Ларс Кеплер - The Rabbit Hunter

He thinks about when Sammy was little and said his first words. It was a frosty autumn day, and his son was playing in the sandpit when he suddenly looked up, patted the ground beside him, and said ‘Daddy sit’.

He never wanted children. Veronica’s pregnancy wasn’t planned. All he wanted was to drink, cook and fuck.

The make-up artist runs her fingers through his hair one last time to get it to lie flat.

‘Why are people so crazy about chefs?’ she asks rhetorically.

He just laughs, thanks her for making him look human again, and hurries off to the studio.

The soundproof door closes behind Rex. He creeps into the studio and sees that the host, Mia Edwards, is sitting on the sofa talking to a writer with pink hair.

Rex steps carefully over the cables and takes his place in the kitchen on one side of the group of sofas. A sound technician fixes his microphone while he checks that all the ingredients for his pasta dish are in place, that the water is simmering and the butter is melted.

He watches the large monitor as the author being interviewed laughs and throws her hands up. The ticker along the bottom of the screen talks about growing criticism of the UN Security Council.

‘Are you hungry?’ Mia asks the author after getting a prompt through her earpiece. ‘I hope so, because today Rex has prepared something extra special.’

The lights come up and as the black lenses of the cameras swing towards him he’s drizzling oil into the beaten-copper pan.

Rex increases the heat of the gas burner, starts picking basil leaves from a large pot, and smiles straight into the camera:

‘Some of you may be feeling a little worse for wear today... so this morning we’re focusing on the perfect hangover food. Tagliatelle with fried shrimp, melted butter and garlic, red peppers, olive oil and fresh herbs. Imagine a really lazy morning... waking up next to someone you hopefully recognise... and maybe you don’t really want to remember what happened last night, because all you need right now is food.’

‘Forget all about dieting,’ Mia says expectantly.

‘But only for this morning,’ Rex chuckles, and runs his hand through his hair, messing it up. ‘It’s worth it though, I promise.’

‘We believe you, Rex.’

Mia comes over and watches as he chops a chilli pepper and garlic with lightning-fast flicks of the knife.

‘Take extra care if you’re feeling fragile...’

‘I can do that just as fast,’ Mia jokes.

‘Let’s see!’

He throws the knife in the air, and it spins twice before he catches it again and puts it down next to the chopping board.

‘No,’ she laughs.

‘My ex always called me a schmuck ... I’m still not quite sure what she meant,’ he grins, and stirs the deep-rimmed frying pan.

‘So you’ve dried the shrimp on paper towels?’

‘And because they’re not pre-cooked, you may need to add a little more salt than usual,’ Rex says as he lowers the fresh pasta into the simmering water.

Through the cloud of steam his eyes take in the latest news on the ticker at the bottom of the monitor: Swedish Foreign Minister William Fock has died after a short illness .

His stomach lurches with angst and his head suddenly goes empty. He forgets where he is and what he’s supposed to be doing.

‘You can get organic shrimp these days, can’t you?’ Mia asks.

He looks at her and nods, without actually understanding what she’s saying. His hands are shaking as he picks up the tea-towel from the counter. He dabs slowly at his forehead so as not to spoil the make-up.

It’s a live broadcast. Rex knows he has to get through this, but all he can think about is what he did three weeks ago.

This can’t be true.

He holds onto the edge of the counter with one hand as he feels sweat trickling between his shoulder-blades.

‘In the past you’ve talked about saving some of the pasta water to pour on the cooked pasta afterwards if you want to cut down on the amount of oil,’ Mia says.

‘Yes, but...’

‘But not today, eh?’ she says with a smile.

Rex looks down at his hands, sees that they’re still working. They’ve just turned up the heat beneath the frying pan, and are now squeezing lemon juice on the shrimp. As he squeezes the fruit, a few drops of juice end up on the edge of the pan. They look like a string of tiny glass pearls.

‘OK,’ he whispers. His brain keeps repeating the news: the Foreign Minister has died after a short illness.

He was sick, and nothing I did made any difference, Rex thinks as he picks up the bowl of shrimp.

‘The last thing you do is fry the shrimp,’ he says, watching as the hot oil swirls in dreamlike patterns. ‘Are you ready? Um, dois, três ...’

The dolly-mounted camera films the big copper pan as he empties the bowl with a theatrical gesture and the shrimp tumble into the oil with a noisy hiss.

‘High heat! Keep watching the colour, and listen... you can hear the moisture evaporating,’ Rex says, turning the shrimp.

The pan sizzles as he sprinkles a pinch of salt over it. The second camera is filming him head-on.

‘Give it a few seconds. Your beloved can stay in bed because the food’s all ready now,’ he smiles, lifting the pink shrimp from the pan.

‘It smells fantastic. I can feel myself going weak at the knees,’ Mia says, leaning over the dish.

Rex drains the pasta, quickly tips it into a bowl, stirs in the garlic butter and peppers, then adds the oiled shrimp, adds a splash of white wine and balsamic vinegar, then plenty of chopped parsley, marjoram and basil.

‘Then you can take the bowls back into the bedroom with you,’ Rex says directly to the camera. ‘Open a bottle of wine if you want to stay under the covers, but otherwise water goes very well.’

The Foreign Minister is dead, Rex repeats to himself as he leaves the studio where the guests are eating his pasta dish. He hears them praise the food as he pushes the soundproof door open.

Rex runs along the hallway to his dressing room, locks the door behind him, staggers into the bathroom and throws up in the toilet.

Exhausted, he rinses his mouth and face, lies down on the narrow bed and closes his eyes.

‘Fuck me,’ he whispers, releasing the hazy memories of that night three weeks ago.

He had been at a party at Matbaren, and he had a little too much to drink. He decided that he was in love with a woman who worked for some investment company with a stupid name.

Almost every time he got drunk, the night ended with him in bed with a woman. If he was lucky, she wasn’t a production assistant at TV4 or the ex-wife of a colleague. On this occasion, she was a complete stranger.

They got a taxi back to her villa out in Djursholm. She was divorced and her only child was on an exchange trip to the USA. He kissed the back of her neck as she switched the alarm off and let them in. An old golden retriever came padding through the rooms.

They both knew what they wanted, and didn’t talk much. He selected a bottle of wine from the large wine fridge, and remembers swaying as he tried to open it.

She got out some cheese and crackers which they never touched.

With an air of inevitability, he had followed her through the carpeted hallway towards the master bedroom.

She dimmed the wall lights and disappeared into the bathroom.

When she came back she was wearing a silver nightgown and kimono. She opened the drawer of the bedside table and handed him a condom.

He remembers that she wanted to be taken from behind, maybe because she didn’t want to look at his face. She got on all fours, with her pale backside uncovered, the nightgown pulled up, bunched around her waist, and her mid-length hair hanging over her cheeks.