‘Who?’
‘Her!’
He was still pointing. Per looked over at the neighbours’ house, where a couple of figures were moving about on the drive.
‘Do you mean Marie Kurdin? The woman you saw at the party?’
Jerry nodded.
‘She was in your films?’
Jerry nodded again. ‘Slag.’
Per gritted his teeth; he’d heard Jerry use that word before. ‘Don’t say that.’
‘But fresh,’ said Jerry slowly, as if he liked the word. ‘Frressh slag.’
‘Stop it,’ said Per. ‘I’m not interested.’
But he couldn’t help looking over at the house.
Marie Kurdin was standing outside, packing the family car with a dozen suitcases, changing mats and bags of toys. The Easter break was over, and the Kurdin family were evidently on their way home.
How old was she? Thirty, perhaps. A tall, slender mother with a baby. She was heaving the suitcases energetically into the car, shouting something inaudible to her husband indoors. It couldn’t be true, surely? Marie Kurdin couldn’t have been in Jerry’s films? He suddenly saw images in his head, images he hadn’t asked for: Marie Kurdin lying on a bed like all the others, with Markus Lukas bending over her and Jerry standing slightly to one side, smoking...
No. Per shook his head and looked at his father. ‘You’re imagining things.’
Before they left, Per went over to Vendela Larsson’s house to say thank you for helping him to find Nilla’s lucky stone — and to ask his neighbour how she could have known where it was.
He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He scribbled a quick note:
Thanks a lot for the stone!
Per
Then he folded it up and tucked it into the doorframe.
There were three of them in the car this time; Jesper was with them as they left the island and drove across the Öland Bridge. He was going back to his mother, and back to school after the Easter holidays.
Marika lived in north Kalmar and Per dropped his son off outside the house; he didn’t want to run the risk of Marika meeting Jerry.
‘Can you find your way from here?’ he asked as Jesper got out of the car.
Jesper nodded without cracking a smile at the joke, but leaned over to give Per a quick hug.
‘Good luck with school,’ said Per, ‘and say hello to Mum from me.’
When Jesper had gone inside, he turned to Jerry. ‘Did you see that hug, Jerry? Some daddies get hugs.’
Jerry said nothing, so Per went on, ‘OK, let’s get you home.’ ‘Home,’ said Jerry.
A couple of hours later they drove into the centre of Kristianstad, but by that time Jerry had fallen asleep. He slept leaning back in his seat, his face tipped up towards the roof of the car and his mouth wide open between hollow cheeks. His snoring drowned out the sound of the engine, and Per switched on the radio, which was playing a sentimental old song:
He quickly turned it off again.
Per wasn’t familiar with the area, but eventually he found his way and parked ten metres away from the door to his father’s apartment block. It was closed.
When he switched off the engine, Jerry gave a start and woke up. He blinked and looked confused. ‘Pelle?’
‘You’re home now.’
‘Kristianstad?’ Jerry coughed and looked down the street. He shook his head slowly. ‘No.’
He’d changed his mind again. Per sighed. ‘Yes, Jerry — you’ll be safe here.’
Jerry shook his head again. He raised a trembling finger and pointed.
‘What is it?’ Per was still looking over at Jerry’s door. ‘Wait here,’ he said, getting out of the car. ‘I’ll go and have a look, then I’ll come back for you. Have you got the key?’
Jerry fumbled in his pocket and handed it over. ‘Prince,’ he said.
Jerry wanted cigarettes, but Per’s only response was to close the car door.
He walked slowly towards the building. Jerry’s apartment was fairly central, but it wasn’t in the most upmarket area of Kristianstad. The turn-of-the-century block was in need of renovation. Just below the metal roof, four floors up, small carved stone heads gazed down at him. They looked like deformed owls.
He unlocked the outside door and stepped into the darkness.
He thought back to the day a week ago when he had walked into Jerry’s house. He thought about the smoke and flames shooting up from the ground floor. About Bremer in the burning bed, and a girl screaming for help.
At least there was no smell of smoke in here. The stairwell was filled with nothing but echoes. The stone staircase wound its way upwards in a spiral around a cylindrical lift shaft, but the circular lift looked at least eighty years old and was far too small; it would close around him like a steel cage if he stepped inside.
Per preferred to walk up the three floors to Jerry’s apartment. He passed two floors with closed doors, and carried on to the third. He stopped before he got to the top of the stairs.
Jerry’s door was ajar.
At first Per thought he’d made a mistake, but when he counted the floors again, he knew he was in the right place.
He could just see the hallway inside, but it was dark and silent. There was no movement inside.
He stayed where he was, on the landing a few steps below the open door. He listened again. There wasn’t a sound, apart from the odd car passing by.
Per thought about the front door of Jerry’s house, which had been half-open.
Why was this door open as well? It shouldn’t be. You’ll be safe here, he’d said to Jerry, but now he had his doubts.
Are you scared?
Yes, he was scared. A little bit.
Per took a deep breath, thought about his judo training and tried to find the balance within his body, from his feet upwards. Slowly he set off up the stairs again. Now he had the feeling somebody was standing in Jerry’s hallway, waiting for him. Someone who was holding their breath, listening to him coming closer, however slowly he was moving, however quietly his heart was beating.
Cautiously he approached the open door.
He took the last three steps in a single decisive movement, grabbed the handle and pulled the door wide open.
The stink of cigarette smoke rushed towards him, but it was probably just an old smell left behind by Jerry.
It was dark in the hallway; Per reached in and switched on the light. Then he peered inside.
At first everything looked normal. Normal? He hadn’t been in Jerry’s apartment for over three years, and then he’d only stayed for half an hour. But there were still lots of clothes hanging in the hall — suede jackets, yellow jackets, and down on the floor black patent shoes which Jerry presumably hadn’t worn in years.
Per took two steps inside and listened. Silence.
There was a fine Persian rug in the big living room, and at the edge of the rug a large suitcase lay open.
It was empty, but there were several more bags behind it. Moroccan carpet bags, plastic bags and shabby briefcases lay scattered across the floor — and it looked as if they had been opened by someone who had searched through them, because there were piles of clothes and papers all over the floor as well.
Per was frightened now, but he took two steps forward and looked inside the living room.
There was no sign of anyone, not a sound to be heard.
He walked in.
He was expecting the room to be in more of a mess than it was. There were drifts of fluff in the corners and dried-up orange peel on the glass table, but Jerry’s oil paintings were still hanging on the walls. Per had given him a few books over the years, and they were untouched and neatly arranged on the bookshelf. His father had never taken the time to read.