The Quarry

by Johan Theorin

  A sigh, or a groan? Yes, there was somebody groaning in the room in front of him. And it sounded like a man.

  Per moved forward into the darkness. He bumped into something large and hard on the floor, a big leather sofa, and slowly felt his way around it.

  The smell of alcohol was stronger in here – or was it something else?

  Then he saw something moving on the other side of the sofa, a few metres away, and took another step forward. It was a shadow with arms, its head raised.

  ‘Pelle?’ said a voice in the darkness.

  It was low and hoarse, and Per recognized it.

  ‘Jerry,’ he said. ‘What’s happened?’

  The figure stirred. It was lying on the floor, but it turned its head in his direction. Slowly, as if it had difficulty moving. Per bent down towards it, towards a pale head with greasy strands of grey hair and a body covered with a crumpled overcoat.

  ‘You weren’t easy to find, Jerry. How are you doing?’

  Per saw his father’s yellow-white eyes flash in the darkness. They were blinking at him, but Jerry didn’t seem surprised to see his son.

  ‘Bremer?’ he said, coughing.

  Per shook his head. He spoke quietly, as if someone were creeping up on them.

  ‘I don’t know where Bremer is … Is he here in the house?’

  He sensed that his father was nodding.

  ‘Can you get up?’

  He reached out to him, but felt something cold and heavy across Jerry’s chest. Some kind of lighting stand or metal rig had fallen on top of him. Per lifted it out of the way – and at the same moment he heard a loud thud from the ceiling, and looked up.

  There was somebody upstairs, he realized.

  ‘Up you get,’ he said quietly to Jerry, moving the stand out of the way. ‘There you go …’

  He got his father up on to his knees, then his feet. Jerry groaned and seemed to be reaching out for something lying on the floor.

  It was his old leather briefcase. Per let him take it. ‘Come on,’ he said.

  His father’s body was substantial and heavy, bearing witness to long, lazy dinners and plenty of wine. Jerry moved slowly across the floor, leaning on his son.

  ‘Pelle,’ Jerry said again.

  Per could smell a mixture of sweat, nicotine and unwashed clothes emanating from his father. It was a strange feeling, being so close to him. It had never happened when he was a little boy. No reassuring pats from Jerry, no hugs.

  When he had managed to get him halfway to the door, he heard a brief clicking sound in the darkness. Then something hissed.

  Per turned his head. Over his shoulder he saw a glow on the floor further inside the room, and a small flame flared up.

  It was thin and weak, but quickly grew bigger; the fire reached up from the floor, illuminating a peculiar device standing by the wall. It looked like a car battery with wires, standing next to a plastic box.

  The smell in the air wasn’t alcohol, Per realized. It was petrol.

  The box was a big green can, and somebody had drilled little holes in the side. The petrol had already run out and formed a pool on the floor.

  Per stared at the fire, watching it grow and creep closer to the can, and he saw the danger.

  ‘We have to get out of here.’

  He pulled Jerry across the room.

  Once they were out, Per quickly closed the door behind them, and almost immediately heard a dull, sucking roar from inside the room as the petrol ignited, rattling the door.

  Jerry raised his head, and Per noticed that his father had a red lump on his forehead.

  ‘Pelle?’

  ‘Let’s go, Jerry.’

  He staggered through the hallway with his arm around his father. They could hear a muted crackling noise through the door behind them as the fire spread through the room.

  Per blinked as he stepped out into the daylight, supporting Jerry as they made their way down the steps and over to the Saab.

  When they reached the car he let go of Jerry, took out his mobile and quickly made a call. A female voice answered after two rings.

  ‘Emergency services.’

  Per cleared his throat. ‘I want to report a fire.’

  ‘What’s the location?’

  Per looked around. ‘It’s in a house outside Ryd, it’s arson … the ground floor is burning.’

  ‘Can you give me the address?’

  The woman on the other end of the phone sounded very calm; Per tried to calm down in turn, tried to think. ‘I don’t know the name of the road. It’s near Strihult to the west of Ryd and there’s a sign that says Morner Art …’

  ‘Is everyone out of the house?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Has everyone left the house?’

  ‘I don’t know … I just got here.’

  ‘And your name?’

  Per hesitated. What should he say? Should he make up a name?

  He had nothing to hide. Jerry might have, but he hadn’t. ‘My name is Per Mörner,’ he said, and gave his address and home number on Öland. Then he switched off his mobile.

  Jerry was leaning against the car. In the grey daylight Per could see that his father had on the same crumpled brown coat he had been wearing day in and day out for the past few years; the seams were coming apart, and several buttons were missing.

  Jerry sighed and gritted his teeth. ‘Hurts,’ he said.

  Per turned to face him. ‘Are you in pain?’

  Jerry nodded. Then he turned back his coat and Per suddenly saw that the shirt below Jerry’s ribcage was wet and torn.

  ‘What have you done? Have you …?’ Per fell silent as he lifted up his father’s shirt.

  A couple of inches above the navel a long, bloody wound ran across Jerry’s pot belly. The blood had begun to coagulate; it looked almost black in the gloom.

  Per lowered the shirt. ‘Who did this, Jerry?’

