The Rabbit Hunter. Ларс Кеплер

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СКАЧАТЬ leaving a trail of blood before catching on the threshold to the dining room.

      The stupid nursery rhyme starts up again.

      The radio in the kitchen must be switched on.

      The footrest of the wheelchair hits the back door with a gentle clunk.

      He looks towards the closed door to the dining room.

      His hands are shaking, and the stiffness in his neck makes it hard for him to lean forward and press the button controlling the shades.

      With a whirr, the grey nylon fabric glides up like a theatre curtain, and the garden gradually brightens.

      The garden furniture is set out. There are pine needles gathering in the folds of the cushions. The lights around the pool aren’t switched on, but mist is rising gently from the water.

      As soon as the shade has risen enough, he’ll be able to open the door and go outside.

      He’s decided to wait outside for Ali, ask him to look through the house. He’ll admit that he’s scared of the dark, that he leaves the lights on all night, and maybe pay him extra to stay longer.

      He turns the key in the lock with shaking hands. The lock clicks and he tugs the handle and nudges the door open.

      He reverses, looks over towards the dining room and sees the door slowly open.

      He rolls into the patio door as hard as he can. It swings open and he catches a glimpse of a figure approaching him from behind.

      Nils hears heavy footsteps as he rolls out onto the deck and feels the cool air on his face.

      ‘Ali, is that you?’ he calls in a frightened voice as he rolls forward. ‘Ali!’

      The garden is quiet. The tool-shed is locked. The morning mist is drifting above the ground.

      He tries to turn the wheelchair, but one of the tyres is caught in the crack between two slabs. Nils can hardly breathe. He tries to stop himself from shaking by pressing his hands into his armpits.

      Someone is approaching him from the house and he looks back over his shoulder.

      A masked man, carrying a black bag in his hand. He’s walking straight towards him, disguised as an executioner.

      Nils tugs at the wheels to pull himself free.

      He’s about to shout for Ali again when cold liquid drenches his head, running through his hair, down his neck, over his face and chest.

      It takes just a couple of seconds for him to realise that it’s petrol.

      What he thought was a black bag is actually the lawnmower’s petrol tank.

      ‘Please, wait, I’ve got lots of money … I promise, I can transfer all of it,’ he gasps, coughing from the fumes.

      The masked man walks around and tips the last of the petrol over Nils’s chest, then drops the empty container on the ground in front of the wheelchair.

      ‘God, please … I’ll do anything …’

      The man takes out a box of matches and says some incomprehensible words. Nils is hysterical, and he can’t make sense of what the man is saying.

      ‘Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it …’

      He tries to loosen the strap over his thighs, but it’s tangled and is now too tight to take off. His hands jerk as he tugs at it. The man calmly lights a match and tosses it onto his lap.

      There’s a rush of air, and a sucking sound, like a parachute opening.

      His pyjamas and hair burst into flames.

      And through the blue glare he sees the masked man back away from the heat.

      The childish nursery rhyme rolls through his head as the storm rages around him. He can’t get any air into his lungs. It’s as if he’s drowning, and then he feels absolute, all-encompassing pain.

      He could never have imagined anything so excruciating.

      He leans forwards in the foetal position and hears a metallic crackling sound, as if from a great distance, as the wheelchair starts to buckle in the heat.

      Nils has time to think that it sounds like the jukebox is searching for a new disc before he loses consciousness.

       28

      The inmate from Hall is on his way towards D-block, where the atmosphere is tense.

      Through the reinforced glass, the guards can see that for once Joona is eating breakfast at the same table as the leader of the Brotherhood, Reiner Kronlid. The two of them talk for a while, then Joona stands up, takes his coffee and sandwich, and goes to sit at another table.

      ‘What the hell’s he playing at?’ one of the guards asks.

      ‘Maybe he’s heard something about the new guy.’

      ‘Unless it’s about being granted leave?’

      ‘His application was approved yesterday,’ the third guard nods. ‘First time for him.’

      Joona looks over at the three guards who are watching him through the glass, then turns towards Sumo and asks the same question he just asked Reiner.

      ‘What can I do for you tomorrow?’ he asks.

      Sumo has already served eight years for a double murder, and now knows that he killed people over a misunderstanding. His face is a picture of grief these days. He always looks like he’s been crying but is trying to hold it together.

      ‘Buy a red rose … the best one you can find. Give it to Outi and tell her she’s my rose, and … And say sorry for ruining her life.’

      ‘Do you want her to come out here?’ Joona asks, looking him in the eye.

      Sumo shakes his head, and his gaze slides towards the window. He stares at the grey fence topped with barbed wire, and the monotonous, dirty yellow wall beyond it.

      Joona turns to the next man at the table, Luka Bogdani, a short man whose face is locked in a permanent state of derision.

      ‘How about you?’

      Luka leans forward and whispers:

      ‘I want you to check if my brother’s started to get rid of my money.’

      ‘What do you want me to ask?’

      ‘No, fuck it, no questions. Just look at the money, count it. There should be exactly six hundred thousand.’

      ‘I can’t do that,’ Joona replies. ‘I want to get out of here, and that money’s from a robbery, and if I—’

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