The Quarry

They drove out into the country, and afterwards Per had no idea where they had been – just that they had driven and driven and eventually reached a gravel track surrounded by dense fir trees. A southern Swedish forest.

‘This all right?’ asked the man behind the wheel.

‘Sure,’ said Jerry, coughing. ‘Fantastic, Markus.’

The car pulled up among the trees.

‘Pelle,’ said Jerry when they had all got out, ‘Regina, Markus Lukas and I are going off into the forest for a while.’ He gripped Per firmly by the shoulder, his expression serious. ‘But I have an important job for you here by the car. I want you to keep guard, and I’m going to pay you. That’s the most important thing about jobs – getting paid for them.’

Per nodded – this was his first job. ‘And what if anyone comes?’

Jerry lit a fresh cigarette. He went over and opened the boot. ‘Tell them it’s a military exercise,’ he said with a smile. ‘Tell them we’re shooting here, so nobody is allowed in.’

Per nodded as Jerry and Markus Lukas looped several bags over their shoulders and set off into the trees with Regina. His father waved to him. ‘See you soon. Then it’ll be time for a picnic.’

Per was suddenly alone next to the car. The spring sunshine made the red bodywork gleam, and flies buzzed across the grass.

He took a few steps along the track and looked around. There was no sign of anyone, and not a sound to be heard. When he listened carefully he thought he could hear Regina laughing in the distance, just once. Or was it a scream?

Time passed more and more slowly. The forest surrounding Per felt dark and dense. He thought he heard Regina crying out, several times.

Eventually he left the car. He followed Jerry and the others, without really knowing where they had gone.

A little path wound its way through the trees. He followed it up a steep slope, over a little rise among moss- covered rocks, and down a small hill. He increased his speed, took a few more steps, then suddenly heard male voices, and Regina’s cries. She was screaming deep in the forest – loud, long-drawn-out screams.

Per started to run.

The trees thinned out and he hurtled into a sunlit glade.

The sun was shining down like a spotlight into the middle of the glade. Regina was lying there naked on a blanket on the grass; she was wearing a long blonde wig. She was sunburnt, Per noticed, but her breasts were chalk-white.

Markus Lukas, the man who had been driving the car, was also naked. He was lying on top of her.

And Jerry, who was standing next to them holding a big camera, didn’t have any clothes on either. He was snapping away all the time, click click click.

Regina gave a start as Per cried out; she looked at him, then quickly turned her head away.

Jerry lowered the camera and glared at Per. ‘Pelle, what the hell are you doing?’ he shouted. ‘Go back and keep a lookout – stick to the job I gave you!’

Per turned and fled through the forest.

Twenty minutes later his father and the other two came back to the car, with their clothes on. Regina had taken off the wig.

Jerry laughed at his son all the way home.

‘He thought we were going to kill her.’ Jerry had turned to face the back seat. ‘Regina, he thought we were murdering you out there in the forest! He was coming to your rescue!’

Per wasn’t laughing.

He looked at Regina, but she refused to meet his eye.

Regina and Markus Lukas.

Per could still remember those two names. His head was full of old memories, and felt very heavy this morning. He lifted it and looked out of the bedroom window towards the two new houses. Nothing was moving over there, but the Larssons’ veranda looked empty. No trace of the party remained.

It had ended fairly soon after Jerry had thrown the magazine on the table. The Kurdins had gone home with their baby, Gerlof Davidsson and John Hagman had also left, and Vendela Larsson had started gathering up the remains of the food. It might have been his imagination, but Per had the feeling his neighbours wanted to see the back of him and Jerry as soon as possible.

He knew more or less what to expect from now on. The neighbours hadn’t said anything yesterday as he thanked them and took his leave, but he knew the questions would come.

The curiosity, the constant curiosity. And the meaningful smiles each time some new acquaintance found out he was the son of the notorious Jerry Morner.

‘So have you ever been in a porn film then, Per?’

‘No.’

‘Not even one?’

‘I’ve never had anything to do with Jerry’s activities.’

‘Never?’

‘No. Never.’

He had become adept at it as an adult, distancing himself and swearing that he was nothing like his father. But why had he kept in touch with Jerry? And why had he been stupid enough to bring him to Oland?

Per would have preferred to stay in bed, but he got up anyway. He wished the sun wasn’t shining quite so brightly this morning. He didn’t want to think about Regina any more.

He didn’t want to think about the neighbours either.

Nobody else in the cottage seemed to be awake. The doors to the twins’ rooms were closed, and when he went into the kitchen he could hear his father’s long-drawn-out breathing from the spare room. It was a mixture of snoring and wheezing.

Per had heard the same sound each time he visited his father in the small apartment Jerry had rented in Malmo in the mid-sixties, before the really big money started pouring in.

The sound was particularly noticeable when he brought women home. Per would lie on his mattress in front of the TV listening to Jerry wheezing in the room next door, interspersed with regular groans and irregular cries or bouts of weeping from the women. He could never sleep on those nights when Jerry was taking photographs or filming, but he didn’t dare get up and knock on the door. If he disturbed his father, Jerry would shout at him, just like that day in the forest.

The bedroom had been Jerry’s workplace during the autumn and winter months when it was too cold to work outside. That was where he took photographs and did his filming, and it also served as his office. He had bought a water bed that filled half the room, and kept the company’s money in a fat envelope underneath it. The bed was both his office and his playroom; he had two telephones next to it, plus a Facit calculator, a drinks cabinet and a projector that he could use to show films on the white walls.

The Swinging Sixties, thought Per. But that’s all over now.

He knocked on the door of the spare room. ‘Jerry?’

The snoring stopped, only to be replaced by coughing.

‘Time to get up, Jerry – breakfast.’

Per turned and saw a black mobile phone lying on the table in the hallway. It was Jerry’s. He noticed that it was switched on, and that someone had called at around seven o’clock that morning. Everybody had been asleep, of course.

He picked up the phone to see if he recognized the name of the caller, but the display showed only NUMBER WITHHELD.

Jerry shuffled out on to the patio quarter of an hour later wearing a white dressing gown he had borrowed from Per. The twins were still asleep, but that was fine – Nilla in particular needed her rest. Besides, Per wanted to talk to his father without the children eavesdropping.

They nodded at one another in the sunshine.

‘Pelle?’ said Jerry, looking at the glass in front of him.