The Quarry

42

Kalmar was a labyrinth. Per had always thought it was just the right size, and easy enough to find your way around, but right now the town seemed like a confusing tangle of streets and pavements.

There was no sign of Jerry anywhere.

Per dashed over to the wide junctions at either side of the police station, then ran all the way around the block, but there was nothing. He switched on his mobile and tried to call Jerry. No reply.

After that he gave up and went back to reception. Lars Marklund was waiting just inside the door. He looked at his watch and asked, ‘Is there a problem?’

‘My father’s disappeared,’ said Per, his heart in his mouth. ‘I need to drive around and look for him.’

He turned away, but Marklund called after him, ‘Hang on! You can’t just go rushing off... Let’s have a description.’

Per stopped and came back, forcing himself to calm down.

Marklund took out a notebook and together they ran through Jerry’s appearance, height, and what he was wearing.

‘Good,’ said Marklund. ‘We’ll put out a call.’

Per hurried to the car. He started the engine, but didn’t set off. He clutched the wheel like a lifebuoy and tried to think — where could Jerry go? To a bar? To the bus station?

It was pointless, he would just have to search at random.

He pulled away and started to search, block by block. He turned left, then left again, scanning the streets around the police station. He met several cars and saw groups of schoolchildren on their way home, and mothers with buggies, but there was no sign of Jerry.

He was heading north towards the motorway when his phone began to ring in his pocket. He slowed down and got it out. ‘Hello?’

‘Where have you been, Per? I’ve been calling you for ages.’

It was Marika. Per could feel his guilty conscience like a weight on his shoulders, but he kept on staring through the windscreen. ‘With... I’ve been in a meeting.’

He still didn’t want to tell her he’d been interviewed by the police, and Marika didn’t ask any more questions. ‘You have to come to the hospital,’ she said.

‘I haven’t got time right now, Marika,’ said Per, gazing around. Still no Jerry. ‘I’ll be there in a little while, but at the moment I have to—’

She interrupted him. ‘I’ve been talking to Stenhammar.’

‘Stenhammar?’

‘Nilla’s doctor, Per. Don’t you remember?’

‘Yes, of course... What did he say?’

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

‘What is it, Marika?’

‘It’s a tumour,’ she said quietly. ‘A particular kind of tumour... It isn’t growing quickly, but it has to be removed.’

Per slowed down and closed his eyes briefly. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘But we knew that, didn’t we?’

Marika’s voice was still quiet. ‘It’s right next to the artery.’

Per didn’t understand. ‘Next to the artery?’

‘Yes. It’s wrapped itself around the main artery. The aorta.’

‘What does that mean?’

Marika fell silent again, then spoke even more quietly. ‘Nobody’s prepared to operate.’

‘But... they have to,’ said Per.

Marika didn’t reply.

‘They have to,’ said Per.

‘Georg and I spent half an hour with Stenhammar. He’s spoken to several vascular surgeons, but he says none of them is prepared to risk it.’

But they have to, thought Per. Otherwise there’s no hope.

‘Marika, I’m out in the car, there’s something I have to do for Jerry... But I’ll call you back soon.’

She started to say something, but he switched off the phone. He put his foot down. He had to find Jerry. He’d think about all the other stuff later, but first he had to find Jerry.

No hope for Nilla, he thought. But there has to be hope.

He gazed blankly out through the windscreen. Nilla...

But they have to operate, they just have to!

He was on his way out of the town now. He passed a petrol station, followed by a grassy area on both sides of the road, with a viaduct crossing over it. There were fewer cars here.

He had almost reached the motorway. Best turn back.

Per looked up at the viaduct, a hundred metres away, and on the other side of the barrier he saw a dark-coloured car. It had stopped on the carriageway. The passenger door opened, and someone got out.

An old man in a grey coat, stooping. Per suddenly realized it was Jerry.

The car started to reverse; Jerry stood still. He seemed to be looking around, lost and confused. Then he started shambling forwards.

Per braked and stopped the car; he’d found Jerry, but couldn’t get to him. He was on the wrong carriageway. How could he get up on to the viaduct? The area was completely unfamiliar to him.

In the end he started to reverse. He was just about to do a U-turn and take the entry slip for the motorway, in defiance of the traffic regulations, when he saw that the car that had dropped Jerry off had stopped reversing. It was moving forwards instead.

Per realized it was picking up speed. It was a red car, he could see now — possibly a Ford Escort. Was it the car from the quarry? The driver was wearing a cap, and was nothing more than a dark shadow behind the wheel.

The car was coming up behind Jerry on the viaduct, but instead of slowing down and sticking to the middle of the road, it was speeding up.

Per was a hundred and fifty metres away, perhaps two hundred. He stopped the car, opened the door and yelled: ‘Jerry!’

But Jerry kept on walking, his head lowered against the wind.

Per got out of the car and cupped his hands: ‘Dad!’

Jerry seemed to hear him. He turned his head, but by that time the car behind him was no more than ten metres away. It didn’t stop. On the contrary, the driver put his foot down.

Jerry looked like a rag doll as the car hit him.

The front of the car knocked his legs from underneath him and lifted him off the ground. Per could only watch as Jerry’s body flew up over the bonnet and was thrown forwards like a blurred shadow, his arms outstretched and his coat flapping.

His father spun around in the air and landed heavily.

‘Jerry!’

The car had slowed down after the collision; Per could see that the windscreen was cracked.

He left the door of the Saab open and started to run up the slope, up towards the viaduct. His shoes slithered and skidded on the grass.

Jerry slowly raised his head from the tarmac. He was bleeding, but still conscious. Then his head sank down again.

The car that had mown him down stopped by the side of the road ten or twelve metres ahead of him; Per saw the driver turn his head and look back, then the car sped away. Faster and faster.

It was a hit-and-run.

Per slipped again on the grass. He battled his way up the slope and fumbled in his pocket for his mobile — then remembered he’d left it in the car.

He jumped over the barrier and landed two metres away from Jerry, just as the car that had hit him joined the motorway.

Per bent over the body on the tarmac. ‘Jerry?’

So much blood. It was pouring from his nose and forehead, running between his broken teeth.

‘Dad?’

His father’s eyes were open, but his whole face was scraped raw, and there was no response. Per looked around in despair for someone who might help him.

The red car accelerated south and disappeared up the motorway. The last thing Per saw was water spurting over the windscreen.