time I finish I'm feeling slightly better. Then I head for the stairs.

“Okay, so what do you want to do?” Jack folds the map and sits back.

“Nothing,” I say. “Leave it to me.”

He shrugs and looks out the window. I start up in the bedroom. It doesn't take long. There's not many places Max could have hidden anything. I check in the pine chest, lifting out each drawer to see if he might have taped anything underneath. I pull up the old cotton rug from the floorboards. I run my hand around the back of the curtains. Zilch.

I repeat the same exercise in my parents' bedroom, searching every inch of the large white wardrobe. I try to pull it away from the wall, but it's too heavy for me to shift.

“Here, let me help.”

I turn to see Jack standing in the doorway. He comes over and drags the wardrobe into the centre of the room. Nothing behind it except a couple of old cobwebs and a few dead flies.

He heaves it back into place and gazes around, then lies on the floorboards and sticks his head under the bed, running his hands between the wooden slats and the mattress.

I wonder if he's guessed what I'm looking for.

We move into the bathroom. I rifle through the cupboards while Jack checks in the cistern, then pulls the plastic panel off the bath and feels around the gap between the tub and the floor.

Downstairs I go through everything. Take the mugs and plates out the kitchen cupboard, even check in the cooking pots and pans and those old casserole dishes Gran used to collect. Jack finds a torch and shines the beam into the space underneath the oven and the fridge. We tip back all the furniture in the living room, prising off the fabric that lines the underside of the armchairs so I can slip my hand inside.

It takes half the afternoon to scour the whole house. By the time we've finished I'm almost fizzing with frustration. Maybe I'm wrong, I think. Maybe he didn't hide them at all. Perhaps Max tore out those pages and destroyed them.

But he wouldn't. I'm not sure how I know that, but I do. I don't believe Max could have made himself do it.

I glance at Jack. He must have worked this all out. Not once has he asked what we're hunting for, insisting on covering the outside of the house himself in case we were seen. It gives me an uneasy feeling, like a nagging toothache I'm hoping will subside without having to pay it more attention.

I make a mug of black tea with some tea bags I found in the back of the cupboard and stand by the living-room window, staring out across the lake. There's a slight haziness over the water, the hint of mist.

I think of our last visit, how Max and I took the rowing boat out for hours every day, drifting around with his fishing rod stuck over the back. Apart from that trip with Dad, we never caught much, but neither of us cared. It was great just being out there, on our own, with the sky and the water and the wild little islands that only the gulls inhabit.

Something inside me contracts at the memory and I get a strong urge to simply get in the car and drive away. I was mad to come here. Insane.

Everywhere I look I feel the weight of memories. The cherry tree where Max broke his toe climbing after fruit. The tall pine up near the farm where I spotted an osprey's nest. The island just across the water – I smile remembering the first time Max and I camped there alone, spending half the night awake, terrified by the sounds of the natural world around us, neither of us willing to admit we wanted to go home.

The island.

I gaze out over the lake again. You can't see it from the house, hidden by birch trees and the curve of the bay. But I know it's there, only a ten-minute row away.

“I'm going out.” I grab my coat and pull on my boots.

“Where?” Jack's head jerks up.

“Just out.”

“I'll come with you.”

I turn round, mouth open to protest, but Jack is already up and approaching the door.

“I'm not letting you out of my sight,” he says in a tone I now know better than to argue with.

But why?
asks that voice in my head as we emerge outside.
Why does he want to come? To keep an eye on me, make sure I'm okay?

Or to be certain he's there if I actually find anything?

I shake the thought away and go round the back of the house, peering into the crawl space underneath. The oars are still there. I pick one up and hand it to Jack, take the other myself. We wedge the front door ajar with a stone, then I lead the way down the footpath towards the lake.

As we round the corner I see the little glade of silver birch, their white trunks near luminous in the autumn light. To the right, the small pavilion overlooking the wooden jetty. To the left, veiled by the trees, a small natural harbour in amongst the reeds.

There are two boats. The one belonging to the farmer lies overturned on dry land, covered with a tarpaulin. Ours is floating in the shallows, tethered with a long rope. It's full of twigs and leaves and greenish-black water, looking as if it hasn't been used in years.

Jack and I drag the boat out and heave it over, letting the dirty water drain for a minute before righting it and pushing it back into the lake. I'm praying it doesn't leak as I climb inside and fix the oars into the rowlocks. Jack gives the boat a shove, then jumps in, cursing as water seeps into his boots. We drift out through the reeds for a few metres, then I turn the boat and start rowing into the open lake.

