The Swarm: A Novel Page 19

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘…and to ask if your offer still holds.’

  ‘What offer?’ he said, although he knew what she meant.

  ‘To take me with you.’

  Johanson leaned against the wall next to the coat rack. He sensed that things were about to get tricky. ‘And I asked you what Kare would have to say about it.’

  ‘I don’t need his permission, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘I don’t want to be responsible for any misunderstandings.’

  ‘You won’t be responsible for anything,’ she said. ‘If I want to go to the lake with you, it’s my decision.’

  ‘You’re dodging the issue.’

  Water from her hair was trickling down her face. ‘Then why did you invite me?’

  Yes, why?, thought Johanson.

  Because he’d wanted to. But only if it didn’t screw things up. Something bothered him about Lund’s sudden decision to join him. A few weeks ago he would have thought nothing of it. Sporadic trips together, dinner dates - all that was part of their long flirtation, which had never gone further. But this was different.

  Suddenly he knew what was wrong. ‘If you two have fallen out,’ he said, ‘don’t drag me into it. You’re welcome to come with me, but not if it’s just to put pressure on Kare.’

  ‘You’re reading way too much into this.’ Lund shrugged. ‘OK, maybe you’re right. Forget it.’

  ‘No problem.’

  They hovered in the hallway.

  ‘Well, I’ll be off, then.’ He gave her a peck on the cheek and pushed her gently out of the house, then locked the door behind him. It was nearly dusk, and the rain was still falling. He’d have to drive most of the way in the dark, but the prospect was almost appealing. He’d listen to Sibelius. Finlandia, at night - not a bad combination.

  ‘So you’ll be back on Monday?’ asked Lund, as she walked him to the car.

  ‘Sunday afternoon, more likely.’

  ‘I’ll give you a ring some time.’

  ‘Sure. What have you got planned then?’

  ‘There’s always work.’ She paused. ‘Kare’s gone away for the weekend. He’s with his parents.’

  Johanson opened the car door. ‘You don’t always have to work, you know.’

  She smiled. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Besides…you couldn’t come anyway - you’re not equipped for a weekend in the country.’

  ‘What would I need?’

  ‘Sturdy shoes, for one thing.’

  Lund glanced at her feet. She was wearing heavy lace-up boots. ‘Anything else?’.

  ‘A jumper…’ Johanson ran his hand over his beard. ‘I suppose I’ve got some spares…’

  ‘Uh-huh. For all eventualities, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s right. Best to be prepared.’ He couldn’t help laughing. ‘All right, Miss Complicated. This is your last chance.’

  ‘Me? Complicated?’ Lund opened the passenger door. ‘We can thrash that out on the way.’

  Gravel crunched under the tyres as they turned on to the track leading to the house, and wound their way past the dark shapes of trees. The lake lay ahead, like a second sky embedded in the forest; its surface studded with stars. In Trondheim it was probably still raining.

  Johanson parked the car and carried his case into the house, then joined Lund on the veranda. The floorboards creaked. The stillness of the place had always filled him with awe, and seemed more intense for all the sounds he could hear - rustlings, the faraway call of a bird, twigs cracking, a scurrying in the undergrowth, and others he couldn’t distinguish. A few steps led down from the veranda to a sloping meadow that separated the house from the lake. A crooked landing-stage jutted into it. At the far end, the boat he used for fishing lay motionless on the water.

  Lund was gazing into the night. ‘And you’ve got all this to yourself?’

  ‘Mostly.’

  ‘I guess you’re happy in your own company, then,’ she said.

  Johanson laughed. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Well, if there’s no one else, you’d have to be’.

  ‘When I’m out here, I can do exactly as I please - like or loathe myself, whatever…Come on, let’s go inside. I’ll make us a risotto.’

  A few minutes later Johanson was frying onions, adding rice, stirring then pouring in hot chicken stock. He sliced a few porcini mushrooms and left them to sizzle gently over a low heat.

  Lund was watching him. She couldn’t cook, Johanson knew. He opened a bottle of red wine, decanted it and poured two glasses. The usual routine. They ate, drank, talked and got closer in a secluded romantic setting. An ageing Bohemian and a younger woman. He knew how it would end.

