The Quarry

by Johan Theorin

  And the old copy of Babylon, of course.

  He opened the magazine and looked at the photo sequences. But he wasn’t studying the young girls, just the man referred to in the caption as Markus Lukas, the man who never showed his face. In the pictures he looked about thirty; the magazine was twelve years old, so Markus Lukas must be in his forties now.

  Per looked at the back of the man’s head and tried to imagine Markus Lukas behind the wheel of a car. Was this the man who had killed his father?

  Suddenly he saw something he hadn’t noticed before: there was an arm sticking out in one of the pictures. It was pointing at the naked couple on the bed, and it was wearing two wristwatches. One gold, and one stainless steel.

  It was Jerry’s arm. Per looked at it for a long time.

  The telephone rang twice on Monday evening. The first call was from a reporter on an evening paper who had somehow found out that Jerry was dead and that Per was his son. He’d heard that Jerry had died in a car accident ‘in mysterious circumstances’, and asked a long series of questions, but Per refused to give him any answers.

  ‘Ring the police,’ was his only response.

  ‘Are you intending to take over?’ asked the reporter. ‘Are you going to run his porn empire from now on?’

  ‘There is no empire,’ said Per, and put the phone down.

  The second call was from Marika.

  ‘How are you feeling, Per?’

  It sounded as if she really wanted to know.

  He sighed. ‘Oh, you know.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been spending much time with Nilla … Things will get better.’

  Marika made no comment on that. ‘I’ve got some news,’ she said.

  ‘Good news or bad news?’

  ‘Good,’ she said, but she didn’t sound particularly optimistic. ‘A vascular surgeon from Lund has been in touch, a friend of Dr Stenhammar. Apparently he’s prepared to operate around Nilla’s aorta. He thinks it’s “a challenge”, so he wants to make an attempt.’

  An attempt, thought Per, feeling a heavy, icy clump in his stomach.

  ‘Good,’ he said.

  ‘He can’t make any promises. Stenhammar said that several times.’

  In some African countries children die like flies, thought Per. Like flies. It will be nothing more than a notice in the paper.

  ‘Are you worried?’

  ‘Of course I am, Marika.’

  ‘So am I, but, I mean, I’ve got Georg … Do you want Jesper to come and stay with you for a while?’

  ‘No,’ Per said quietly. ‘It’s best if he stays with you.’

  He glanced at his reflection in the dark kitchen window, at his tired, frightened eyes, and he knew that Jesper couldn’t come back to the cottage. Not until the troll had been slain.

  46

  Summer is on its way, thought Gerlof. With all the flowers – wood anemones, poppies and butterfly orchids. And soon it would be lilac time.

  It was a fresh, mild spring day, with just a week left until May. The thin soil on the island was moist but dried quickly in the sun, and Gerlof could smell in the air that all the stagnant water in the bogs and marshes around the village had begun to evaporate. Over the course of just a couple of weeks his lawn had gone from yellow to pale green, and had begun to thicken and flourish.

  Spring was almost over for this year. In just a few weeks it would be summer – early summer, at least.

  ‘Spring on Öland arrives with a bang and doesn’t last for long,’ as someone had written. But Gerlof was grateful that he had been able to sit here and watch it come and go from his front-row seat, out here on the lawn, and not from behind triple-glazed windows at the home in Marnäs.

  Everything was quiet and peaceful. He had put out a chair for visitors, but no one had appeared over the past few days. John Hagman was down at his son’s in Borgholm helping him redecorate the kitchen, and Astrid Linder wasn’t back from Spain yet. The whole of Stenvik had felt somehow empty this week, but Gerlof had seen Per Mörner’s old car turn down the track leading to the quarry.

  Gerlof hoped he would come over. He wasn’t all that keen on the rich folk on the other side of the road, but he enjoyed talking to Per.

  As Gerlof was sitting in his chair out on the lawn an hour or so later, Per actually turned up and pushed the gate open.

