The Quarry töq-3

by Johan Theorin

  As soon as the sun had disappeared, the night began to creep in across the coast. The quarry was filled with a grey gloom.

  Gerlof wanted to hurry on, but his strength was almost gone.

  After a hundred metres he had to stop and lean on his stick once again, and that was when he heard a dull roar.

  It came from the quarry. He took a couple more steps, and saw a bright glow down below.

  A new sun flared up briefly in the darkness down at the bottom of the quarry, yellowish-white and much brighter than the first, and a rumbling echo rolled up over the rock face. Something had exploded among the piles of stone.

  He breathed in the cold air and started to move towards the edge as quickly as he could. A car engine revved. He heard someone shouting down below, and a few seconds later came the acrid smell of burning petrol.

  69

  Per blinked, waiting for Thomas Fall to toss the match into the shining pool of petrol. He could simply flick it away with his thumb and forefinger, then take a step back to watch the conflagration.

  But Fall was much more cautious than that. He leaned forward slowly, lowering the match towards the pool.

  Per saw the flame twirl and grow – and then, at the last moment, a slightly stronger puff of wind from the sea blew it out. A glowing point lingered for a second, then disappeared.

  I ought to get up and make a run for it, thought Per. Or knock him down. After all, I can do a bit of judo, I ought to knock him down.

  But he couldn’t get up, he was too badly hurt. He had severe burns on his arm, and the rest of his body just felt numb. He was not aware of any pain in his broken ribs; he felt nothing.

  Fall didn’t seem annoyed that the flame had gone out; he quickly dropped the match and took out a new one. No, in fact he’d taken out three, Per realized – he put them together and struck them.

  He heard the crackling noise again, louder this time. The flame that sprang to life was three times stronger than the last one, and burnt more brightly. Per sat on the ground with his head pounding, still thinking about judo. He had sat in this position in the training centre in Kalmar, his knees resting on a thin, soft mat, and he remembered how he had learned to relax and focus on moving through the space. A fluid movement – throwing himself forwards, rolling to one side, falling backwards.

  Backwards. He could try to fall backwards.

  Now Fall was bending down towards the edge of the pool of petrol, and at the same moment Per gathered all his strength and threw himself backwards in a somersault. He relaxed as he fell, arched his back, turned his head to one side and tried to make his body into a soft arc, rolling away from the flame and the petrol.

  Fall had dropped the match. The fumes dancing just above the ground ignited first, then the entire pool began to burn with a dull puff! and a glow that lit up the rock face all around.

  For a brief moment Per found himself on his back at the edge of the pool of fire with his shoes pointing up at the sky, then he completed the backward somersault as his legs hit the ground and he felt a stab of pain bury itself in his ribs.

  But he was away from the fire. He had rolled backwards away from the pool of fire, and his petrol-sodden clothes were still only wet, not burning.

  Good, keep going, he thought. Get out of the way.

  His ribcage was throbbing and aching, but still he tried to get up. He put his right hand down on the gravel and managed to push himself up.

  Behind him the flames continued to dance.

  He had to try to get away, but where could he go? He was trapped in a giant punchbowl, with walls of rock several metres high all around him; between him and the track leading out of the quarry were Thomas Fall and his car.

  A wide, jagged shadow loomed before him in the darkness beyond the fire, forty or fifty metres away. Per realized it was the nearest heap of reject stone, where he and Jesper had found the oblong blocks for the steps. It was perhaps two metres high, like a little round fortress on the bottom of the quarry – he could hide there.

  He began to drag himself towards it. When he had gone some twenty metres, Per glanced behind him, but he could no longer see Thomas Fall in the glow of the fire. The burning petrol had begun to die down, but was still glowing and smouldering on the ground. The wind was spreading the billowing smoke, forming a grey curtain in the centre of the quarry – and somewhere behind it he heard the sound of a car engine starting up. The headlights swung around as if the car were searching for him.

