Johan Theorin - The Quarry

Beyond the village the road grew even narrower, the forest thicker — and after about a kilometre he saw a sign pointing to the right, a white arrow with the words MORNER ART LTD on it. That was the name of one of Jerry’s businesses.

He was close to his destination now, and gripped the steering wheel a little harder. Although Jerry rang him at least once a week, they hadn’t seen each other since December, when Per had called round and spent a few hours at his father’s apartment. Jerry had celebrated Christmas all alone.

After five hundred metres of forest without a single house, Per suddenly came upon a dense cypress hedge. He had arrived.

A red sign by the entrance warned visitors to BEWARE OF THE DOG! despite the fact that Jerry had never owned a dog.

Per turned in, followed the driveway around a garage next to the large wooden house, and pulled up on a huge, deserted gravelled area. He switched off the engine, opened the door and looked at the house. It was big and wide, L-shaped and two storeys high. Jerry, Bremer and their actors had stayed here when they were working, so he assumed it consisted of a smaller residential section and a larger work area.

He didn’t feel welcome, but he was going to knock on the door anyway. Even if his father wasn’t here, perhaps Hans Bremer was.

Per had never met Bremer, but now they needed to talk — about the future. Jerry wasn’t well enough to run a business; it was time to wind up Morner Art and sell this place. Bremer would just have to look for a new job, but he’d probably worked that out already.

A wide flight of concrete steps led up to the door, which was flanked by shiny windows with the curtains drawn.

Per got out of the car and looked at his watch. Twenty past four. It was at least a couple of hours until sunset, but the sky was overcast and the fir trees towering up beyond the garden shut out the daylight.

His shoes crunched on the gravel as he went towards the steps.

The front door was imposing, made of oak or mahogany — and it was only when Per started up the steps that he noticed it was ajar. It was open an inch or so, and the hallway inside was pitch black.

He pushed open the heavy door and peered inside.

‘Hello?’

There wasn’t a sound. He reached in and found a switch, but when he flicked it down the light didn’t come on.

He glanced back quickly to check that the area in front of the house was still deserted, then he stepped inside.

Two ghostly figures were waiting for him on the left in the hallway. Per stiffened — until he realized they were nothing more than two dark raincoats hanging beneath a hat stand.

On the floor below the shelf stood a row of slippers and Wellington boots, along with an umbrella. There was an ebony sculpture in a dark corner, a tiger almost three feet tall who seemed ready to pounce.

Per took a couple of steps into the hallway. There were four doors leading off to the sides, but they were all closed.

For some reason he had been expecting a stale or sour smell in the air, but he was aware of only a faint aroma of old tobacco smoke and alcohol. Had someone had a party here?

There was something lying on the rug — a black mobile phone. Per picked it up and saw that it was switched off.

Was it Jerry’s? It certainly looked like his father’s, with big buttons that were easy to press with a shaky finger. He put the phone in his pocket and called out, ‘Hello? Jerry?’

No reply. And yet he still had the feeling that there was someone in the house, someone who was moving cautiously across the floor to avoid being heard.

He went over to a door on the left and tentatively pushed down the handle. Behind it was a large kitchen, a long room with several windows letting in grey light which fell on a sturdy dining table, several sinks and two large ovens. It reminded him of a restaurant kitchen, and there were a number of empty wine bottles and a pile of unwashed plates on the worktops.

Per turned around; he thought he had heard something. A shout from inside the house?

He stopped just inside the kitchen door and jumped when a bell suddenly started ringing. A telephone. It was coming from the wall on the far side of the kitchen, and from somewhere else in the house.

Per wanted to shout Can someone get that? , but he remained silent.

The telephone rang out three times, four, five.

No one answered, but when he finally moved towards it with his hand outstretched, it fell silent.

He moved slowly backwards, out of the kitchen. He stepped back into the hallway and turned around. The smell of alcohol was still there, perhaps it was even stronger now, and the black tiger was still lurking in the shadows, waiting for him. He walked past it and tried a door on the other side of the hallway.

The room behind the door was pitch black. When Per stepped inside he saw that the windows were taped shut, but he had the impression of a large, long room with plastic flooring, movable walls and spotlights on the ceiling. This must be Jerry and Bremer’s studio.

He spotted a light switch by the door and pressed it, but nothing happened. The power must have gone off in the whole house. Or somebody had turned it off. There was no point in groping blindly across the room. He was just about to turn around when he heard a faint sound in the darkness.

A sigh, or a groan? Yes, there was somebody groaning in the room in front of him. And it sounded like a man.

Per moved forward into the darkness. He bumped into something large and hard on the floor, a big leather sofa, and slowly felt his way around it.

The smell of alcohol was stronger in here — or was it something else?

Then he saw something moving on the other side of the sofa, a few metres away, and took another step forward. It was a shadow with arms, its head raised.

‘Pelle?’ said a voice in the darkness.

It was low and hoarse, and Per recognized it.

‘Jerry,’ he said. ‘What’s happened?’

The figure stirred. It was lying on the floor, but it turned its head in his direction. Slowly, as if it had difficulty moving. Per bent down towards it, towards a pale head with greasy strands of grey hair and a body covered with a crumpled overcoat.

‘You weren’t easy to find, Jerry. How are you doing?’

Per saw his father’s yellow-white eyes flash in the darkness. They were blinking at him, but Jerry didn’t seem surprised to see his son.

‘Bremer?’ he said, coughing.

Per shook his head. He spoke quietly, as if someone were creeping up on them.

‘I don’t know where Bremer is... Is he here in the house?’

He sensed that his father was nodding.

‘Can you get up?’

He reached out to him, but felt something cold and heavy across Jerry’s chest. Some kind of lighting stand or metal rig had fallen on top of him. Per lifted it out of the way — and at the same moment he heard a loud thud from the ceiling, and looked up.

There was somebody upstairs, he realized.

‘Up you get,’ he said quietly to Jerry, moving the stand out of the way. ‘There you go...’

He got his father up on to his knees, then his feet. Jerry groaned and seemed to be reaching out for something lying on the floor.

It was his old leather briefcase. Per let him take it. ‘Come on,’ he said.

His father’s body was substantial and heavy, bearing witness to long, lazy dinners and plenty of wine. Jerry moved slowly across the floor, leaning on his son.

‘Pelle,’ Jerry said again.

Per could smell a mixture of sweat, nicotine and unwashed clothes emanating from his father. It was a strange feeling, being so close to him. It had never happened when he was a little boy. No reassuring pats from Jerry, no hugs.

When he had managed to get him halfway to the door, he heard a brief clicking sound in the darkness. Then something hissed.