  But his neighbour looked tired this Wednesday morning. He made his way slowly across the grass and with a brief greeting sat down.

  ‘How are things?’ Gerlof asked.

  ‘Not so good.’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  Per looked down at the grass. ‘My father’s dead … He died in hospital on Sunday night.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He got hit by a car.’

  ‘Hit by a car?’

  ‘A hit-and-run, in Kalmar.’

  ‘An accident?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Per sighed. ‘It was a hit-and-run, but Jerry must have known the driver, because he persuaded my father to go with him to a deserted road. Then he just mowed him down and took off.’

  ‘And who did it?’

  ‘Who wanted to kill him? I don’t know … A few things have happened recently, his studio burnt down a few weeks ago. It was deliberate, an arson attack.’

  Gerlof nodded. ‘So he wasn’t popular?’

  ‘Not particularly. Not even with me … I’ve often pretended I didn’t have a father, especially when I was younger.’ He smiled wryly. ‘And now I don’t.’

  ‘Did he have any other children?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Do you miss him?’

  Per seemed to consider the question. ‘The priest asked me that today when we were talking about the funeral. I didn’t know what to say. It was quite difficult to love Jerry, but I wanted him to love me … It was important, for some reason.’

  The garden was silent.

  ‘My mother loved him,’ Per went on quietly. ‘Or maybe she didn’t … but it was important to her that I kept in touch with Jerry. She wanted me to write and ring several times a year, when it was his birthday and so on. Jerry never contacted me … but after he’d had the stroke I obviously came in quite handy. He started calling me then.’

  ‘This profession of his,’ said Gerlof. ‘Photographing men and women without any clothes on. Did it make him rich?’

  Per looked down at his hands. ‘In the past, I think … not lately. But the money used to come rolling in.’

  ‘Money,’ said Gerlof. ‘It can, as St Paul wrote, make people do evil things …’

  Per shook his head. ‘I think it’s all gone. Jerry had a great talent for raking money in, but he was just as good at getting rid of it. He hasn’t had anything to do with magazines for several years, since before he had the stroke. In the end he couldn’t even afford to run a car.’

  ‘Jerry Morner,’ said Gerlof. ‘Was that his real name?’

  ‘No, his name was Gerhard Mörner … But he decided he needed a new name when he started directing porn films. They all seem to do the same thing in the porn industry.’

  ‘Hiding behind the name,’ said Gerlof.

  ‘Yes, unfortunately,’ said Per, looking down at the grass. ‘I’d really like to talk to people who knew Jerry, people who worked with him and are still alive, but even the police can’t find anyone …’

  Gerlof nodded thoughtfully. He remembered the magazine Jerry Morner had thrown on the table at the party, and said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Per looked up. ‘What you can …?’

  ‘I shall do a little bit of research,’ said Gerlof. ‘What were those magazines called, the ones your father published?’

  * * *

  That same evening Gerlof rang John Hagman down in Borgholm. He chatted about this and that at first, as usual, but after a few minutes he got down to business.

  ‘John, you once mentioned that your son had a pile of magazines under his bed, and he took them with him when he mov
ed down to Borgholm. You described them, they were a particular kind of magazine. Do you remember?’

  ‘I do,’ said John. ‘And he wasn’t the least bit ashamed. I tried to talk to him, but he said all the lads read them.’

  ‘Has Anders still got them?’

  John sighed. He often sighed over his son. ‘I expect he has, somewhere or other.’

  ‘Do you think he might lend them to me?’

  John remained silent for a few seconds. ‘I can only ask.’

  After quarter of an hour or so, John rang back. ‘Yes, he’s still got a few … and he can get hold of some more if you want them.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘He knows some junk shop in Kalmar that sells old magazines, everything you can think of.’

  ‘Good,’ said Gerlof. ‘Tell him I’d be very grateful, if he doesn’t mind; I can pay for them. I’m trying to get hold of two particular magazines.’

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘Babylon and Gomorrah.’