  Per increased his speed, and seconds before the lights found him he hurled himself down behind the heap of stone.

  He clung to the dry blocks of limestone and tried to keep his head down.

  The headlights swept past; the car seemed to be driving around in circles in an attempt to find Per. The engine was revving in a low gear, reverberating between the rock faces like a growling prehistoric monster.

  Per took a deep breath of cold air and saw a faint glow down towards the coast in the south; he didn’t know what it was at first, but realized it must be a bonfire. They were burning all over the island this Walpurgis Night, and anyone who happened to see flames shooting up in the quarry wouldn’t give them a second thought. He couldn’t count on any help.

  Thomas Fall was still driving around in ever increasing circles. Sooner or later, Per would be discovered.

  Where was the axe? It had disappeared in the darkness.

  Per looked over at the rock face and the steps leading up to his cottage, to a telephone and to all of Ernst’s tools. A hundred metres away, perhaps. It wasn’t far, but there was nothing to hide behind on the way there.

  The beam of the headlights suddenly swept over him, and stopped. The engine roared and Per realized he had been spotted.

  The car waited a few seconds, then shot forward. It ought to brake soon, but instead it was speeding straight towards the pile. Per clung on tightly and tried to scramble higher up, but his hands slipped on the blocks of stone. His ribs banged into something hard, and he gritted his teeth.

  Fall braked at the last minute, but the bumper crashed into the stones just below Per’s legs. The impact made the entire pile wobble, and Per was surrounded by clattering and rattling as lumps of stone came loose and tumbled down the sides.

  The car reversed about ten metres, and he knew it would soon shoot forward at full speed again.

  He had no intention of waiting; he jumped down and began to run. Straight out into the open, heading for the stone steps. He just had to ignore the pain in his ribcage if he wanted to survive. He limped along as quickly as he could, but the car headlights picked him out. He could see his own shadow growing and dancing along across the ground.

  The engine started revving behind him.

  The steps were still fifty metres away, and Per wasn’t going to make it. He veered off towards the nearest rock face. The sheer wall was three or four metres high here; there was no way he could climb up it, but if he stayed put he would at least have a certain amount of protection – Fall was hardly likely to crash the car straight into the rock face.

  In the beam of the headlights he saw the clumps of red in the rock. The place of blood.

  He reached the rock face, pressed himself against it and tried to catch his breath. The car was still revving behind him, but Fall seemed to be hesitating. Then he swung the car around in a semicircle, pulled in as close to the rock face as he could some twenty metres away, and headed straight for Per.

  Per’s protection was gone, and all he could do was run towards the stone steps.

  He heard a shout above the roar of the engine, and looked up as he ran.

  Someone was standing at the top of the quarry – a tall, stooping figure leaning on a stick. It was old Gerlof. He was standing right on the edge, and Per saw him raise the stick.

  Per kept on going. The car behind him had picked up speed; he didn’t know how near it was, but it was sticking close to the rock face, and Per had no means of escape. All he could do was keep on running. He was aware
of some kind of movement in the air above him, Gerlof seemed to be waving, but Per didn’t have time to look. His heart was pounding, his chest was aching, he was on the point of collapse.

  The car roared behind him and he reached desperately for the steps just ten metres away, but when he realized he wasn’t going to get there he took two long strides and hurled himself sideways, into the darkness. He rolled over and tried to tuck his legs beneath him.

  A second later the car swept past him close to the rock face; the left-hand wheels missed his feet by just a few centimetres.

  Per closed his eyes and heard the car brake violently. The gravel sprayed up around the tyres and the right-hand side scraped along the rock, then he heard a deafening crash and the screech of metal. Stones rained down on the bodywork.

  He opened his eyes.

  Thomas Fall had crashed into the flight of steps. One of the headlights had gone out on impact, but the rear lights were still glowing, like two red eyes in the darkness.

  Per could see that the entire flight of steps was beginning to collapse. The limestone blocks he had so carefully piled up teetered for a few seconds like long bricks, then they began to fall, smashing on to the car and crushing the bonnet and front windscreen.