  Jerry looked at his bloodstained belly as if he’d only just noticed it. ‘Bremer,’ he said.

  ‘Bremer?’ said Per. ‘Were you fighting with Hans Bremer? Why?’

  Quick-fire questions made his father’s brain shut down. He merely stared and blinked at his son, but said nothing.

  Per looked over at the big house on the other side of the parking area. The front door was still open, and he thought he could see a thin cloud of smoke drifting out.

  ‘So where’s Bremer now? Is he still in there?’

  Jerry remained silent as he laboriously clambered into the Saab’s passenger seat.

  ‘Wait here,’ said Per, closing the car door.

  He ran back to the house. Up the steps, into the hallway. It wasn’t without risks; he could hear the fire roaring and crackling behind the closed door of the studio. The air inside the house also felt warmer, like an oven heating up. He didn’t have much time.

  And he needed a weapon, given that there might be somebody with a knife in the house. He grabbed the furled umbrella from the hall. Holding it in front of him with the point raised, he opened one of the middle doors and saw a steep staircase leading downwards.

  The cellar. It was pitch black, he didn’t want to go down there.

  Behind the fourth and final unopened door there was another staircase, this time leading upwards.

  Per set off up the stairs, which were covered in white fitted carpet that completely deadened the sound of his footsteps. At the top of the stairs was a corridor which ran along the upper floor, with closed doors along both sides; Per felt as if he had landed in a hotel.

  He set off, holding the umbrella like a sword.

  ‘Bremer?’ he shouted. ‘It’s Per Mörner!’

  The stench of petrol or some kind of accelerant was just as powerful up here, and suddenly he heard a low crackling sound. He couldn’t see any flames, but he realized there was a fire somewhere up here too. There was a grey mist of smoke forming around him in the corridor, rapidly growing thicker and drying out his windpipe.

  But where was the fire? />
  Per quickly walked over to the nearest door and opened it, only to discover a cupboard full of cleaning materials. He opened the next one: a small bedroom with bare walls and a made-up bed.

  The third door on the left was locked, but curls of smoke were rising from a narrow gap at floor level.

  ‘Bremer? Hello? Hans Bremer?’

  No reply. Or was that a noise? A whimpering sound?

  Per had never kicked a door open, he’d only seen people do it in films. Was it easy? He took a couple of steps back; unfortunately he couldn’t give himself any more of a run at the door, as his back was against the opposite wall. Then he lunged forward and kicked hard.

  The door shuddered, but it was made of pine, and didn’t open.

  He looked around. There was a key in one of the doors on the other side of the corridor, and he took it out. He tried it in the locked door; it fitted, and he was able to turn it.

  The door opened smoothly to reveal billowing white smoke. The air in the corridor sucked it out of the room, straight at Per.

  He blinked and felt tears spring to his eyes. The smoke was dense, like autumn fog, but he walked into it anyway and suddenly recognized a particular smell beyond the smoke. The smell of burnt flesh.

  The room was small and dark. Per blinked and groped around with his hands, but was unable to find the light switch; he had to crouch down at floor level where the air was fresher.

  He took a couple of steps into the room. To the right he could see flames running up the wallpaper. There was an unmade bed with a pile of blankets on it, burning fiercely. He took another step forward, but the heat brought him to a standstill.

  He blinked at the smoke and tried to see. Was there a burning body beneath the blankets? Per imagined he could see outstretched arms, legs in trousers, a charred head …

  His eyes were streaming, his lungs seared with pain. And that was when he heard the cry behind him.

  There were no words, just a long drawn-out scream. It sounded like a woman’s voice, and it was terrified.

  Per dropped the umbrella and turned around, half-blind. He went back into the corridor. The cry had come from somewhere on this floor, but it was muted, as if it came through a wall.

  All the doors were still closed, but at the far end of the corridor he saw something new: a patch of bright flames that had taken hold of the carpet. He realized that the whole of the upper floor was burning. He was surrounded by fire.

  ‘Hello!’ he yelled.

  He heard a cry from the woman in response, even more muted.

  He stood still, indecisive, then moved towards the closest doors. They were locked, and he banged on them.

  Door after door, but no response.

  ‘Hello? Where are you?’

  He wanted to kick down the doors, find the woman. But the smoke was quickly growing thicker around him; darkness was falling in the corridor. The fire was coming from two directions, burning and crackling, and the air was like a sauna. Per realized the whole of the ground floor was also ablaze by this time; he couldn’t get back down the stairs.

  The walls seemed to be pressing in on him, he couldn’t get any air.

  There was no time.

  He had to turn back, groping his way through the smoke until he found himself back in the room with the burning bed. As he turned around he felt a cooling breeze against his face, and saw that one of the windows was half-open, letting in the light. The curtains were open and a wooden chair stood below the window.

  He could get to the window if he stayed on the left, where the air was a little cooler. But the flames from the bed were creeping across the floor and the smoke was growing thicker.

  He could no longer breathe, he had to get out, fast.

  He took three steps towards the window, climbed up on the chair and looked out. He could see fields and dense forest. And two or three metres below this was the garage, with a tarred felt roof.

