Johan Theorin - The Quarry

Per turned his head. Over his shoulder he saw a glow on the floor further inside the room, and a small flame flared up.

It was thin and weak, but quickly grew bigger; the fire reached up from the floor, illuminating a peculiar device standing by the wall. It looked like a car battery with wires, standing next to a plastic box.

The smell in the air wasn’t alcohol, Per realized. It was petrol.

The box was a big green can, and somebody had drilled little holes in the side. The petrol had already run out and formed a pool on the floor.

Per stared at the fire, watching it grow and creep closer to the can, and he saw the danger.

‘We have to get out of here.’

He pulled Jerry across the room.

Once they were out, Per quickly closed the door behind them, and almost immediately heard a dull, sucking roar from inside the room as the petrol ignited, rattling the door.

Jerry raised his head, and Per noticed that his father had a red lump on his forehead.

‘Pelle?’

‘Let’s go, Jerry.’

He staggered through the hallway with his arm around his father. They could hear a muted crackling noise through the door behind them as the fire spread through the room.

Per blinked as he stepped out into the daylight, supporting Jerry as they made their way down the steps and over to the Saab.

When they reached the car he let go of Jerry, took out his mobile and quickly made a call. A female voice answered after two rings.

‘Emergency services.’

Per cleared his throat. ‘I want to report a fire.’

‘What’s the location?’

Per looked around. ‘It’s in a house outside Ryd, it’s arson... the ground floor is burning.’

‘Can you give me the address?’

The woman on the other end of the phone sounded very calm; Per tried to calm down in turn, tried to think. ‘I don’t know the name of the road. It’s near Strihult to the west of Ryd and there’s a sign that says Morner Art...’

‘Is everyone out of the house?’

‘What?’

‘Has everyone left the house?’

‘I don’t know... I just got here.’

‘And your name?’

Per hesitated. What should he say? Should he make up a name?

He had nothing to hide. Jerry might have, but he hadn’t. ‘My name is Per Mörner,’ he said, and gave his address and home number on Öland. Then he switched off his mobile.

Jerry was leaning against the car. In the grey daylight Per could see that his father had on the same crumpled brown coat he had been wearing day in and day out for the past few years; the seams were coming apart, and several buttons were missing.

Jerry sighed and gritted his teeth. ‘Hurts,’ he said.

Per turned to face him. ‘Are you in pain?’

Jerry nodded. Then he turned back his coat and Per suddenly saw that the shirt below Jerry’s ribcage was wet and torn.

‘What have you done? Have you...?’ Per fell silent as he lifted up his father’s shirt.

A couple of inches above the navel a long, bloody wound ran across Jerry’s pot belly. The blood had begun to coagulate; it looked almost black in the gloom.

Per lowered the shirt. ‘Who did this, Jerry?’

Jerry looked at his bloodstained belly as if he’d only just noticed it. ‘Bremer,’ he said.

‘Bremer?’ said Per. ‘Were you fighting with Hans Bremer? Why?’

Quick-fire questions made his father’s brain shut down. He merely stared and blinked at his son, but said nothing.

Per looked over at the big house on the other side of the parking area. The front door was still open, and he thought he could see a thin cloud of smoke drifting out.

‘So where’s Bremer now? Is he still in there?’

Jerry remained silent as he laboriously clambered into the Saab’s passenger seat.

‘Wait here,’ said Per, closing the car door.

He ran back to the house. Up the steps, into the hallway. It wasn’t without risks; he could hear the fire roaring and crackling behind the closed door of the studio. The air inside the house also felt warmer, like an oven heating up. He didn’t have much time.

And he needed a weapon, given that there might be somebody with a knife in the house. He grabbed the furled umbrella from the hall. Holding it in front of him with the point raised, he opened one of the middle doors and saw a steep staircase leading downwards.

The cellar. It was pitch black, he didn’t want to go down there.

Behind the fourth and final unopened door there was another staircase, this time leading upwards.

Per set off up the stairs, which were covered in white fitted carpet that completely deadened the sound of his footsteps. At the top of the stairs was a corridor which ran along the upper floor, with closed doors along both sides; Per felt as if he had landed in a hotel.

He set off, holding the umbrella like a sword.

‘Bremer?’ he shouted. ‘It’s Per Mörner!’

The stench of petrol or some kind of accelerant was just as powerful up here, and suddenly he heard a low crackling sound. He couldn’t see any flames, but he realized there was a fire somewhere up here too. There was a grey mist of smoke forming around him in the corridor, rapidly growing thicker and drying out his windpipe.

But where was the fire?

Per quickly walked over to the nearest door and opened it, only to discover a cupboard full of cleaning materials. He opened the next one: a small bedroom with bare walls and a made-up bed.

The third door on the left was locked, but curls of smoke were rising from a narrow gap at floor level.

‘Bremer? Hello? Hans Bremer?’

No reply. Or was that a noise? A whimpering sound?

Per had never kicked a door open, he’d only seen people do it in films. Was it easy? He took a couple of steps back; unfortunately he couldn’t give himself any more of a run at the door, as his back was against the opposite wall. Then he lunged forward and kicked hard.

The door shuddered, but it was made of pine, and didn’t open.

He looked around. There was a key in one of the doors on the other side of the corridor, and he took it out. He tried it in the locked door; it fitted, and he was able to turn it.

The door opened smoothly to reveal billowing white smoke. The air in the corridor sucked it out of the room, straight at Per.

He blinked and felt tears spring to his eyes. The smoke was dense, like autumn fog, but he walked into it anyway and suddenly recognized a particular smell beyond the smoke. The smell of burnt flesh.

The room was small and dark. Per blinked and groped around with his hands, but was unable to find the light switch; he had to crouch down at floor level where the air was fresher.

He took a couple of steps into the room. To the right he could see flames running up the wallpaper. There was an unmade bed with a pile of blankets on it, burning fiercely. He took another step forward, but the heat brought him to a standstill.

He blinked at the smoke and tried to see. Was there a burning body beneath the blankets? Per imagined he could see outstretched arms, legs in trousers, a charred head...

His eyes were streaming, his lungs seared with pain. And that was when he heard the cry behind him.

There were no words, just a long drawn-out scream. It sounded like a woman’s voice, and it was terrified.

Per dropped the umbrella and turned around, half-blind. He went back into the corridor. The cry had come from somewhere on this floor, but it was muted, as if it came through a wall.

All the doors were still closed, but at the far end of the corridor he saw something new: a patch of bright flames that had taken hold of the carpet. He realized that the whole of the upper floor was burning. He was surrounded by fire.

‘Hello!’ he yelled.

He heard a cry from the woman in response, even more muted.