  The ground beneath him shook as the uppermost blocks crashed down between him and the car. He closed his eyes again and waited until everything was quiet.

  The whining engine coughed and died, and suddenly there was total silence. Per breathed out and opened his eyes. The closest block of stone was just half a metre from his legs.

  Slowly he got to his feet and looked at the mangled car. The roof had been crushed and the side windows were broken; he couldn’t see any sign of movement inside.

  70

  There was a cold wind blowing when Per reached the top of the quarry.

  ‘I could see he wasn’t going to brake,’ said Gerlof. ‘He was going to run over you, so I threw my stick at the car.’

  Per wiped the blood from his split eyebrow and looked at Gerlof in the darkness. They were standing motionless just a metre apart on the edge of the quarry.

  ‘Did you hit it?’ he asked.

  ‘I hit the windscreen, I think, so it might have distracted him … then the car crashed into the steps.’

  Per nodded without speaking, and turned to look down into the quarry. The rear lights and one headlight were still glowing. A chaotic pile of gravel and blocks of stone covered the front of the car and hid the driver’s seat from view.

  The flickering glow of flames could be seen from the shore to the south, and the wind carried the faint sound of singing and music and happy laughter.

  When the steps had collapsed, Per had tried to lift the blocks of stone off the car, but he didn’t have the strength. His ribs hurt too much. He had made his way slowly up the gravel track leading out of the quarry, then all the way around the edge to where Gerlof stood waiting.

  He looked at Per and asked quietly, ‘How are you feeling?’

  Per tried to work it out, then held up his burnt fingers. ‘OK, except for my hand. I think I’ve probably broken a couple of ribs too, and I’ve got some cuts and bruises. And I might have concussion … Apart from that, I’m fine.’

  ‘It could have been worse.’

  ‘Yes.’ Per looked down at the car; the lights seemed fainter now. ‘He had some kind of home-made fire bomb, just like when he burnt down the studio. He was going to set fire to me at first … then he tried to mow me down with the car.’

  ‘That was Hans Bremer,’ said Gerlof.

  ‘No, it wasn’t Bremer … that was the man who murdered Bremer. His name is Fall, Thomas Fall. He just borrowed Bremer’s name. My father never knew the real Hans Bremer, the man who died in his studio.’

  Per tried to remember whether Thomas Fall had said what he did. Was he in advertising? Whatever it was, he didn’t want to be associated with porn. He wanted the money, but not the reputation that went with it. And eventually, when Jerry was ill and Markus Lukas was dead and Jessika knew too much, and the real Hans Bremer was asking for more money, it was time to lure Jerry, Bremer and Jessika to the studio, burn the place down and get clean away.

  Per looked at Gerlof. ‘And you spotted him.’

  ‘I saw him sitting in his car out on the road,’ said Gerlof. ‘He was pouring some kind of liquid into a bottle … and then there were the watches.’

  ‘Watches?’

  ‘He was wearing two watches on the same wrist, one stainless steel and one gold, just like your father. I thought that was strange … so I wanted to see where he went.’

  Per let out a long breath. ‘I never saw him clearly … Did we look alike, Thomas Fall and I?’

  ‘Alike? What do you mean?’

  ‘He said we were half-brothers.’

  Per turned his back on the quarry; he didn’t want to look down at the car any longer. He was covered in blood, dirty, burnt and battered, and his clothes still stank of petrol. It was his turn to go to hospital.

  ‘We need to ring for some help,’ he said. ‘We’d better go inside.’

  He set off slowly towards his cottage, but when he looked around he realized that Gerlof was still standing on the edge of the quarry, his head drooping. He met Per’s gaze and blinked slowly, his expression confused, and when he finally spoke his voice was very weak.

  ‘I don’t know if I can manage without my stick. I feel a bit …’ Gerlof fell silent and swayed.

