Johan Theorin - The Quarry

Jerry grunted on the kitchen chair, but didn’t move.

‘There,’ said Per, folding up the dressing. ‘Does that feel better?’

Jerry grunted again, but Per thought the wound in his stomach looked as if it had healed. It had knitted together, and now there was just a pink line.

‘Do you remember what happened?’ he asked.

There was a long pause, then Jerry answered, ‘Bremer.’

‘Bremer was holding the knife? He stabbed you and hit you?’

Jerry nodded. ‘Bremer.’

‘OK. But I mean, you were friends... Do you know why he did it?’

Jerry shook his head. He was sticking to his story — perhaps that made it more credible, Per thought, but it was still very odd. Why would Hans Bremer attack his colleague with a knife, lock himself and some woman in the house and then set fire to it?

Per could only hope that the police would go through the film studio, find some answers soon, and pass them on to him.

There were several mysteries to puzzle over. He had searched for Nilla’s lucky stone both last night and this morning, but it just wasn’t in the house. He also searched the car, but with no luck. He tried to stay out of sight of his father, because as soon as he showed himself the hoarse cries started up: ‘Pelle? Pelle!’

When he had removed Jerry’s dressing, Per straightened up. ‘Now you’re better, I thought it was time we got you home. I’ll drive you down to Kristianstad this evening. What do you think about that?’

His father said nothing.

‘OK, that’s decided then. You can sit here and rest, and we’ll have something to eat in a little while.’

An hour or so after lunch Per went out for a run, partly to clear his head and partly to get away from Jerry for a while.

Easter Sunday was chilly and bright, with just a few wispy clouds visible over the mainland. He ran north along the coast, and when he’d gone so far that he could see the little island of Blå Jungfrun as a black dome out in the sound, he stopped and took in the view. The rocks, the sun, the sea. For a few seconds he was able to forget everything else. Then he turned around and ran back.

When he was almost home he caught sight of another runner, wearing a white cap and a red tracksuit. He or she was coming from the east, along the track that wound its way inland. A slender figure, approaching rapidly. It was Vendela Larsson.

Per stopped a few hundred metres from the quarry and allowed her to catch up with him. He smiled at her. ‘Hi — how far?’

It was strange, but he thought she looked slightly embarrassed as she came up to him, as if she had been caught out somehow.

‘How far? You mean how far have I run?’ She seemed to be thinking it over. ‘I don’t really work it out... I ran out on to the alvar and back again. That’s my usual circuit.’

‘Great. I usually run up the coast. Two kilometres north, then back again.’

She smiled. ‘I go for a jog almost every evening. We did say we might go together... how about tomorrow?’

‘Sure,’ said Per. Vendela didn’t say anything else, so he turned and jogged towards the cottage. She joined him, and asked, ‘How are the kids?’

Per glanced sideways at her. How much did she know? Did she know how sick Nilla was? He just didn’t have the strength to start telling her all about it.

‘Up and down,’ he said. ‘Jesper’s fine, but Nilla’s... she’s lost her lucky stone.’

‘Oh dear, is she upset?’ asked Vendela. ‘I thought she looked a bit pale at the party, as if she—’

‘A bit,’ Per interrupted. ‘She’s a bit upset.’

Vendela looked over at the cottage. ‘Did she lose it indoors?’

‘She thinks so.’

Vendela suddenly stopped dead and closed her eyes for a few seconds.

Per looked at her. ‘Are you all right?’

She opened her eyes and nodded. She started to jog again, heading for her own house. Over her shoulder she said briefly, as if it were obvious, ‘I think you’ll find the stone now — it’s probably in her room.’

And it was.

When Per got in he looked in the little room where Nilla had slept over Easter, and there it was on the bed. A little round piece of polished lava, clearly visible on the white duvet.

But he’d looked there, hadn’t he? He’d looked for Nilla’s lucky stone everywhere, surely?

‘The one from the party,’ said Jerry.

He was standing outside the cottage pointing south with a trembling index finger.

‘What are you talking about?’ said Per, putting Jerry’s suitcase in the car.

‘Filmed her,’ said Jerry.

‘Who?’

‘Her!’

He was still pointing. Per looked over at the neighbours’ house, where a couple of figures were moving about on the drive.

‘Do you mean Marie Kurdin? The woman you saw at the party?’

Jerry nodded.

‘She was in your films?’

Jerry nodded again. ‘Slag.’

Per gritted his teeth; he’d heard Jerry use that word before. ‘Don’t say that.’

‘But fresh,’ said Jerry slowly, as if he liked the word. ‘Frressh slag.’

‘Stop it,’ said Per. ‘I’m not interested.’

But he couldn’t help looking over at the house.

Marie Kurdin was standing outside, packing the family car with a dozen suitcases, changing mats and bags of toys. The Easter break was over, and the Kurdin family were evidently on their way home.

How old was she? Thirty, perhaps. A tall, slender mother with a baby. She was heaving the suitcases energetically into the car, shouting something inaudible to her husband indoors. It couldn’t be true, surely? Marie Kurdin couldn’t have been in Jerry’s films? He suddenly saw images in his head, images he hadn’t asked for: Marie Kurdin lying on a bed like all the others, with Markus Lukas bending over her and Jerry standing slightly to one side, smoking...

No . Per shook his head and looked at his father. ‘You’re imagining things.’

Before they left, Per went over to Vendela Larsson’s house to say thank you for helping him to find Nilla’s lucky stone — and to ask his neighbour how she could have known where it was.

He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He scribbled a quick note:

Thanks a lot for the stone!

Per

Then he folded it up and tucked it into the doorframe.

There were three of them in the car this time; Jesper was with them as they left the island and drove across the Öland Bridge. He was going back to his mother, and back to school after the Easter holidays.

Marika lived in north Kalmar and Per dropped his son off outside the house; he didn’t want to run the risk of Marika meeting Jerry.

‘Can you find your way from here?’ he asked as Jesper got out of the car.

Jesper nodded without cracking a smile at the joke, but leaned over to give Per a quick hug.

‘Good luck with school,’ said Per, ‘and say hello to Mum from me.’

When Jesper had gone inside, he turned to Jerry. ‘Did you see that hug, Jerry? Some daddies get hugs.’

Jerry said nothing, so Per went on, ‘OK, let’s get you home.’ ‘Home,’ said Jerry.

A couple of hours later they drove into the centre of Kristianstad, but by that time Jerry had fallen asleep. He slept leaning back in his seat, his face tipped up towards the roof of the car and his mouth wide open between hollow cheeks. His snoring drowned out the sound of the engine, and Per switched on the radio, which was playing a sentimental old song:

He quickly turned it off again.