free of all distractions. That’s why our centre is on an island.’
A man behind Sofia raised his hand.
‘Are you a religion?’
‘No, we’re actually the first anti-religion.’
‘Anti-religion? What’s that?’
‘That means that whatever you hate about religion, we’re the exact opposite,’ Oswald replied.
‘I hate that you have to pray to God in most religions,’ said the man.
‘In ViaTerra, we don’t pray to God. We’re realists, with our feet planted firmly on the ground.’
A stout, red-haired woman in the first row stood up.
‘I hate all these damn books and writings you’re supposed to read. And then you’re supposed to believe all that crap too.’
By now, almost everyone was laughing.
‘We don’t have any books in ViaTerra. Just a couple of simple theses we use, but that’s all voluntary.’
It went on like this for a while. Oswald handled each question deftly. He was really on a roll.
Then a man wearing a neat, black suit and round glasses stood up.
‘Do you have scientific evidence for all of this? Is this an accepted science, or just a cult?’
‘Everything we do is based on sound reason. It has nothing to do with science or religion. The important thing is that it works, right?’
‘So how do we know that your gimmick works?’
‘Come and see for yourself. Or don’t.’
‘Nah, I think I’ll pass.’
The man made his way through the rows of seats and left the hall.
‘There you go,’ Oswald said with a shrug. ‘Let’s move on, with those of you who are truly interested.’
*
When the lecture was over, they were ushered out of the hall by young people in grey suits and led to a large coatroom where several tables had been lined up along the walls. Pens and forms were handed out. A thin young man with slicked-back hair and a goatee loomed over Sofia and Wilma until they had filled out their forms; then, when they were finished, he greedily yanked the papers from their hands. They mingled for a bit, chatting with a few young women their own age.
Then, suddenly, there he was. He popped up behind Sofia. Wilma was the first to notice him, and she was startled. When Sofia turned around, he was right next to her. Only now that they were face to face did she notice how young he really was. Twenty-five, thirty at the most. His skin was smooth, except for the hint of a few wrinkles on his forehead. His jaw was wide, and a five o’clock shadow lent a hint of manliness to his soft features. That, and his thick, dark eyebrows. But what she noticed first was his eyes. His gaze was so intense that it made her uncomfortable. And then there was the noticeable scent of his aftershave: pine and citrus. He was something totally out of the ordinary — there was no standing this close to him without noticing it.
At first he said nothing, and the lengthy silence became awkward. She noticed his hands. Long, thin fingers with nails cut short. No ring. The expression in his eyes was unreadable. She swallowed and tried to think of something to say but realized that she was tongue-tied.
‘Sofia, I got the impression that you had more questions?’ he said at last, putting the emphasis on her name.
‘Not really. We’re just curious.’ Her voice sounded rough and hoarse.
He raised and lowered his eyebrows and drew up the corners of his lips, as if there were a secret between them. He was well aware, irritatingly so, of how good-looking he was.
‘Come and visit. I’d be happy to show you our centre. No commitment, just a tour of the property.’
He handed her a business card. Green and white, with embossed letters.
‘This number goes to Madeleine, my secretary. Call her and book a time.’
He held onto the card for a moment so she couldn’t take it from his hand. His eyes flashed and then he let go. Sofia was about to respond, but he had already turned around and was on his way into the crowd. Wilma tugged at Sofia’s sleeve.
‘Stop staring at him. Why don’t we visit that island and take a look? What harm can it do?’
She clears her throat a few times. Doesn’t quite know how to say it.
I just stare at her. I know it makes her uncomfortable, and I enjoy that.
‘We can’t go too far,’ she says. ‘I mean, it could be dangerous . . .’
‘Isn’t that the point?’
‘Yes, but . . . you know what I mean.’
‘Nope, not really. Tell me.’
‘I don’t want it to leave bruises.’
I snort.
‘So wear a turtleneck. Stop being such a wuss. You like it, don’t you?’
She lowers her eyes, all innocent. This is something new. Her fear.
It seeps out of her and turns me on; I get incredibly excited.
Have to take a few deep breaths, hold myself back, to keep from grabbing her and shaking her hard.
I own this person; I have her completely under my power.
She bends to my will like the grass in the wind. I turn my back on her.
Feel her drawn into the vacuum.
I think of how this night will be.
‘Are you dreaming, Miss?’
This was the man who captained the ferry, Edwin Björk. He was slightly overweight, with sideburns and a wind-chapped face; he smelled like diesel and seaweed. Sofia and Wilma had made friends with him on the journey over. Sofia tore herself from her memories of the lecture and looked at Björk.
‘Not really, just wondering if it’s usually so foggy here in the summer.’
‘It’s not unusual,’ Björk said. ‘She’s not called Fog Island for nothing. But it’s worst in the fall. The fog sometimes gets so thick that I can’t bring the ferry in. What are you two up to on the island?’
‘We’re going to visit a group at the manor, ViaTerra.’
Björn