  Per moved fast. His whole chest hurt as his ribs scraped against one another, but he didn’t hesitate. He took three long strides and grabbed hold of Gerlof before he fell over the edge.

  71

  Life was a dream to Vendela, but only for short periods. Mostly it was an extended state of torpor without images or memories, occasionally interrupted by faint, echoing voices around her, or shadows lifting her body and pulling at her arms. She simply allowed it all to happen, she just slept and slept.

  Eventually she woke up and reached for Aloysius – but stopped herself and blinked. Where was she?

  She was lying on her back in a hospital bed, staring up at a white ceiling. She didn’t recognize it.

  The walls in the room were bare and painted yellow, with strips of sunlight seeping in through Venetian blinds. After a few minutes she looked around and realized she was alone. Alone in a hospital room on a sunny spring day. It seemed to be around the middle of the day, and she must have slept for a long time, but she was still incredibly tired.

  ‘Hello?’ she called out.

  No response.

  A small, transparent plastic bag was hanging from a metal stand next to her bed. There was a tube attached to the bottom of the bag, and when Vendela followed it with her eyes she realized it ended in a canula inserted into her left arm.

  A drip. She was on a drip.

  She remembered the tablets. She remembered that she had gone out to the elf stone one last time, with sorrow and ice in her soul. She had taken the tablets with her, she had sat down by the stone and opened the bottle …

  She had wanted to feel calmer, but she had probably taken too many tablets.

  I must have been really ill, she thought. Ill and sad … Am I well and happy now?

  She sat up slowly in bed, but felt dizzy and waited for it to pass before swinging her legs over the side. Then she waited for another minute or two, and eventually got to her feet.

  She stood still, taking deep breaths. Her nose wasn’t blocked; her spring allergy had gone.

  There was a pair of slippers waiting for her by the wall, with a red cotton dressing gown on top of them. She put them on, then wheeled the drip stand along with her as she started to shuffle across the floor. The door of her room was ajar, and she pulled it open.

  She wanted to call out again, but there was no one there.

  The corridor outside her room was long, well-lit and completely deserted. There was a glass door with the word EXIT on it, but it looked very heavy; she didn’t think she’d be able to op
en it. So she went in the opposite direction, further into the ward.

  The long corridor led to a small day room with sofas and chairs. There was a TV on the wall; it was switched on, but the volume was low. There was some kind of race going on, with people running through a maze and shouting to one another.

  There was only one person in the room, gazing at the TV screen – a powerfully built man wearing a brown polo-neck sweater. Suddenly Vendela realized it was Max.

  He turned his head and caught sight of her. He got up. ‘Hi, you’re … you’re up and about.’

  Vendela stared at him. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘In Kalmar … in the hospital.’

  She nodded, still staring at him.

  Max looked tired too, but he was alive. Vendela had been certain he was dead, she remembered that – she had stood by the elf stone wishing that his heart would simply give up and stop beating. She had sacrificed her wedding ring for the fulfilment of her wish.

  Why hadn’t it happened?

  Presumably because there were no elves to grant people’s wishes. She stopped with her drip stand by her side, five metres from her husband. She had walked no more than ten metres, but her legs were trembling.

  ‘Max … what day is it?’

  ‘Day? It’s Friday – the first of May.’

  ‘Is there no one else here?’ said Vendela. ‘No nurses?’

  ‘Not many. It is a holiday, after all.’

  Max didn’t look pleased at the thought that it was the first of May. Vendela remembered he had always hated that particular day.

  ‘But I can go and get somebody,’ he went on quickly. ‘Is there something you need?’

  ‘No.’

  They stood in silence, looking at one another.

  ‘What happened?’ she said. ‘I remember I was out on the alvar … did somebody find me?’

  Max nodded. ‘Our neighbour from the cottage, Per Mörner. He called the ambulance.’

  There was another pause before Max continued, ‘He ended up needing some attention as well … He was hit by a car down in the village. Apparently somebody was trying to run him over.’