  If only she hadn’t insisted on coming.

  He was tempted to let things take their course. Lund was sitting at the kitchen table in one of his jumpers, more relaxed than she’d seemed in a long time. There was an unexpected softness about her features that perturbed him. He’d tried to persuade himself that she wasn’t his type, too hyperactive and too Nordic, with her straight white-blonde hair and eyebrows. Now he was forced to admit it wasn’t true.

  You could have had a quiet weekend, he told himself, but you had to go and complicate things.

  They ate in the kitchen, drank their wine, chatted easily and laughed. Soon they had started on another bottle.

  At midnight Johanson said, ‘Fancy a boat trip? It isn’t too cold.’

  She propped her chin in her hands and grinned at him. ‘How about a dip?’

  ‘I’d give that a miss. In a month or two, maybe, when the water’s warmer. No, I thought we could motor to the middle of the lake, take the wine with us and…’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Gaze up at the stars.’

  Their eyes met, and Johanson felt his defences crumble. He heard himself saying things he hadn’t meant to say, setting things in motion, leading her on. He edged closer to her until he could feel her breath on his face. ‘OK, let’s go.’

  The wind had dropped. They walked along the landing-stage and hopped down into the boat. It rocked in the water and Johanson caught her arm. He nearly laughed. It was like a film, he thought - a corny romantic comedy, with Meg Ryan as the lead.

  He’d purchased the little wooden boat with the house. At the bow end, planks had been nailed together to create storage space. Lund sat cross-legged on top, and Johanson started the outboard engine.

  They didn’t speak while the boat was moving, and soon Johanson released the throttle and let the engine die. They were some distance from the house but the veranda lights reflected in the water as a rippling band of brightness. The silence was punctuated by soft splashes as fish darted up to seize insects. Johanson picked his way carefully across to Lund, with the half-empty wine bottle in one hand. ‘If you lie back and look at the sky,’ he said, ‘the universe and everything in it will be yours.’

  She looked at him, eyes glinting in the dark. ‘Ever seen a shooting star from here?’

  ‘Plenty.’

  ‘Did you make a wish?’

  ‘I’m not enough of a romantic,’ he said, and squeezed in beside her. ‘I just enjoyed the view.’

  Lund giggled. ‘You don’t believe in such things, then?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘You’re not the type for flowers either. Kare will have his work cut out with you. A stability analysis for subsea construction would be the most romantic present anyone could give you.’

  Lund gazed at him. Then she lay down, and her jumper rode up to reveal a taut abdomen. ‘Do you mean that?’

  Johanson propped himself up on his elbow. ‘No, not really.’

  ‘You think I’m unromantic.’

  ‘I think you’ve never stopped to think what romance is about.’

  Their eyes met.

  And lingered.

  His fingers were already in her hair, combing through the long blonde strands.

  ‘Maybe you could s
how me,’ she murmured. She wrapped an arm round his neck, eyes closed.

  Kiss her. Now.

  Neither of them moved. They were locked in position, as if they were waiting for a sign.

  What’s wrong? thought Johanson. Why isn’t it working? He could feel the warmth of Lund’s body and he breathed in her scent - but he felt like an intruder.

  ‘It’s not happening,’ said Lund.

  Johanson felt as though he’d been thrown into the lake’s cold water. Something had been extinguished. His ardour dispersed, giving way to relief. ‘You’re right,’ he said.

  They disentangled themselves reluctantly. Johanson saw a question in her eyes that was probably mirrored in his: have we spoilt what we had? ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  Lund didn’t reply. He sat down in front of her, with his back against the side of the boat, and offered her the bottle. ‘Good friends like us,’ he said, ‘should never be lovers.’

  It was a cliché, but it had the right effect. She giggled, grabbed the bottle and took a swig. Then she laughed. She put her hand to her mouth to stifle it, but noisy laughter spilled between her fingers, and Johanson joined in.

  ‘Phew,’ she said. ‘Are you angry with me?’

  ‘No. What about you?’

