Johan Theorin - The Quarry

‘This is your room,’ he said. ‘It’s nice and clean, and I’ve aired it for you.’

Nilla sat down cautiously on the bed, and Per went to fetch her luggage and the wheelchair.

Jesper was on the computer in his room, but Per couldn’t find Jerry.

He went out on to the patio in the sunshine. His father was slumped in one of the chairs, with a sunhat tipped down over his forehead and his eyes closed. His briefcase was lying at his feet like an old brown dog.

‘Hi Jerry.’ Per sat down in front of him and placed the newspaper on his knee. ‘Read this.’

But Jerry wasn’t looking down at the paper, he was looking at something over Per’s shoulder.

Per turned and saw Nilla standing in the doorway. Her arms were dangling wearily by her sides, but she was smiling at Jerry. ‘Hi Granddad,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

Jerry just nodded. He raised a hand slowly in her direction, and cleared his throat. ‘Hi,’ he said.

Per was holding his breath. His first instinct was to protect his daughter from Jerry in some way, but that was hardly necessary.

‘Granddad doesn’t say much,’ he said to Nilla. ‘I’ll be in soon... we’ll have something to eat.’

Nilla nodded and went back inside.

Per leaned forward and pointed to the newspaper article. ‘Jerry, it seems as if Hans Bremer was in the house. He’s still missing, according to the police.’

His father was listening, but there was no reaction. ‘Bremer,’ was all he said. Then he pulled up his shirt to reveal the large plaster on his stomach.

Per didn’t need to look, he just shook his head. ‘Jerry, why would Bremer want to harm you?’

Jerry’s mouth worked as he struggled to find the word, and at last it came. ‘Frightened.’

Per nodded. He didn’t want to leave his father, but he was wondering if it was a good idea to take him over to the neighbours’ party.

Party time. Other people might have neighbourhood disputes, but the families around the quarry were going to have a neighbourhood party, thanks to Vendela Larsson. There was no need to thank her, but without her it wouldn’t be happening.

At six o’clock she was out on the veranda setting the long festive table with wine glasses and plates. Over in the west, above Kalmar Sound, the sun glowed in shades of red and gold, like a dying fire. In a couple of hours it would be gone. Vendela knew it would be a chilly evening on the veranda, and decided to bring out some thick blankets so that everybody could wrap up warm. And of course they could always turn on the halogen heating.

Max had emerged from his study at the end of his working day, wearing his dressing gown and heading for the sauna. He crossed the stone floor in the main living room quickly on his bare feet, but stopped in the doorway.

‘How did it go?’ she asked.

‘Pretty well,’ said Max. ‘I’ve almost finished the beginning... you can have a look at it soon.’

‘No problem,’ said Vendela, who had actually written the outline for the introduction and given it to him the previous evening.

‘And after that it’s mostly recipes and pictures,’ said Max. ‘I’m sure we can get it done.’

He was always more amenable when he’d been able to spend a few hours in peace at his desk, particularly when he could have a sauna afterwards.

‘Not too hot, Max,’ she shouted as he went into the sauna. ‘Think about your heart!’

Vendela had spent most of the day in the kitchen. There was an assortment of quiches warming in the oven, and the table was ready.

By half past six everything was done. Max was out of the sauna and dressed, and she had managed to get him to carry all the chairs out on to the veranda, and to light the lanterns and candles on the table. Then she had sent him off to fetch the old sea captain from across the road.

He came back after quarter of an hour with Gerlof Davidsson in a wheelchair. Gerlof was wearing a smoking jacket — the fabric was shiny, and it looked at least fifty years old. John Hagman was walking beside him, dressed in a black suit with brown protective patches on the elbows.

Max pushed the wheelchair along the path, but when Vendela opened the door, Gerlof got up slowly and walked in, his back straight. When he stood up he was almost a head taller than Max, Vendela noticed.

‘I can walk. Now and again,’ said Gerlof. Then he handed Vendela a small package. ‘For you — I made it myself this morning.’

‘Oh, thank you!’

Vendela opened the package and was struck by the acrid smell of tar. Inside was a piece of brown ropework, cleverly knotted to form a small mat.

‘It’s a Turk’s head knot,’ said Gerlof. ‘It will bring happiness and good fortune to your home.’

The smell of tar made Vendela feel slightly dizzy, almost as if she’d taken some kind of strong medication, but she smiled at Gerlof.

The other neighbours were quite punctual. The Kurdins, who were an attractive couple, arrived first, with their baby fast asleep in his pram. Christer smiled at Vendela and said they had a beautiful house; he seemed a little more friendly than his tall, ice-cold wife, who was wearing a dark-grey linen dress. Marie Kurdin merely nodded briefly at her hostess, then marched in with her chin in the air.

The Mörner family arrived five minutes later: Per, the father, with his teenage twins. Nilla was holding on to her brother Jesper’s arm. She was small and pale, and took very small steps. Vendela smiled, but she was concerned; was the girl anorexic?

When Per Mörner held out his hand to Max, Vendela saw her husband stiffen. They hadn’t met since the encounter in the car park on Friday. Neither of the men smiled.

‘OK?’ said Per.

‘Sure,’ said Max, quickly shaking hands with him and nodding at the son, to show that everything was fine.

The Mörners had a fourth person with them, someone Vendela hadn’t seen before: a stooping, elderly man with grey, slicked-back hair. He stumbled as he crossed the threshold, and Per Mörner quickly grabbed hold of him. Then he nodded to their hosts. ‘This is my father, Jerry Morner.’

Jerry’s tired eyes stared dully at Vendela’s body as he shook hands; he didn’t say a word, and didn’t really seem to be with them. Under the other arm he was clutching an old briefcase.

Then he shuffled straight through the hall and out on to the newly cleaned floor, without removing either his shoes or coat. Vendela bit her tongue and said nothing. She hurried into the kitchen to fetch the last of the quiches.

Max went over to the drinks table in front of the picture window and offered his guests whisky, dry Martini or fruit juice.

The conversation between hosts and guests slowly but surely got under way, mostly involving comparisons between the various houses. The men did most of the talking, particularly Max and Christer Kurdin, who were keen to compare their newly built houses. Both wanted to have the last word, and Vendela listened to their interweaving voices:

‘Well, yes, I can see you’ve gone for a lot of glass, but I think you’ll find our stone walls will be cooler in summer...’

‘A basement? Well, of course that increases your surface area...’

‘Formica has had its day, it’s well out of date now...’

‘Harmonious proportions are important, not only the design...’

After ten or fifteen minutes Vendela brought out the last of the food, and Max encouraged all their guests to move out on to the veranda. In the west the sun was hovering just above the black line of the horizon, like a painting in red and yellow. The sea was dark blue and shining.

Max switched on the halogen heating and the metal tubes suspended around the veranda began to glow faintly. The cold evening air was soon almost as warm as in summer.