The Quarry

could be no hint of love or tenderness.

‘Markus Lukas,’ said Jerry, pointing at the man.

‘OK, Markus Lukas. So that was the name of your male model?’

Jerry nodded.

Per contemplated the naked back of a muscular, broad-shouldered man aged between thirty and forty. He had thick, curly black hair, visible in one picture that showed the back of his head; most of the pictures revealed him only from the waist down.

He thought about the man who had been driving the car that spring day, with Per and Regina in the back seat. Jerry had called him ‘Markus Lukas’. Was this the same man?

‘You can’t see his face,’ said Per.

Jerry nodded, but pointed at the man again. His stiff mouth was working. ‘He … ang—’

‘Angry? Is he angry?’ said Per.

Jerry nodded.

‘Who is he angry with? You and Hans Bremer?’

Jerry looked away. ‘Cheated,’ he said.

‘That doesn’t surprise me … you and Bremer cheated him out of some money?’

Jerry shook his head, but said nothing more.

Per picked up the magazine and leafed through it. There were plenty of pictures of different girls, page after page of close-ups and full-length shots, but the male models with whom they were having sex were only partly visible in the photographs. The camera focused on the women; the men were completely anonymous.

‘Are there no pictures of Markus Lukas’s face?’ he asked.

Jerry shook his head.

Per sighed, but he wasn’t surprised. There was no need to show the men’s faces – only one small part of their body was important.

‘So what’s Markus Lukas doing now? Do you know where he lives?’

Another shake of the head.

‘But he’s not involved in porn any more?’

Jerry didn’t say anything. Per thought he understood why; in a way Jerry no longer worked in the porn industry, although of course it hadn’t been a voluntary decision.

‘And I don’t suppose he was actually called Markus Lukas, was he?’ Per went on. ‘I imagine it was made up, just like all the names you gave the girls?’

Jerry nodded.

‘So what was his name?’

Jerry’s gaze was blank.

‘You don’t remember what Markus Lukas was called?’

A brief shake of the head.

‘In the contract,’ said Jerry.

‘OK, so he had a contract of employment, and his real name is on that?’

Jerry nodded and pointed across the water, in the direction of the mainland. ‘Home,’ he said.

‘Good, you’ve got it at home,’ said Per. He looked down at the pictures in the magazine, at the naked man.

‘Angry,’ said Jerry.

Per looked at the magazine one last time. He remembered the year after his meeting with Regina, when he finally realized why his father took women out into the forest and photographed them: it was to earn money from a magazine he published, a magazine called Babylon. Per had cycled to a newsagent’s on the other side of Kalmar and sneaked in to buy a copy.

BABYLON, it said on the cover in dark-red letters, above a picture of a smiling girl who resembled Regina.

He stuffed it under his jumper, took it back to his room and hid it under the mattress. Late that night when Anita was asleep, he sat there looking through the pages by the light of a torch. He saw page after page of smiling, naked girls, their white skin glowing in the sunshine or under the studio lights. They were all blonde, but several of them looked as if they were wearing a wig.

On one of the pictures he noticed a thin curl of cigarette smoke drifting across from the left – and he knew that Jerry was standing there smoking just a few metres away. Inside his head Per could hear Jerry coughing and encouraging the model to arch her back and show as much as possible. He could hear his voice.

‘Come on, darling, you’re not shy, are you?’

The girl in the picture reminded him of Regina, and Per knew that looking at her ought to give him a warm feeling in his body, but nothing happened. All he could think about was the cigarette smoke.

Per shivered in the spring breeze, and he was back by the quarry.

‘So the only thing we know for certain about Markus Lukas,’ he said, closing the magazine, ‘is that he’s got big muscles.’

He held out the magazine between his thumb and forefinger and passed it to his father, without looking at it.

‘Hide that now, or throw it away. I’m going to wake up the twins.’

27

It wasn’t until six o’clock on Thursday evening that Vendela was able to change and set off for a run across the alvar again. She thought about the elf stone and the coin she had placed in a hollow on the top of the stone, but, just as before, she visited her childhood home first.

The allergy affecting her nose and throat eased slightly as she started to jog, and after a few hundred metres she found a comfortable rhythm. It took her quarter of an hour to run north-east and reach the old farm.

She walked into the garden and stopped.

There was a red car on the grass in front of the house, a big Volvo with a roof rack. The boot and two of the doors were open, as was the door of the house.

The family who owned the place had obviously arrived to spend Easter on the island. But Vendela couldn’t help herself, she still had to move closer, walking towards the open door in the glass veranda.

Suddenly a woman appeared in the doorway. She stepped out into the sunshine and caught sight of Vendela.

‘Oh,’ she said.

She was perhaps ten years younger than Vendela, and looked frightened.

‘Hi,’ said Vendela with a tense laugh. ‘I just wanted to stop and rest for a minute, I’m out jogging and …’

‘Yes?’

‘… and I grew up here. My family used to own this place.’

‘So you used to live here?’ The woman looked more friendly. ‘Well, come in and have a look around, if you like. I should think it’s changed quite a bit!’

Vendela nodded and stepped on to the veranda without saying anything; she walked through the porch and into the kitchen. She recognized the rooms, but they appeared to have shrunk since she was a child. The kitchen had been repainted and kitted out with trendy bench seating and a tiled stove. The aromas were different too; the smell of her father and his unwashed clothes was gone.

From the kitchen a staircase led up to the first floor. She went over to it and stopped. ‘Is it OK if I go up and have a look?’

‘Of course, but there’s not much to see.’

Vendela went up the stairs, and the woman followed her. ‘It was almost four years before we could face making a start up here,’ she said, with a weary laugh. ‘But we’re really pleased with it now.’

Vendela nodded without speaking or smiling. She couldn’t find the words; this was very difficult for her. But she moved up the last step and stood on the landing. It was bright and clean now; when she was a child it had