70
There was a cold wind blowing when Per reached the top of the quarry.
‘I could see he wasn’t going to brake,’ said Gerlof. ‘He was going to run over you, so I threw my stick at the car.’
Per wiped the blood from his split eyebrow and looked at Gerlof in the darkness. They were standing motionless just a metre apart on the edge of the quarry.
‘Did you hit it?’ he asked.
‘I hit the windscreen, I think, so it might have distracted him... then the car crashed into the steps.’
Per nodded without speaking, and turned to look down into the quarry. The rear lights and one headlight were still glowing. A chaotic pile of gravel and blocks of stone covered the front of the car and hid the driver’s seat from view.
The flickering glow of flames could be seen from the shore to the south, and the wind carried the faint sound of singing and music and happy laughter.
When the steps had collapsed, Per had tried to lift the blocks of stone off the car, but he didn’t have the strength. His ribs hurt too much. He had made his way slowly up the gravel track leading out of the quarry, then all the way around the edge to where Gerlof stood waiting.
He looked at Per and asked quietly, ‘How are you feeling?’
Per tried to work it out, then held up his burnt fingers. ‘OK, except for my hand. I think I’ve probably broken a couple of ribs too, and I’ve got some cuts and bruises. And I might have concussion... Apart from that, I’m fine.’
‘It could have been worse.’
‘Yes.’ Per looked down at the car; the lights seemed fainter now. ‘He had some kind of home-made fire bomb, just like when he burnt down the studio. He was going to set fire to me at first... then he tried to mow me down with the car.’
‘That was Hans Bremer,’ said Gerlof.
‘No, it wasn’t Bremer... that was the man who murdered Bremer. His name is Fall, Thomas Fall. He just borrowed Bremer’s name. My father never knew the real Hans Bremer, the man who died in his studio.’
Per tried to remember whether Thomas Fall had said what he did. Was he in advertising? Whatever it was, he didn’t want to be associated with porn. He wanted the money, but not the reputation that went with it. And eventually, when Jerry was ill and Markus Lukas was dead and Jessika knew too much, and the real Hans Bremer was asking for more money, it was time to lure Jerry, Bremer and Jessika to the studio, burn the place down and get clean away.
Per looked at Gerlof. ‘And you spotted him.’
‘I saw him sitting in his car out on the road,’ said Gerlof. ‘He was pouring some kind of liquid into a bottle... and then there were the watches.’
‘Watches?’
‘He was wearing two watches on the same wrist, one stainless steel and one gold, just like your father. I thought that was strange... so I wanted to see where he went.’
Per let out a long breath. ‘I never saw him clearly... Did we look alike, Thomas Fall and I?’
‘Alike? What do you mean?’
‘He said we were half-brothers.’
Per turned his back on the quarry; he didn’t want to look down at the car any longer. He was covered in blood, dirty, burnt and battered, and his clothes still stank of petrol. It was his turn to go to hospital.
‘We need to ring for some help,’ he said. ‘We’d better go inside.’
He set off slowly towards his cottage, but when he looked around he realized that Gerlof was still standing on the edge of the quarry, his head drooping. He met Per’s gaze and blinked slowly, his expression confused, and when he finally spoke his voice was very weak.
‘I don’t know if I can manage without my stick. I feel a bit...’ Gerlof fell silent and swayed.
Per moved fast. His whole chest hurt as his ribs scraped against one another, but he didn’t hesitate. He took three long strides and grabbed hold of Gerlof before he fell over the edge.
71
Life was a dream to Vendela, but only for short periods. Mostly it was an extended state of torpor without images or memories, occasionally interrupted by faint, echoing voices around her, or shadows lifting her body and pulling at her arms. She simply allowed it all to happen, she just slept and slept.
Eventually she woke up and reached for Aloysius — but stopped herself and blinked. Where was she?
She was lying on her back in a hospital bed, staring up at a white ceiling. She didn’t recognize it.
The walls in the room were bare and painted yellow, with strips of sunlight seeping in through Venetian blinds. After a few minutes she looked around and realized she was alone. Alone in a hospital room on a sunny spring day. It seemed to be around the middle of the day, and she must have slept for a long time, but she was still incredibly tired.
‘Hello?’ she called out.
No response.
A small, transparent plastic bag was hanging from a metal stand next to her bed. There was a tube attached to the bottom of the bag, and when Vendela followed it with her eyes she realized it ended in a canula inserted into her left arm.
A drip. She was on a drip.
She remembered the tablets. She remembered that she had gone out to the elf stone one last time, with sorrow and ice in her soul. She had taken the tablets with her, she had sat down by the stone and opened the bottle...
She had wanted to feel calmer, but she had probably taken too many tablets.
I must have been really ill, she thought. Ill and sad... Am I well and happy now?
She sat up slowly in bed, but felt dizzy and waited for it to pass before swinging her legs over the side. Then she waited for another minute or two, and eventually got to her feet.
She stood still, taking deep breaths. Her nose wasn’t blocked; her spring allergy had gone.
There was a pair of slippers waiting for her by the wall, with a red cotton dressing gown on top of them. She put them on, then wheeled the drip stand along with her as she started to shuffle across the floor. The door of her room was ajar, and she pulled it open.
She wanted to call out again, but there was no one there.
The corridor outside her room was long, well-lit and completely deserted. There was a glass door with the word EXIT on it, but it looked very heavy; she didn’t think she’d be able to open it. So she went in the opposite direction, further into the ward.
The long corridor led to a small day room with sofas and chairs. There was a TV on the wall; it was switched on, but the volume was low. There was some kind of race going on, with people running through a maze and shouting to one another.
There was only one person in the room, gazing at the TV screen — a powerfully built man wearing a brown polo-neck sweater. Suddenly Vendela realized it was Max.
He turned his head and caught sight of her. He got up. ‘Hi, you’re... you’re up and about.’
Vendela stared at him. ‘Where are we?’
‘In Kalmar... in the hospital.’
She nodded, still staring at him.
Max looked tired too, but he was alive. Vendela had been certain he was dead, she remembered that — she had stood by the elf stone wishing that his heart would simply give up and stop beating. She had sacrificed her wedding ring for the fulfilment of her wish.
Why hadn’t it happened?
Presumably because there were no elves to grant people’s wishes. She stopped with her drip stand by her side, five metres from her husband. She had walked no more than ten metres, but her legs were trembling.
‘Max... what day is it?’
‘Day? It’s Friday — the first of May.’
‘Is there no one else here?’ said Vendela. ‘No nurses?’
‘Not many. It is a holiday, after all.’
Max didn’t look pleased at the thought that it was the first of May. Vendela remembered he had always hated that particular day.