The Quarry

by Johan Theorin

  ‘Need my wide-angle lens.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Max has killed a snake!’

  She watched him disappear from the kitchen and remained sitting in her armchair for a few seconds before she got up. Behind her Aloysius sat up in his basket and whined at her, but she didn’t have time to attend to him now.

  She went outside into the cold.

  The sun was shining over the flattened-down earth in the garden. Max was standing by the old stone wall with a spade in his hand, studying something that was lying on it.

  Vendela moved slowly towards him. It was a snake with black diamond-shaped markings – an adder. She couldn’t see the head, because the slender body had twisted itself into a large, shapeless knot, and seemed to be trying to tie itself even tighter.

  ‘It was lying here in the sun when I came over to stand by the wall with the spade,’ said Max as she reached him. ‘It tried to crawl under a stone when it saw me, but I got it.’

  ‘Max,’ said Vendela quietly, ‘you do know that adders are protected?’

  ‘Are they?’ He smiled at her. ‘No, I didn’t know that. Neither did the snake, eh?’

  Vendela just shook her head. ‘It’s still alive,’ she said. ‘It’s moving.’

  ‘Muscle memory,’ said Max. ‘I smashed its head with the spade. It’s just that the body hasn’t caught on yet.’

  She didn’t answer, but she was thinking about her father, who had warned her about killing adders when she was little. They weren’t protected in those days, but they were magical creatures.

  Particularly the black ones – killing a black adder meant a violent death for the person who committed the deed.

  At least the one Max had killed was grey.

  ‘We must bury it,’ she said.

  ‘No chance,’ said Max. ‘I’ll chuck it away, and the gulls can take care of the body.’

  He went towards the quarry with the spade held out in front of him.

  ‘Just one picture!’

  The photographer had his camera at the ready now. He started clicking away with Max posing happily, smiling broadly as he displayed his prize on the spade.

  ‘Fantastic!’ shouted the photographer.

  Max went round to the front of the house with the adder. When he reached the edge of the quarry he gave the spade a flick, and the snake’s body flew through the air like the punctured inner tube of a bicycle tyre.

  ‘There!’

  The snake had landed at the bottom of the quarry, but Vendela could see that it was still struggling and writhing in the limestone dust. It made her think of her father, who had always come home from the quarry with white dust all over his clothes and his cap.

  The photographer walked to the edge of the quarry and took a few final pictures of the snake’s body.

  Vendela looked at him. ‘Are those going in the cookery book?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘if they turn out well.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Snakes aren’t food.’

  Vendela decided never to go down into the quarry. Never, right through the spring. The alvar was her world.

  12

  Gerlof received two visits every day. They were both from the home-care service, and although a temporary helper sometimes turned up, it was usually Agnes who brought him a meal at half past eleven, and her colleague Madeleine who came at around eight in the evening to assess his chances of surviving the night. At least, that’s what Gerlof assumed she was there for.

  He quite enjoyed their visits, even though both women were stressed and sometimes called him by the wrong name. But it must be difficult for them to remember all the old men they called on out in the villages during the course of a day. The visits were usually short. Now and again they had time to stay and chat for a while, but on other occasions they were so rushed they hardly had time to say hello. They just put the food down in the kitchen and disappeared.

  A third visitor who came less regularly was Dr Carina Wahlberg. She swept into the garden with her long black coat over her white doctor’s coat. If Gerlof was indoors, her knock was firm and demanding.

  Sometimes she came on Thursdays, sometimes on Tuesdays, sometimes even on Sundays. Gerlof never got to grips with Dr Wahlberg’s schedule, but he was always pleased to see her. She checked that he had enough medication, took his blood pressure, and from time to time she did a urine test.

  ‘So what’s it like being over eighty, Gerlof?’

  ‘What’s it like? It doesn’t involve a lot of movement, I just sit here. I should have gone to church today … but I couldn’t get there.’

  ‘But how does it feel, in purely physical terms?’