  The cool of the evening struck his chest and face while the heat of the fire pressed against his back, pushing him out of the room. It was like standing with his back towards the oven in a crematorium. He couldn’t stay where he was, and eventually he stepped out into the air and jumped.

  He landed on the garage roof with a crash; the wood shuddered beneath his feet, but it held.

  From the garage he jumped down on to the gravel. Three metres – a short, dizzying fall, with the grey gravel coming closer and closer – and then his shoes hit the ground. His knees gave way.

  He coughed, got to his feet and inhaled the cold, fresh air. He was at the back of the house and could see a low fence in front of him, with a deserted field of yellow grass beyond it, then the dense forest of firs.

  On a track leading between the trees, perhaps two hundred metres away, someone was standing staring at the house. Per thought it looked like a man dressed in dark clothes, but he had no time to see anything else before the figure turned and disappeared into the forest.

  The fire had begun to crackle and roar above him, but he thought he heard the sound of a car engine. A car starting up, its engine revving as it quickly disappeared among the trees.

  14

  When the windows of Jerry’s house began to shatter with the heat of the fire, raining down like shards of ice, Per was suddenly overcome by nausea, even though he was quite safe on the far side of the drive. He kept drawing deep breaths of cold air into his lungs, painfully dry from the effects of the smoke; he rubbed his smarting eyes and tried to stand up straight.

  Black smoke billowed out through the gaping windows, whirling around the house like a thick shroud. No one could have survived in there.

  A veil seemed to fall between Per and the rest of the world, and he could hear the sound of sirens in the distance. What had he actually seen with his tear-filled eyes? A body on a bed and someone fleeing into the forest? The more he tried to remember, the more unclear the images became.

  The sirens were getting closer. Two fire engines, their blue lights flashing, turned into the drive and stopped in front of the house. The fire-fighters leapt out, dressed in black protective suits.

  Per moved backwards across the gravel. He bumped into something solid, turned around and saw that it was his own Saab. Flakes of dirty white ash had begun to accumulate on its roof.

  A burning bed, a body in the smoke. And the frightened cries of a woman.

  He looked around.

  Jerry? Where was Jerry?

  Oh yes, he was still sitting in the car.

  He looked back at the house. The flames were shooting out of the windows on both floors now.

  The fire-fighters were moving around their vehicles, dragging out bulky hoses and starting to connect them up. One of them, dressed in a red jacket, strode over to Per and leaned close to make himself heard through the roar of the fire: ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Per Mörner.’

  ‘Are you the owner of this property, Per?’

  He shook his head. He took a deep breath and tried to explain, but his windpipe felt as if it had disintegrated in the dry heat.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, it’s just …’

  ‘The ambulance is on its way,’ said the fire-fighter. ‘Do you know where the fire started?’

  Per swallowed. ‘Everywhere,’ he whispered. Then he took another deep breath and tried to give a sensible answer: ‘There was fire upstairs and downstairs … and I think someone might still be inside. Perhaps more than one person.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think I saw a person inside the house. And I heard cries.’

  He had raised his voice; it sounded better now. The fire-fighter blinked and looked at him. ‘Where exactly was this, Per?’

  ‘Upstairs, in the rooms upstairs. It was burning inside the rooms, so I …’

  ‘OK, we’ll search the place. Are there any LPG bottles in the house?’

  Per shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘It was a … a film studio.’

  ‘A
ny hazardous liquids?’

  ‘No,’ said Per. ‘Not as far as I know.’

  The man nodded and went back to the fire engines. Per saw that three of his colleagues were pulling on suits with breathing apparatus on their backs. The specialist search team. Two of the others turned on the water from their tank and directed the stream of water up towards the broken windows.

  The search team moved slowly towards the front door, and at the same time a red car with the words EMERGENCY RESCUE TEAM on the side pulled into the drive. A man in a yellow jacket got out, holding a two-way radio in his hand. He switched it on and started reporting to someone.

  Per coughed and drew more air into his lungs. Then he went back to the car and opened the door. His father was slumped in the passenger seat, his briefcase on his knee.

  Per showed him the mobile phone he had found in the hallway. ‘Is this yours?’

  Jerry looked and nodded. Per handed it over. ‘How are you feeling now?’

  Jerry’s only response was a cough. Per could see him clearly for the first time that day, and he looked pathetic – tired and grey in his crumpled coat. When Per was little and his father used to come and visit him and Anita, Jerry’s hair had been black and slicked back. He had always worn expensive fur coats in the winter and Italian suits in summer. Jerry had earned a lot of money, and liked to show it off.

  When Per was fifteen, his father had suddenly changed his name from Gerhard Mörner to Jerry Morner, possibly in order to appear more international.

  ‘You stink,’ Jerry said suddenly. ‘Stink, Pelle.’

  ‘So do you, Jerry … We stink of smoke.’

  Per looked over at the burning house. The men with breathing apparatus were making their way up the stone steps now. The one in front opened the door wide and took a step inside, straight into the thick smoke, and disappeared. The other two remained outside.

  Half a minute passed, then suddenly the first man reappeared in the doorway and shook his head at the other two. He raised his hand.