As soon as we round the wooded peninsula protecting the harbour, the wind gets up, whipping the surface of the lake into little peaks and valleys. I line up the prow of the boat with the island and heave on the oars, concentrating on cutting them cleanly into the water and propelling the boat forwards.

Within minutes, however, my arms are aching and we're not making much headway. I rest for a moment, letting the boat slowly drift with the current, and see Jack eyeing me with an amused expression.

“Want a hand, Chicory?”

I nod, reluctantly, and shuffle to the end of the boat. Jack takes my seat and picks up the oars. He grips them tightly then drops them into the water, pulling towards him. But the left oar skims the surface without cutting in, pitching the boat to one side.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath, and I realize he's never done this before.

“Lower them in together,” I say. “Don't pull until you feel them bite.”

He straightens the boat with the right oar, then tries again. This time we lunge forwards and within a minute Jack has the hang of it, rowing with strong, regular movements. We're speeding towards the island, cold spray flying around our faces as the boat skids through the little waves.

I lean over the side, staring into the black depths of the lake. It looks so unfathomably deep. Anything could be living down there. Dark, ugly, nameless things. My insides shudder at the thought.

All at once the sun emerges between the clouds and ignites the surface of the water. I lift my head and watch the sunlight glinting on the tips of the waves like millions of tiny jewels.

It's midweek and there's no one around. We're alone in this vast landscape, so wide and open and wild and lovely, the soothing, rhythmic slap of water against the side of the boat the perfect accompaniment to all this beauty. For a moment I can almost forget why we're here.

But Jack's voice reels me in again. “How much further?” he asks, rowing with his back to the island.

“Another few minutes.”

I examine it as we get closer, a large raft of rock looming out of the lake like the fossil of something huge and primal. The right edge smooth and undulating, forming a beach facing the mainland. Beyond, pine and birch cover the remaining ground, from a distance giving the island the appearance of a giant green dome. Though I can see the birch trees are already losing their leaves.

“Steer over to your left,” I tell Jack as we close in, pointing towards the small, rocky outcrop that provides a natural harbour near the beach. But Jack shakes his head and rows round to the other side, guiding the boat into the reeds.

So we can't be seen from the mainland.

I jump out onto a rock, leaving Jack to tie up the boat, and walk to the highest part of the island, surveying all the bits I know so well. The long ridge that runs along the centre like a fault line. The small grassy plain down among the birches, perfect for camping. The great slab of granite near the north end, split into three pieces as if stamped on by some ancient Norse god.

From one edge to the other the whole place is no larger than a football field, too small for anyone living around here to bother with. But Max loved this island more than anywhere in the world.

His little Eden, he called it. His paradise.

All at once I sense my brother's presence everywhere around me – in the rocks and trees, in the sound of the water lapping on the rock, the breeze that whips my face. I stand motionless, taking it all in, and the pain in my heart grows so huge I feel I'll shatter from the force of it, and the wind will scatter me across the lake in a thousand little pieces.

I take a deep breath, wiping my cheeks, and glance around for Jack. He's lurking in the wooded area at the back of the island, looking out over the water, half hidden by the trees. Standing guard, I realize, with a surge of fear that snaps me back to our predicament.

Focus,
I tell myself, and start exploring the island. I study the rocks, splashed with blotches of bright mustard and pale green lichens, and search in clefts packed with grass and moss. I look down by the fallen pine, its great arc of tree root picked clean now by rain and wind. Make my way round to the grove where tiny yellow flowers bloom in summer, hunting for somewhere that would make a natural hiding place.

I find nothing but an old crisp packet and a tangled length of fishing line and feel a wave of despair. It could be anywhere. Absolutely anywhere.

If it's here at all.

Out in the distance I hear the faint hum of an outboard motor. I peer across the water, standing there for a couple of minutes, watching. But I can't see anything and the noise dies away. A fisherman further up the lake, I guess, getting in a few hours while the weather is good.

I walk over to the promontory that looks out towards the pavilion on the shore, forcing myself to think.
Where, Max?
I ask into the wind.
Where would you put it?

Nowhere,
the sensible part of my brain tells me. I'm wasting my time. Whatever propelled me here, it was never my brother's intention that I came.

Or was it? A memory stirs like a leaf in the breeze. That granite pebble, the one I found on my bedroom floor after the burglary. The one I threw at Max and he brought home with him. His memento of our fight, and this place he loved so much.

I never worked out why it was in my bedroom. Certainly I didn't remove it from Max's desk, and I can't think why Mum or Dad would.

Max did, I realize with a rush of certainty. My brother placed it in my bedroom, on a shelf probably – or maybe in my drawer. Only I didn't notice, not until my room was ransacked and the pebble ended up on the floor.