  ‘You can try it for yourself.’ Gerlof raised a hand to his head. ‘Stick some cotton wool in your ears, pull on a pair of badly soled shoes and a pair of thick rubber gloves … and smear your glasses with Vaseline. That’s what it’s like to be eighty-three.’

  ‘Well, now I know,’ said the doctor. ‘By the way, do you remember Wilhelm Pettersson? When I said I was coming to see you today, he sent his best wishes.’

  ‘The fisherman?’ Gerlof nodded, he remembered Wille from the village of Tallerum. ‘Wilhelm got blown up by a mine during the war. He was standing in the stern of a fishing boat when the prow hit the mine, and the boat flew thirty metres in the air. Wille was the only one who survived … How is he these days?’

  ‘Fine, but he’s getting a bit deaf.’

  ‘I expect that’s because of his unexpected flight through the air.’

  Gerlof didn’t want to think about all the minefields that had lain off Öland during the war, but they were on his mind anyway. They had sunk many ships. He had worked as a pilot guiding cargo ships past the mines during the war years, and he still had nightmares about running into one of them. Some were still down there in the depths of the sea, rusty and covered with algae …

  The doctor had asked him a question.

  ‘Sorry?’ said Gerlof.

  ‘I said, How’s your hearing these days?’

  ‘Not bad at all,’ said Gerlof quickly. ‘I can hear most things. Sometimes I get a rushing noise in my ears, but that’s probably the wind.’

  ‘We can check it some time,’ said Dr Walhberg. ‘You said you’d got cotton wool in your ears … perhaps you need a hearing aid?

  ‘I’d rather not,’ said Gerlof. He didn’t want yet another little gadget to worry about.

  ‘So how are you feeling otherwise?’

  ‘Fine.’

  That was the only reply Gerlof was willing to give – if he told the doctor he didn’t think he had all that long to live, she might send him back to the home. Instead he said, ‘Of course, it’s a bit strange to have no future.’

  ‘No future?’

  Gerlof nodded. ‘If I was younger I’d probably buy a boat, but at my age you don’t want to go making too many plans.’

  He thought Dr Wahlberg looked a little concerned, and when she opened her mouth he went on quickly, ‘But it doesn’t matter. Quite the reverse, I feel free.’

  ‘Well, you have a lot of memories,’ said the doctor with a smile.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Gerlof, but he didn’t smile back. ‘I spend a lot of time with my memories.’

  When the doctor had gone, Gerlof remained in his chair for a few minutes. Then he got up and went to the cupboard in the kitchen to fetch one of Ella’s books.

  I spend a lot of time with my memories, he had said to Dr Wahlberg – but that was just a way of dressing up the fact that he was reading the diaries when he shouldn’t be. He felt ashamed of himself while he was doing it, and yet it was difficult to stop. If Ella really did have something to hide, shouldn’t she have burnt the books herself before the cancer took her? She had left them to Gerlof, in a way.

  He opened a new page and began to read:

  3rd June 1957

  There was a market up in Marnäs this morning; the weather was lovely, and there were lots of people there. And unfortunately the first
wasps of the year were out too.

  Gerlof travelled down to Borgholm last night and has loaded up 30 tons of limestone to go to Stockholm. He sets sail tomorrow, and the girls are on their summer holidays, so they’re going with him.

  The place feels so empty without Gerlof and the girls. We used to cycle up to the market together when they were little, but they’re big now, and I felt a bit lonely today. I daren’t cry because that will make me ill, but when I think about Gerlof out on the Baltic until November, it’s like being stabbed with a knife.

  But I’m not completely alone, because I have the little changeling, my little troll.

  He scuttles along by the stone wall, crouching down, and creeps out from the juniper bushes for some milk and biscuits. But only when I’m alone in the middle of the day, when there aren’t so many people out and about. Perhaps he senses that’s the safest time to be out.