  ‘That Jerry Morner’s magazines?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  John didn’t say anything for a little while.

  ‘I’ll have a word with Anders,’ he said. ‘But are you sure?’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Are you sure you want these magazines? I mean, I’ve seen some of the ones Anders had and they’re extremely … extremely revealing.’

  Embarrassed and excited, thought Gerlof.

  ‘Yes, I imagine they are, John,’ he said. ‘But I don’t suppose it’s any worse than secretly reading someone else’s diary.’

  47

  Five minutes after raising his voice to Vendela, Max came back into the living room speaking quietly, almost whispering. The fist he had shaken at her was now an outstretched hand pointing at himself, at his own chest, and he had turned into the understanding psychologist.

  ‘I’m not angry with you, Vendela, you mustn’t think that,’ he said. He let out a long breath and added, ‘I’m just a little bit disappointed. That’s the way I feel at the moment.’

  ‘I know, Max … There’s nothing to worry about.’

  After ten years, Vendela had learned that his annoyance and jealousy went in cycles, and were always worse when he was coming to the end of a book.

  She was making an effort to remain calm. It was Friday evening – and the eve of the feast of St Mark, an important day according to folklore.

  ‘Max, I think I’m going to go out for a little run,’ she said, ‘then we can have a chat later.’

  ‘Do you have to? If you stay at home we can—’

  ‘Yes, it’s for the best.’

  Vendela went into the bathroom to change. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror: a tired soul, a hungry body, and lines of anxiety etched on her forehead. She thought about the tablets that could make her feel better, but she didn’t even open the cabinet.

  When she came out, Max was sitting in an armchair by the window with his Friday whisky, which was slightly bigger than his Thursday whisky. Aloysius was lying at the other end of the room, ears pricked towards his master.

  Max lowered his glass and looked at her. ‘Don’t go for a run,’ he said quietly. ‘Can’t you spend the evening at home?’

  ‘I will be spending the evening at home, Max.’ Vendela tied her shoelaces and straightened up. ‘When I’ve been for a run. It’ll only take half an hour …’

  ‘Stay here.’

  ‘No, I’ll be back soon.’

  Max knocked back his whisky and looked over at Aloysius. Then he stood up and took a couple of steps towards her. ‘I’m going to start thinking about a new book this weekend.’

  ‘Really? Already?’ said Vendela. ‘What’s this one going to be about?’

  ‘It’s going to be called Emotions to the Max. Or perhaps even better, Relationships to the Max.’ He smiled at her. ‘Relationships are the most important thing of all, aren’t they? Who we’re with, what we do with them. You and me. You and me and other people. You and other people.’

  ‘Me and other people … what are you talking about?’

  ‘You and our neighbour in the little house on the prairie.’ He nodded towards the north. ‘You and Per Mörner, you’ve got a close relationship going on there.’

  ‘Max, that’s not true!’

  He moved two steps closer. Vendela could see that his temples were shiny with sweat, as if the heat before a thunderstorm was building up inside his head. The lightning would strike at any moment.

  ‘What’s not true?’ he said, wiping his fingers around his mouth. ‘I mean, I’ve seen it with my own eyes.’

  ‘We haven’t done anything.’

  ‘But you’ve been out for a run with him.’

  ‘Well, yes, but—’

  ‘And the grass on the prairie is dry now, I assume? Dry and soft? You can lie down on it, behind some stone wall?’

  ‘Stop it, Max,’ she said. ‘That’s enough.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes. You sit there brooding about what I might be doing when I go out running, but that’s because you’re really thinking about something else altogether.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean … You’re thinking about Martin.’

  ‘No!’

  Max moved quickly towards her and Vendela backed away.

  If I say the wrong thing now, he’ll hit me, she thought.

  ‘I’m going out, Max,’ she said quietly, ‘until you calm down.’

  Her husband’s shoulders dropped a fraction. ‘You do that,’ he said. ‘You just go.’

