The Quarry

51

Max was bright red in the face; he looked as if a heart attack was imminent.

‘He’s thirteen years old, Vendela!’

‘What does it matter how old he is, Max?’

‘Thirteen! That’s the equivalent of an eighty-year-old in human terms!’

‘So? He’s eighty years old and healthy!’

The argument between Max and Vendela on Monday evening had been exclusively about Aloysius and his health. They had argued about the same thing several times before, but their discussions always went round in circles, and they had tired of every other topic.

‘He is not healthy!’

‘He is, Max. He’s up and about much more often, and he’s walking better.’

‘He’s blind!’

When they had started to repeat themselves they had both given up and walked past each other across the echoing stone floor. Max had shut himself in his thinking room, and Vendela had chosen the kitchen. Aloysius had stayed out of the way during the quarrel, but had taken Vendela’s side by padding after her and rubbing his nose against her legs.

This was not the right thing to do, she had said so to Max many times. You should never simply storm off after a quarrel without sorting it out. He had even included that particular piece of advice in one of his books.

Vendela wiped a few breadcrumbs from the stainless-steel worktop and sighed. They weren’t going to get anywhere, she realized. They either had to give up, or go for counselling — but the problem was that Max was a trained psychologist, and always knew best. He refused to see other therapists; he didn’t believe in them.

Vendella went into the bathroom, but didn’t take a tranquillizer. She drank a glass of water, felt a little fuller and longed to be out on the alvar. She started to change into her tracksuit.

Five minutes later she was ready. She patted Aloysius and opened the front door. ‘Won’t be long!’ she shouted.

There was no response from the thinking room.

She ran straight to the elf stone this Monday evening, with long strides and tightly clenched fists. She stumbled a few times on tussocks of grass and hidden stones, but stayed on her feet. At last she was there.

Vendela had no money or jewellery with her. She had nothing to offer the elves, but she wanted to be here anyway. She had run here four days in a row now; she didn’t have to listen to Max out here.

She placed her palms flat on the stone and tried to relax. Loud voices reverberated inside her head, the memory of the quarrel. But this evening there was no solace to be found.

Things had got much worse since her last visit, and sorrow hung heavily over the kingdom of the elves. Vendela could see clear pictures in her head when she closed her eyes: the king of the elves sitting on his throne weeping for his ailing queen, blue blood trickling from his eyes.

Vendela felt that no one had any time for her. She turned and ran westward once more.

When she got home, there were no lights on in the house. The Audi had gone, and the front door was locked. Max must have gone off somewhere, but the spare key was under one of the plant pots. Vendela unlocked the door and went inside.

‘Hello?’ she shouted.

The echo of her call died away, and there was no reply. Vendela hadn’t expected an answer from Max, but why hadn’t Aloysius barked, or come pattering across the floor?

‘Ally?’

No response, but when she went into the kitchen she saw a note stuck on the fridge:

Vendela ripped down the note and threw it away.

She went around the house, looking in every room until she was certain Ally wasn’t there. Then she sat down in the enormous living room and stared through the enormous windows, out on to the deserted quarry.

Max had gone back to Stockholm and taken their dog with him. There was nothing Vendela could do.

She closed her eyes.

She could hear the sound of a cow bell, and Jan-Erik’s giggling laughter.