  13

  The sun had come out by the time Per left Öland to go and sort out his father. He had called Jerry’s home number and mobile several times on Sunday morning, but with no luck. The silence increased his anxiety.

  As he and Jesper were eating an early lunch, Per explained quietly, ‘I think your grandfather could do with some help … He sounded confused when he rang me, so I need to go down and check he’s all right.’

  ‘When will you be back?’ asked Jesper.

  ‘Tonight. It might be late, but I’ll be back.’

  The last thing he did was to redirect the telephone from the cottage through to his mobile so that Jesper wouldn’t have to answer if Jerry rang again.

  His son was playing games in front of the TV when Per left, but he waved in the general direction of the hallway. Per waved back.

  Jesper would be fine, there were meatballs in the fridge and there were no cars around the quarry to run over him. Per was not an irresponsible father, and he was definitely not worried as he left Stenvik and headed south.

  The sun was shining, spring had arrived. He could put his foot down; there weren’t many cars out and about today.

  He passed Borgholm at about one o’clock and drove across the Öland bridge to the mainland half an hour later. As he was driving past Kalmar he saw a red cross on a road sign, and tried not to think about Nilla in her hospital bed. He would call in to see her on the way home.

  After Nybro the forest closed in around the main road, with the odd break for a meadow or lake. The fir trees made Per think about Regina again, and the drive out into the forest with her one beautiful spring day.

  The prospect of seeing his father gave him no pleasure whatsoever. Two hours to get to Ryd, then perhaps another two hours to drive him home to Kristianstad. Four or five hours in Jerry’s company, that was all – but it still felt like a long time.

  After a couple of hours’ driving through the forest he reached Ryd, by which time the sun had disappeared behind thick cloud cover. The spring suddenly felt like autumn.

  Ryd wasn’t a big place, and the pavements were empty. Per pulled up by the bus station and looked for Jerry in vain. Either he was already sitting on a bus heading south, or he was wandering around somewhere by himself.

  He took out his mobile and called his father’s number again. The phone rang three times, then someone pressed the answer button. But nobody spoke. All Per could hear was a rushing sound, followed by two thuds.

  Then there was silence.

  Per looked at his phone. Then he went into the newsagent’s and asked about Jerry.

  ‘An old man?’ said the girl behind the counter.

  Per nodded. ‘Seventy-three. He’s broad-shouldered, but he looks kind of worn out and small.’

  ‘There was some old bloke waiting outside about an hour ago … he was standing there for quite a while.’

  ‘Did you happen to notice where he went?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Did he get on a bus?’

  ‘Not that I saw.’

  ‘Did anyone pick him up?’

  ‘Maybe … He disappeared.’

  Per gave up. He went back to the car and decided to drive out to Jerry’s house – to the studio. It was a few kilometres west of Ryd, near a village called Strihult. Jerry had bought and equipped the place when the money started pouring in in the mid-seventies. Through all the years while he was still driving, Jerry had commuted from Kristianstad on a weekly basis to make films, first with various freelance operatives, then with Hans Bremer.

  Per had been there only once; he had given Jerry a lift three or four years ago. At that time his father had still been in good health and was going to Ryd to edit a film – one of the last he and Bremer made together. Per had been on his way home to Kalmar and had just dropped Jerry off outside the house, refusing to go inside.

  Strihult was nothing more than a collection of houses with a petrol station and a grocery shop. Per drove straight through without seeing a single person.

  Beyond the village the road grew even narrower, the forest thicker – and after about a kilometre he saw a sign pointing to the right, a white arrow with the words MORNER ART LTD on it. That was the name of one of Jerry’s businesses.

  He was close to his destination now, and gripped the steering wheel a little harder. Although Jerry rang him at least once a week, they hadn’t seen each other since December, when Per had called round and spent a few hours at his father’s apartment. Jerry had celebrated Christmas all alone.

  After five hundred metres of forest without a single house, Per suddenly came upon a dense cypress hedge. He had arrived.

