The Quarry

35

Per reported the break-in to the police in Kristianstad, even though Jerry was unable to determine whether anything had actually been stolen from the chest of drawers or not.

‘Jerry, what’s missing?’ he’d asked several times. ‘What have they taken?’

But Jerry had simply stood there looking at the piles of documents, as if he no longer remembered what they were. When Per leafed through the papers that had been left behind they seemed to consist mostly of old rent bills and bank statements.

So where was everything else? Surely there ought to be contracts for all the models Jerry and Bremer had filmed over the years? Signed agreements where the young women certified that they weren’t too young, and that they were doing this of their own free will?

He couldn’t find anything like that, and looked at his father. ‘Do you remember what you kept here, Jerry? Was it anything important?’

‘Papers.’

‘Important papers?’

‘Doc—’ Jerry stopped; the word was too difficult.

‘Documents? From Morner Art?’

‘Morner Art?’ Jerry seemed to have forgotten the name of his company.

When Per called the police, all he could do was give them vague information about the break-in. They noted it down, but didn’t come out to investigate.

‘It’s a bank holiday,’ said the police officer. ‘We have to prioritize emergencies. But thank you for reporting it; we’ll keep our eyes open.’

At about nine o’clock, Per rang Nilla at the hospital to say goodnight.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Not too bad.’ Her voice was quiet but audible. ‘A bit better than yesterday... I’m still on a drip, and I’ve had loads of injections.’

‘Good,’ Per said quickly. ‘And I’ve found your lucky stone.’

‘Have you? Where was it?’

‘On your bed,’ said Per, without going into detail. ‘I’ll bring it next time I come to see you. Any news?’

‘No... except there are a couple of new people on the ward,’ said Nilla. ‘There’s a boy called Emil.’

Her voice suddenly sounded more cheerful when she said his name, so Per asked, ‘Is he the same age as you?’

‘Nearly. He’s fifteen.’

‘Good. Ask him if he wants to play Ludo.’

Nilla laughed and changed the subject. ‘Did you get my thought message tonight? At eight o’clock?’

‘I think so... there were lots of pictures in my head, anyway.’

‘So what was I thinking about, then? What did you see?’

Per looked out at the sky above the town and took a chance. ‘Clouds?’

‘No.’

‘A sunset?’

‘No.’

‘Were you thinking about your friends?’

‘No, I was thinking about bats.’

‘Bats? Why?’

‘They fly around outside the hospital in the evenings,’ said Nilla. ‘They flap across the sky like black rags.’

‘Don’t you watch the birds any more?’

‘Yes, during the day. But at night when I can’t get to sleep, I watch the bats.’

Per promised to come and visit her the next day, and they said goodbye.

It was a bit late to set off home by that stage, and Per’s cottage was empty in any case, so he stayed over with Jerry.

Before he went to bed he fastened the security chain on the front door.

Staying overnight in the apartment in Kristianstad felt strange, but he had slept on the long leather sofa as a teenager, when Jerry was living in Malmö. As he settled down on it, the memories came flooding back.

His mother had often given him a talking-to before he went to stay with Jerry: ‘If he’s got some woman there you don’t have to stay over, you can come home... or I’ll come and fetch you. You don’t have to put up with that sort of thing.’

‘No, Mum.’

But of course his father had had a woman staying from time to time. Several, in fact. Per had often wondered if he had any undiscovered half-siblings somewhere in southern Sweden; it wouldn’t have surprised him.

The door to Jerry’s bedroom had been closed, but as Per lay on the sofa he had been able to hear his father and the women, of course. By that time he was a teenager and less innocent than when he met Regina, and he knew what Jerry did, but the nights were still a torment.

It doesn’t matter, Per had thought. Love isn’t important.

And now? Now he was thinking about Nilla and Jesper. And for a brief moment he actually saw Vendela Larsson’s big eyes in the darkness before him.

Then he fell asleep.

When he woke up it was Monday morning — Easter Monday.

There was no glamour in Jerry’s kitchen. The table was covered in brown grease marks. Dirty cups and plates were piled up on the draining board, and there was nothing but coffee and crispbread for breakfast. And Jerry’s cigarettes, of course.

Per topped up his father’s coffee cup and said, ‘I’ll be off soon, Jerry. I need to get back to Jesper and Nilla.’

Jerry looked up.

‘But not you,’ said Per. ‘You’re staying here. You’ll be all right here, won’t you?’

He was trying to be firm, but it wasn’t working. He looked around the dirty kitchen, unable to decide what to do with his father.

Go home, he thought, looking at his reflection in the kitchen window. He wouldn’t have bothered with you if you were old and sick.

But Per couldn’t do it. It wasn’t just his promise to his mother, or the fact that Jerry didn’t eat properly or look after himself, and needed help — there was this business of the spare keys as well. This business of arson and a possible break-in.

If Jerry was going to stay here, Per would have to get the police to keep an eye on his apartment, and until then it didn’t feel safe.

If Hans Bremer had had a key to the apartment, and if someone had stolen it from him and got in over Easter to steal something, then there was nothing to stop that person from coming back.

In the end Per took Jerry back to Öland with him, in spite of everything. He packed a case with clean clothes and locked the front door carefully, then father and son got back in the car and set off towards the Baltic.

Per kept his promise to stop in Kalmar and visit Nilla, but found her fast asleep. Her slumber seemed peaceful and deep. He sat for a while in silence beside her bed, watching her pale face and struggling with an urge to split himself into two parts: one that would stay here and keep watch over her around the clock; and one that would prefer to run away and never come back. Per loved his daughter, but to see her like this in a hospital room was unbearable. All he wanted was to get back in the car.

He could tell himself that helping Jerry was of more use. But the truth was that Per wasn’t really being helpful, he was just a coward who couldn’t face his daughter’s suffering.

Afterwards, Per and Jerry continued to Öland. At least there were no grandchildren to take into account at the cottage this time. And hardly any neighbours, either. They got back to the quarry at about three o’clock, and Per could see that the Kurdin house was all closed up.

It looked as if the other neighbours, the Larssons, were still there. He remembered promising to go for a run with Vendela this evening, and realized he was actually looking forward to it.

As he helped Jerry into the cottage, Per asked, ‘So what happens to Morner Art now — the company you and Bremer ran together?’

‘Bremer,’ said Jerry, shaking his head.

Per thought he understood. ‘That’s right, Hans Bremer is gone... so I expect you’ll wind the company up now, once and for all?’

His father nodded.

‘Was that what Markus Lukas wanted when he got in touch with you?’ asked Per. ‘Did he want you to stop making films?’

Jerry looked confused, and didn’t reply.

‘I can help you wind up Morner Art,’ said Per. ‘I can take care of the practicalities — contact the authorities, the bank and so on.’

Jerry still said nothing, but Per thought his chin made a small movement of assent. And he hoped — he really did hope — that this would be the end of Jerry’s business.

No more magazines, no more films.

No more trips into the forest.