  Vendela ran. With long strides she ran away from the fairytale palace she had dreamed of once upon a time. Away from Max. She thought of turning off towards the Mörners’ cottage and knocking on the door so that she could speak to a sensible person, but it looked as if it were all locked up. She hadn’t seen Per or his father all week, and the Kurdin family was also away.

  She took a wide swing to the west and headed for the alvar. But this far south it was difficult to find her way; her route was frequently obstructed by stone walls she didn’t recognize, or by thorny thickets and barbed wire, and it was a while before the landscape opened out ahead of her.

  As the sun went down she could see that the alvar had begun to bloom. The yellowish-brown ground had absorbed the water and was now shaded dark blue with spiked speedwell, wild thyme and pasque flower, dotted with bright-yellow dandelions. Beautiful.

  But there was a stillness among all the beauty that felt ominous. When Vendela stopped to catch her breath among all the flowers, she closed her eyes and wished all those around her a happy and peaceful St Mark’s Eve. But she couldn’t feel any warmth or benevolence flowing back in return. She couldn’t see any pictures; there was only darkness.

  The elves were not happy.

  48

  Gerlof was sitting on the lawn in the sunshine when Carina Wahlberg came to visit him on Friday afternoon. John Hagman had been over in the morning and given him a substantial pile of magazines – old copies of Babylon and Gomorrah, stained and torn, and he was just flicking through them.

  Gerlof was holding the magazines with his fingertips; most of them didn’t smell too good.

  The doctor greeted him cheerily from the gate, and he waved to her. ‘Afternoon, Doctor,’ he said.

  She smiled at him and came closer – but stopped dead when she saw the magazines. ‘I came to check your hearing,’ she said, looking down at the pile of magazines. ‘I can see there’s nothing wrong with your eyesight. Would you like me to come back another time?’

  Gerlof shook his head. ‘Come and sit down.’

  ‘You look busy.’

  He looked up from the magazine, not smiling. ‘It’s not what you think,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think anything.’

  ‘Well, it’s not like that, anyway. I’m eighty-three, and my last girlfriend, Maja up at the home, was about the same age, but she got too ill to spend time with me any more
… I haven’t looked at young girls in twenty-five years.’ Gerlof gave this some thought, then added, ‘Well, twenty at any rate.’

  ‘So why are you looking at those magazines?’ asked Dr Wahlberg.

  ‘Because I have to.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m conducting an investigation.’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  Dr Wahlberg came over and sat down. Gerlof flicked through the magazines, one after another, and kept talking. ‘I’m trying to come up with something in particular to do with these girls, but I don’t really know what I’m looking for. The whole thing just seems terribly sordid.’

  Dr Wahlberg looked at the pictures, her expression anything but cheerful. ‘Well, I can see one thing that’s not good,’ she said eventually, ‘from my perspective.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘They’re not using any protection.’

  ‘Protection?’

  ‘Contraceptives. The men should be wearing condoms. But I suppose they never do in magazines like this.’

  Gerlof looked at her. ‘So you’ve seen them before?’

  ‘I used to work as a school doctor. Young lads buy them and get completely the wrong idea; they think these fantasies are reality.’

  Gerlof looked down at the pictures, nodding thoughtfully. ‘It’s true, they’re not using any protection … But you’re wrong.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘These aren’t just fantasies,’ said Gerlof. ‘They’re very real to those who are being photographed.’

  Dr Wahlberg stood up. ‘I’ll go inside and sort out your tablets, Gerlof.’ She turned away, then added, ‘Let me give you a piece of good advice: throw those magazines away as soon as you can. I don’t think you’d want your daughters to find them.’

  ‘When I’m dead, you mean?’

  The doctor wasn’t smiling. ‘When someone has died in their own house or in a care home,’ she said, ‘magazines like this often turn up, hidden under the mattress or in a drawer. It happens more often than you might think. And it’s always upsetting when the person’s child or grandchild finds them.’