  A red sign by the entrance warned visitors to BEWARE OF THE DOG!, despite the fact that Jerry had never owned a dog.

  Per turned in, followed the driveway around a garage next to the large wooden house, and pulled up on a huge, deserted gravelled area. He switched off the engine, opened the door and looked at the house. It was big and wide, L-shaped and two storeys high. Jerry, Bremer and their actors had stayed here when they were working, so he assumed it consisted of a smaller residential section and a larger work area.

  He didn’t feel welcome, but he was going to knock on the door anyway. Even if his father wasn’t here, perhaps Hans Bremer was.

  Per had never met Bremer, but now they needed to talk – about the future. Jerry wasn’t well enough to run a business; it was time to wind up Morner Art and sell this place. Bremer would just have to look for a new job, but he’d probably worked that out already.

  A wide flight of concrete steps led up to the door, which was flanked by shiny windows with the curtains drawn.

  Per got out of the car and looked at his watch. Twenty past four. It was at least a couple of hours until sunset, but the sky was overcast and the fir trees towering up beyond the garden shut out the daylight.

  His shoes crunched on the gravel as he went towards the steps.

  The front door was imposing, made of oak or mahogany – and it was only when Per started up the steps that he noticed it was ajar. It was open an inch or so, and the hallway inside was pitch black.

  He pushed open the heavy door and peered inside.

  ‘Hello?’

  There wasn’t a sound. He reached in and found a switch, but when he flicked it down the light didn’t come on.

  He glanced back quickly to check that the area in front of the house was still deserted, then he stepped inside.

  Two ghostly figures were waiting for him on the left in the hallway. Per stiffened – until he realized they were nothing more than two dark raincoats hanging beneath a hat stand.

  On the floor below the shelf stood a row of slippers and Wellington boots, along with an umbrella. There was an ebony sculpture in a dark corner, a tiger almost three feet tall who seemed ready to pounce.

  Per took a couple of steps into the hallway. There were four doors leading off to the sides, but they were all closed.

  For some reason he had been expecting a stale or sour smell in the air, but he was aware of only a faint aroma of old tobacco smoke and alcohol. Had someone
had a party here?

  There was something lying on the rug – a black mobile phone. Per picked it up and saw that it was switched off.

  Was it Jerry’s? It certainly looked like his father’s, with big buttons that were easy to press with a shaky finger. He put the phone in his pocket and called out, ‘Hello? Jerry?’

  No reply. And yet he still had the feeling that there was someone in the house, someone who was moving cautiously across the floor to avoid being heard.

  He went over to a door on the left and tentatively pushed down the handle. Behind it was a large kitchen, a long room with several windows letting in grey light which fell on a sturdy dining table, several sinks and two large ovens. It reminded him of a restaurant kitchen, and there were a number of empty wine bottles and a pile of unwashed plates on the worktops.

  Per turned around; he thought he had heard something. A shout from inside the house?

  He stopped just inside the kitchen door and jumped when a bell suddenly started ringing. A telephone. It was coming from the wall on the far side of the kitchen, and from somewhere else in the house.

  Per wanted to shout Can someone get that?, but he remained silent.

  The telephone rang out three times, four, five.

  No one answered, but when he finally moved towards it with his hand outstretched, it fell silent.

  He moved slowly backwards, out of the kitchen. He stepped back into the hallway and turned around. The smell of alcohol was still there, perhaps it was even stronger now, and the black tiger was still lurking in the shadows, waiting for him. He walked past it and tried a door on the other side of the hallway.

  The room behind the door was pitch black. When Per stepped inside he saw that the windows were taped shut, but he had the impression of a large, long room with plastic flooring, movable walls and spotlights on the ceiling. This must be Jerry and Bremer’s studio.

  He spotted a light switch by the door and pressed it, but nothing happened. The power must have gone off in the whole house. Or somebody had turned it off. There was no point in groping blindly across the room. He was just about to turn around when he heard a faint sound in the darkness.