Fog Island. Mariette Lindstein
mean it’s not so nice, what you do to Lily.’
Sudden, naked fear appears on his face and he readies his fat, protruding lips. But I cut him off before he can say a word.
‘You don’t need to say anything. I know everything, do you understand me? She told me the whole damn thing, but I’m not going to tattle. Why would I?’
He starts to speak again but I put up my hand, and then I feel the rush, that intoxicating mixture of power and strength.
He squints up at me; the sun is at my back. I want him to see me like this, like a backlit angel of justice.
‘All I want is for you to leave us alone,’ I say. ‘And I want access to the attic. I need to look for something there.’
‘Of course you can go in the attic, Fredrik. But what on earth did Lily tell you?’ He makes an attempt to get up. I just turn my back on him.
‘You know perfectly well what she told me,’ I say as I walk away.
I’m so pleased that I have to repress the urge to do a little victory dance there in the sunlight. Now I’ll have Lily to myself and free run of the estate.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a plan. A grand plan.
He is only a tiny, flimsy part of it. And anyway, it’s all for his own good.
It was unusually dark when she woke. She felt rested, but something was wrong. Her eyes searched for her digital alarm clock, but there was only blackness. Her fear of the dark strangled her for a moment, until she realized where she was. Far from home, out on the island. That was the way of things here — no light at all when you were sleeping. Although she had left a tiny crack at the bottom of the roller blind, in spite of the ban.
She fumbled for the button on the bed frame, and as she pressed it the room was slowly bathed in a warm, gentle light. The clock became visible: quarter past ten! She had overslept again. ‘Use your mental clock,’ they had told her. ‘Decide when you will wake up, and it will happen.’ But so far that wasn’t working for her.
Breakfast was only served until ten, but that didn’t matter. She would take a walk around the island before lunch.
She had been there for three days, and completed the first step, which was called ‘unwinding’. It really just meant that you ate, slept, and took walks. And did a few hours of what they called ‘altruistic work’ — in other words, free labour for them, because it involved working in the fields or pottering in the gardens. It didn’t matter, though; it was pleasant to weed flowerbeds. Today she would meet with a personal advisor and receive her program plan, and she was curious how it would go. But most of all she was curious about Oswald’s theses.
Outside it was cloudy and calm, and the property was quiet aside from some bleating sheep. She decided to walk to the lookout point and gaze out at the sea for a while. A path led there from the manor, but this time she walked through the forest. She wanted to test her ability to navigate the terrain.
Most of the trees were pine or birch, lined up in tight, symmetrical patterns. Here and there an oak or spruce competed for sunlight, but they remained short and straggly in the shadow of the majestic pines. It had rained during the night and the forest smelled like wet moss and earth. The trees were heavy with raindrops that clung to the leaves.
She got lost straight away, but then she heard water burbling in a small brook between the trees. The water was rushing so fast that it had to be coming from somewhere higher up.
She followed the brook and found herself in a clearing. She stopped, inhaling the moist air, enjoying the sensation. Suddenly she felt observed. When she looked up, she spotted a bird sitting before her, perched on a pine branch and staring with keen eyes. A buzzard or sea eagle. It wouldn’t look away. She cursed ViaTerra’s ban on phones, which had just cost her an incredible photo op. But then something creaked in the woods and the spell was broken. The bird flapped its wings and soared up to the grey sky with a mewing, plaintive call. She kept walking, and soon she could see the lookout point through the trees.
Beyond the large heath and just before the cliffs plunged to the sea, there was a bench. She sat down and looked out at the water. The sky was clearing. Behind the wall of cloud on the horizon rose more clouds, fat and fluffy, like giants on their way to the island. She focused her gaze on them and began to daydream. She sat just like that, perfectly still, for a long time.
Her rumbling stomach finally brought her back down to earth.
She jogged back to the manor, and by the time she stepped into the dining room it was half past noon. As she waited to be served, she noticed a new guest: Ellen Vingås, the opera star, was sitting alone in front of a large portion of food. Just as Sofia’s plate arrived at the table she was interrupted by an ‘ahem.’ An unnaturally thin guy was standing before her, smiling. She immediately recognized him from Oswald’s lecture in Lund. It was the guy who had insisted that she and Wilma fill out forms.
‘Sofia, my name is Olof Hurtig and I’ll be your personal advisor. Enjoy your lunch, and then I want to see you in my office. We’ll plan your program.’
His small goatee bobbed as he spoke.
‘Sure, is your office in the main building?’
Sofia had hoped to run into Oswald there. She hadn’t seen him yet.
‘No, all guest service takes place here in the annexes. The offices are right next to the gym. There’s a small room there, and that’s where I’ll be waiting for you.’
She ate up her food, ravenous.
Hurtig was waiting at a desk in a little room just behind the gym. The visitor’s chair was so low to the floor that whoever sat behind the desk was transformed into a lofty god.
‘Let’s see now, Sofia. I’ve got your file here.’
He opened the folder before him.
‘A file? I didn’t know I had a file here.’
‘Don’t worry. Everything you say here is confidential. We are bound by professional secrecy.’
‘But I only got here three days ago. How could I have a file?’
‘It’s just your form and a few notes from the interview when you first came to the island.’
The folder contained a whole stack of paper, not just a few sheets, but he went on before she could point this out.
‘I see a pattern here,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Someone who has caused you pain and anxiety. A great betrayal. Maybe a failed relationship, could that be right?’
Her head was spinning. Had he Googled her? How could he know about all of that?
‘Maybe, I guess, but how did you know . . .’
Hurtig shifted in his chair. He seemed incapable of sitting still: he leaned across the desk, clearly delighted at her reaction.
‘Don’t look so surprised. It’s our job to read people. Let’s talk about your program instead, how we’re going to help you take control of your life.’
He scribbled furiously, nodding now and again. He held up the paper when he was finished.
8:00–10:00: workout and breathing exercises
10:00–12:00: altruistic work . . .
The schedule went on, noting mealtimes, time in the egg, thesis study in the evening. She wondered how this could possibly be different from everyone else’s programs, but before she could ask, Hurtig stood up and put out his hand.
‘Sofia, it’s been a pleasure. Good luck with the program!’
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