The Quarry

23

It was half past ten and Per was sitting in the shadows on the neighbours’ veranda listening to his father’s laboured breathing. He sounded worse than usual tonight — like a man who didn’t have long to live, but who intended to enjoy himself right to the very end.

Jerry actually seemed to be quite happy at the party. Sometimes he disappeared into himself, staring down at his paralysed arm. Then he would come back to life and raise his glass. Sometimes he looked frightened, sometimes he would smile to himself. He seemed to have already forgotten that his business partner Hans Bremer was missing, and that their entire film studio — the whole of Morner Art, in fact — had gone up in smoke three days earlier.

His father’s hacking cough had been heard across the table all evening, but the number of his smiles increased in direct proportion to the amount of wine he drank. Per thought he must have knocked back four or five glasses since they sat down to eat; he was drunk, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Jerry had been drunk before, usually in restaurants.

It was pitch black beyond the veranda now, with thick clouds covering the night sky. Per felt something cold touch his cheek, and realized it had started to drizzle. Soon it would be time to go indoors, and for everyone to head home.

Nilla was probably already asleep over in the cottage. Per turned his head, and could see only one isolated light in the living room. He had pushed her home in the wheelchair after she had been at the table for about an hour; she had whispered to Per that she couldn’t cope any longer. Had she eaten anything? He wasn’t sure.

Jesper had stayed for another hour or so before he too headed back to Casa Mörner, hopefully to get an early night. Per was also intending to leave soon, taking Jerry with him. He had met the neighbours now; they seemed like decent, reliable people, but he had no desire to become friends with them. He only had to compare his own shack with their newly built luxury houses to see how different they were.

Suddenly a question came across the table: ‘So what do you do, Jerry?’

Max Larsson.

Jerry put down his wine glass and shook his head. He could find only two words: ‘Not working.’

‘OK, but what is it you do when you’re not sitting here?’

Jerry looked at his son in confusion. Per leaned forward: ‘Jerry’s retired... He ran his own business for many years, but he’s recently downsized.’

Max nodded, but didn’t give up. ‘So what kind of business was it? Jerry Morner... I’ve been sitting here pondering, and I’m sure I recognize the name.’

‘Media,’ Per said quickly. ‘Jerry worked in the media. So do I.’

‘Oh,’ said Max, suddenly more interested. ‘Are you on television, then?’

‘No... I work in marketing surveys.’

‘Right,’ said Max, looking disappointed.

‘I do a fair amount of jogging too,’ said Per, glancing around the table, ‘although that’s more of a hobby. Does anyone else go jogging?’

‘I go running,’ said a voice in the darkness. ‘I’ve done it for years.’ It was Vendela, their hostess. She had large, beautiful eyes.

‘Good,’ said Per, smiling at her.

He wanted to round off the evening now, to say thank you and leave this enormous house — but at that moment Jerry straightened up and looked at Max Larsson. His gaze was suddenly completely clear and focused. ‘Films!’ he said.

Max turned his head. ‘Sorry?’

‘Films and magazines.’

Max laughed a little uncertainly, as if Jerry were teasing him, but Jerry looked annoyed at not being taken seriously. He raised his voice and went on, ‘Me and Bremer and Markus Lukas... films and magazines. Girls!’

There was complete silence around the table now; the last word had made all the guests stop talking and turn to look at Jerry. Only Per kept his eyes downcast.

Jerry himself seemed very happy with the attention, almost proud, and he pointed across the table with a steady finger; Per knew there was no escape.

‘Ask Pelle!’

Per gazed into the distance and tried to give the impression that he wasn’t listening, as if there was no point in listening to Jerry. Eventually he did look at his father, but by that time it was too late.

Jerry had already picked up his old briefcase; he had refused to leave it at home. He quickly undid the straps and pulled something out. It was a brightly coloured magazine, Per saw, made of thick, glossy paper.

His father threw it into the middle of the table, smiling proudly.

The title on the cover was written in red: BABYLON. Beneath the name a naked woman lay sprawled on a sofa, her legs spread wide apart.

Per stood up. The magazine seemed to lie there for an eternity before he leaned over and picked it up. But of course everyone had seen it by then; he noticed Vendela Larsson leaning forward to study the picture, her eyes wide with surprise.

At the same time his father’s voice echoed across the entire veranda: ‘Girls! Naked girls!’