Johan Theorin - The Quarry

Jerry didn’t wake up.

His room was small, and the closed blinds transformed the sunshine outside into small glowing dots. Per sat in the darkness beside him during Saturday and Sunday, long hours when very little happened. The nurses came and went, changing his drip. They looked at him, patted his hand, and went out again.

Jerry had been sent for X-rays and put in plaster on Friday evening; half his face and his right arm and leg were covered in bandages. Those parts of his face that were visible were bruised and battered, but Per knew that the most serious bleeds were in the brain.

He had been moved from the emergency department to intensive care, and then to his own room off a ward. This could have been interpreted as a positive sign, but in fact the opposite was true, as a nurse made clear to Per.

‘Just don’t expect any miracles,’ was all she said.

Jerry had been moved to a room of his own because there wasn’t much they could do. He lay in a torpor, muttering to himself and opening his eyes occasionally. He was asleep for most of the time.

Per sat by the bed, remembering that Jerry had failed to turn up when his mother Anita lay dying of kidney failure ten years earlier. He hadn’t even phoned. Three days before her death he had sent a Get Well Soon card by post. Per had thrown it away without showing it to her.

Then he tried to remember when he had been closest to his father during the almost fifty years they had known one another. As a child? No. And not as an adult, either. He couldn’t recall one single hour of closeness — so perhaps this was it.

I ought to say something about his life , Per thought. I ought to tell him what I think of him. Get it all off my chest and then I’ll feel better .

But he said nothing. He just waited.

When he went down to get some lunch on Saturday he saw the headline in one of the evening papers in the little shop:

So the news was out at last. Sex and violence in one headline — that was pure gold for the press. Per bought the paper, but didn’t learn anything new. It simply said that the police were investigating an arson attack on a property owned by ‘the notorious porn director Jerry Morner’, and that two bodies had been found in the house. Next to the article a black and white picture from the seventies showed a smiling Jerry holding a copy of Babylon up to the camera. It didn’t mention the fact that he was in hospital — merely that he was unavailable for comment.

Inspector Marklund turned up at the hospital at about three o’clock on Sunday afternoon, and Per met him outside the door of Jerry’s room.

‘I’m on my way back to Växjö,’ Marklund said quietly. ‘How is he? Has he said anything?’

‘He hasn’t come round yet... They think he’s suffered brain damage.’

Marklund just nodded.

‘Have you found the driver?’ said Per.

‘Not yet, but we’re examining the motorway and we’ve found some tyre marks. The car must have been damaged, so we’re checking garages too. And we’re looking for witnesses.’

Per glanced towards Jerry’s room. ‘It must have been someone Jerry knew... I mean, he was getting out of the car when I spotted him. So he must have gone along with whoever it was of his own free will.’

‘Did you recognize the driver?’

Per shook his head.

‘Did you get the number?’

‘I was too far away; the car was up above me on the bridge. I could see it was dark-red... I think I saw one like it driving past our cottage on Öland a few days ago.’

Marklund took out his notebook. ‘Can you remember any details?’

‘Not many... It was a Swedish number plate, and I think it was a Ford Escort, a few years old.’ He looked wearily at the inspector. ‘Is that any help?’

Marklund closed the notebook. ‘You never know.’

But Per realized it was no help at all.

Jerry was sinking deeper and deeper into unconsciousness, but his eyes occasionally moved behind his eyelids. His breathing was shallow, and he mumbled disjointed words. They sounded like a long series of Swedish names, many of them women: ‘Josefine, yes... Amanda... Charlotte?... Suzanne, what do you want?’

He never mentioned Per’s mother Anita, nor Regina.

As the day passed, his breathing grew weaker and weaker, but in the midst of all the mumbling there were other names and words Per recognized: ‘Bremer... Moleng Noar... and Markus Lukas, so ill...’

At about eight o’clock on Sunday evening, when Per had almost fallen asleep, Jerry suddenly looked at him with total clarity and whispered, ‘Pelle?’

‘I’m here,’ said Per. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Dad.’

‘Good, Pelle... Good.’ He fell silent.

Per leaned closer. ‘Who was it?’ he asked. ‘Who was driving the car?’

‘Bremer.’

‘It can’t have been.’

But Jerry simply nodded, then closed his eyes again.

He passed away just after nine on Sunday evening, with a barely audible sigh. The wheezing Per had heard ever since he was a child stopped with a quiet exhalation, and his body gave up the struggle.

Per was sitting by the bed holding Jerry’s hand when it happened, and he remained there when the room became utterly silent.

He sat there for several minutes. He tried to think of someone who needed to know that Jerry had gone, someone he ought to call — but he couldn’t come up with a single person.

Eventually he went to look for a doctor.

Per got back to Casa Mörner an hour after midnight, once he had seen his father’s body transferred to a trolley and wheeled away by a porter.

The last thing one of the night nurses had done in Jerry’s room was to go over and open the window wide, the curtains fluttering as the cold night air swept in.

She turned to Per and gave him a brief, embarrassed smile. ‘I usually open the window when they’ve gone,’ she said. ‘To let the soul out.’

Per nodded. He looked over at the window and could almost see Jerry’s spirit drifting away through the night, like a shimmering silver ball outside the hospital. Would it sink down towards the ground, or float up to the stars?

He left Kalmar at half past midnight and drove slowly across the Öland bridge. As he drove north on the island he kept glancing in the rear-view mirror. A couple of times he saw headlights coming up behind him at high speed and gripped the wheel more tightly, but both cars overtook him.

Down by the quarry it was almost completely dark, with only a couple of outside lights showing over at the new houses. Per drove up to his little cottage, got out of the car and listened, but everywhere was quiet. The faint soughing of the wind, nothing else.

Then he heard the telephone ringing in the kitchen.

He began to walk slowly towards the house, and the phone continued to ring.

Markus Lukas , he thought. You’ve killed Bremer and now you’re hiding somewhere, wondering if you managed to kill my father .

He unlocked the door and followed the sound into the kitchen. He looked at the telephone for a few seconds, then picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’

No one spoke; all he could hear was an echoing sound, and rhythmic cries in the background.

It was a recording, Per realized, and he had heard it before. On Maundy Thursday someone had rung up and played exactly the same thing in the middle of the day.

And now he recognized what he was listening to — a girl crying out. It was the soundtrack from one of Jerry’s films.

He clutched the receiver tightly. ‘Talk to me,’ he said. ‘Why are you doing this?’

There was no answer — the soundtrack continued. He listened and closed his eyes. ‘You don’t need to play that... Jerry’s gone now,’ he went on. ‘You killed him.’