  ‘No - it’s just…’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t get it. On the Thorvaldson that night in your cabin, if I’d stayed a moment longer something could have happened, but now…’

  He took the bottle from her and drank some wine. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It would have been like tonight.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because you love him.’

  Lund wrapped her arms around her knees. ‘Kare?’

  ‘Who else?’

  For a long time she stared silently into space. ‘I thought I could get away from him.’ She paused, then went on, ‘You and I were always on the verge of something happening. Neither of us wanted anything serious so we were perfectly suited…But I never thought, it has to happen now. I wasn’t in love with you. I didn’t want to be in love. And then I met Kare and I knew I was…’

  ‘In love.’

  ‘I couldn’t focus on my job, my mind was always elsewhere - and that’s just not me.’

  ‘So you thought you’d cash in your chips before things got out of hand.’

  ‘Then you are angry with me!’

  ‘I’m not angry. I was never in love with you either.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I wanted you - but only really since you started seeing Kare. It dented my pride…’ He laughed. ‘There’s a wonderful film, Moonstruck, with Cher and Nicolas Cage. Someone asks, “Why do men chase women?” And the answer comes, “Maybe it’s because they fear death.” Why am I telling you this?’

  ‘Because it’s all about fear - fear of being alone, fear of never being asked and, worst of all, the fear of having a choice and making the wrong one. You and I could have an affair, but with Kare…With Kare, it would be much more than that. I knew it from the start. When you find yourself wanting someone you don’t even know, whatever the price. But their life is part of the deal, and you have to take that too - so you get nervous.’

  ‘It might be a mistake.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Have you ever been in a serious relationship?’ he asked.

  ‘Once,’ she said, ‘a long time ago.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He finished with me, and I was a snivelling wreck.’

  ‘And then?’

  She rested her chin on her hands. Sitting there in the moonlight, brow furrowed, she was utterly beautiful, but Johanson didn’t feel a hint of regret about the way things had worked out. ‘I was always the one who ended it,’ she said.

  ‘An avenging angel, then.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Mostly they got on my nerves - too slow, too sweet, too stupid. Sometimes I ran away to make sure I escaped before I…’

  ‘So you’re afraid of building a house in case a storm destroys it.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She frowned. ‘But there’s another way of looking at it. You build the house, then knock it down before anyone else can.’

  Somewhere a cricket was chirping and another answered from the other side of the lake.

  ‘Well, you almost succeeded,’ said Johanson. ‘If we’d slept together, you could have dumped him. Did you really think you could fool yourself like that?’

  ‘I told myself I’d be better off having an affair with you than throwing myself into a relationship that might stifle me. Sleeping with you would have confirmed it.’

  ‘So, you’d have screwed your way to safety?’

  ‘No.’ She glared at him. ‘I was attracted to you, believe it or not. You weren’t just there to help me escape. I didn’t just—’

  ‘It’s OK.’ Johanson made a dismissive gesture. ‘You’re in love.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said sullenly.

  ‘Don’t sound so grudging. Say it again.’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘That’s better.’ He grinned. ‘And now that we’ve turned you inside out and upside-down, let’s drink to Kare.’

  She gave him a lopsided grin.

  ‘Still not sure?’

  ‘Yes and no.’

  Johanson passed the bottle from one hand to the other. ‘I tore a house down once, a long time ago. The people were still inside. They both got hurt, but eventually it passed - for one of them, at least. I still haven’t decided whether it was right.’

  ‘Who was the other?’ asked Lund.

  ‘My wife.’

  ‘You were married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You never said.’

  ‘We’re divorced.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s just it. There was no real reason. No major dramas, no crockery throwing. Just the feeling that things were closing in. I was scared…of becoming dependent. I could see us starting a family. Soon there’d be children in the house and a dog in the yard, and I’d have to take responsibility.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘There are times when I see it as the only real mistake I’ve made.’ He stared into the water. Eventually he straightened and raised the bottle. ‘Now for a toast! Whatever you want to do, go ahead and do it.’

  ‘But I still don’t know,’ she whispered.

  To Johanson’s astonishment they spent the whole weekend together by the lake. After their failed attempt at romance, he’d imagined she’d want to leave first thing in the morning, but in fact the air had cleared. Their flirtation was over. So, they went for walks, talked, laughed and forgot about the outside world with its universities, oil rigs and worms - and Johanson cooked the best Bolognese of his life.

  On Sunday evening they drove home. Johanson dropped Lund at her place, then went on to his own. As he stepped into his house in Kirkegata Street, he was struck by the difference beween solitude and loneliness, but the feeling soon passed. He left it in the hallway: anxieties and melancholy were allowed that far but no further.

  He took his case into the bedroom and turned on the TV. Zapping through the channels, he came across a concert from the Royal Albert Hall. Arias from La Traviata, sung by Kiri Te Kanawa. He started to unpack, humming with the music and wondering what he might like as a nightcap.

  The music stopped, but he was folding a shirt and didn’t register that the concert had ended. In the background, the news took over.

  ‘…in Chile. It is not yet known whether the disappearance of the Norwegian family can be linked to similar incidents that are said to have occurred around the same time off the coasts of Peru and Argentina. In all three countries fishing-boats have disappeared or been found abandoned at sea. None of those involved have been traced. The conditions were calm and sunny when the family of five boarded the trawler on a deep-sea fishing expedition.’

  He smoothed a sleeve and folded it to the middle.

  ‘Costa Rica is currently experiencing a jellyfish invasion of unprecedented proportions. The so-called Portuguese man-of-war, or “bl
uebottle,” has descended on the area, swamping coastal waters. Local media reports say that fourteen people have been killed by the highly poisonous creatures, while many others have been injured, including two British citizens and a German. The number of missing is still to be confirmed. The Costa Rican Foreign Office has called an emergency session of Parliament, but firmly rejects the suggestion that beaches should be closed, insisting that there is no real threat to swimmers.’

  Johanson stopped what he was doing. ‘Those assholes,’ he muttered. ‘Fourteen dead! They should have closed the beaches long ago.’

  ‘Swarms of jellyfish are also causing concern off the coast of Australia. This time the culprits are thought to be box jellyfish, another highly venomous species. The local authorities are urging people to stay out of the water. Over the past hundred years, box jellyfish have caused seventy deaths, making them more dangerous to man than sharks

  ‘In another story of marine tragedy, fatalities have been reported off the coast of western Canada. The exact cause of the accidents, which resulted in the sinking of several tourist vessels, is not yet known. Reports suggest that navigational errors may have caused them to collide.’

  Johanson was gazing at the screen now. The newsreader had put down a piece of paper and was smiling emptily into the camera. ‘And now for a round-up of today’s other stories…’

  Johanson thought of the woman he’d seen in Bali, who’d flailed in the sand, shaken by convulsions. He hadn’t touched the creature and neither had she. She’d been walking along the beach when she noticed something floating in the shallows and had fished it out with a stick. Cautious by nature, she’d kept it at arm’s length, turning it this way and that. Then she’d made a mistake.

  The Portuguese man-of-war belonged to the genus Physalia, a type of hydrozoa that scientists still found baffling. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t a jellyfish but a floating colony of tiny organisms, hundreds of thousands of polyps, grouped according to function. The main body, a jelly-like float tinted violet or blue, had a gas-filled crest that rose above the water, allowing the colony to sail across the surface. You couldn’t see what hung beneath it.

  But you knew as soon as it touched you.

  A net of tentacles up to fifty metres long and covered with miniscule stinging cells swept beneath each Portuguese man-of-war. The structure and purpose of the cells was a masterstroke of evolution. Each consisted of a hollow sphere that curled in on itself to form a coiled tube tipped with a harpoon-like barb. At the slightest touch the tube would unfurl, bursting forth at a pressure equivalent to seventy exploding tyres. Thousands of barbed harpoons would penetrate the victim’s flesh, injecting a mixture of phenols and proteins that attacked the blood and nerve cells. The victim’s muscles would contract and pain would sear the skin. Shock would follow, then breathing difficulties and heart failure. Those fortunate enough to be close to the shore usually survived, but divers and swimmers further out stood little chance against the trailing tentacles.