Ларс Кеплер - The Rabbit Hunter

David Jordan takes a deep breath, opens the door to the bar and walks into the gloom and hubbub. The air smells like fried food and damp clothes. The whitewashed walls above the booths and tables are cluttered with old garden tools and paraffin lamps. An illuminated green emergency exit sign hangs from the low ceiling, and cables running from the dusty stereo are taped to the beams.

Two couples are sitting at a table by the door having a loud argument.

Under a little tiled roof a group of middle-aged customers is lined up along the tatty bar, drinking and talking. A yellowing sign advertises the full menu, as well as a special offer on meals for pensioners.

David Jordan asks for a bottle of Grolsch and pays cash. He takes a first, soothing swig and watches as a man with a ponytail tries to show an older woman something on his phone.

A man wipes beer from his lips and laughs at another man trying on a pair of sunglasses.

DJ turns and looks the other way, and finds himself staring at the man he has come here to see.

He recognises him immediately from the photograph.

Carl-Erik Ritter is sitting at the back of the room with one hand around a beer glass. He’s wearing a pair of worn jeans and a knitted sweater with holes at the elbows.

DJ picks up his beer and pushes his way through the crowd, apologising as he goes. He stops at the last table.

‘OK if I sit down?’ he asks, sliding into a chair across from Carl-Erik Ritter.

The man looks up slowly and peers at him with watery eyes, but doesn’t answer. DJ’s heart is beating way too fast. A dangerous tiredness sweeps over him and the bottle comes close to slipping from his hand.

DJ closes his eyes for a moment, then puts the bottle down on the table.

‘Are you Carl-Erik Ritter?’ he asks.

‘I was the last time someone tried to borrow money for a drink,’ the man replies gruffly.

‘I’d like to talk to you.’

‘Good luck,’ the man says. He drinks some beer and puts the glass down, but doesn’t remove his hand.

Carl-Erik has eaten steak: the plate it was served on is next to his glass, bearing traces of mashed potato and half a grilled tomato. An empty shot-glass with a dark residue is standing by the napkin-holder.

DJ takes out a photograph of his mother and puts it down on the table in front of him. It’s an old picture. In it she’s eighteen years old, wearing a pale tunic-dress, smiling brightly at the camera.

‘Do you remember her?’ DJ asks when he’s sure his voice isn’t going to break.

‘Listen,’ Carl-Erik Ritter says, raising his chin. ‘I just want to sit here and drink myself into oblivion in peace. Is that too much to ask?’

Carl-Erik tips the last drops from the shot-glass into his beer.

‘Look at the picture,’ DJ asks.

‘Leave me alone. You hear?’ the man says slowly.

‘Do you remember what you did?’ DJ asks. His voice is getting shrill. ‘Admit that you—’

‘What the hell are you saying?’ Carl-Erik Ritter exclaims, and slams his fist down on the table. ‘You can’t just show up here and throw accusations at me!’

The barman glances at them over the top of the stereo.

DJ knows he has to calm down. He can’t get into a fight, that could rebound on Rex, and they can’t afford any bad publicity right now.

Carl-Erik’s hand is trembling as he holds the empty shot-glass over his beer again. His fingernails are filthy, and he’s missed a patch on the side of one cheek when he was shaving.

‘I’m not here to cause trouble,’ DJ says quietly, moving his bottle aside. ‘I’d just like to ask—’

‘Leave me the hell alone, I said!’

A man at the next table looks at them as he unwraps two sugar cubes and puts them in his mouth.

‘I just want to know if it’s ever occurred to you that you ruined her life,’ DJ says, doing his best to fight back tears.

Carl-Erik leans back. The neck of his shirt is dirty, his face is wrinkled and ruddy, and his eyes are little more than slits.

‘You’ve got no damn right to come in here and throw accusations at me,’ he repeats in a rasping voice.

‘OK. I know who you are. I’ve seen you, and you got what you deserved,’ DJ says, and stands up.

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Carl-Erik slurs.

David Jordan turns his back on him and pushes his way towards the door. He hears the man calling gruffly to him to come back.

DJ’s whole body is shaking by the time he emerges into the square again. It’s dark, and the air is cool on his face.

There are a few people standing outside the ICA supermarket on the other side of the square.

DJ starts to cough, and stops outside the hairdresser’s, resting his forehead against the glass. He tries to breathe calmly. He knows he should go home, but he can’t help thinking that he’d just like to lie down for a while.

‘Come back here!’ Carl-Erik Ritter shouts as he comes stumbling out after him.

Without bothering to reply DJ starts walking again, but stops outside the dry-cleaner’s and reaches out for the wall with one hand. He stares at a mannequin wearing a white dress in the window. He hears footsteps behind him.

‘I want you to apologise,’ Carl-Erik Ritter shouts.

David Jordan suddenly loses all strength. He leans his forehead against the cool window and struggles to stay on his feet. Sweat is dripping down his back, and his neck feels too weak to bear the weight of his head.

A bus passes on the overpass.

Carl-Erik is drunk, and staggers as he grabs the lapels of David’s coat and pulls him towards him.

‘Don’t do that,’ DJ says, trying to pry his fingers off.

‘Kiss my hand and apologise,’ Ritter snarls.

DJ tries to bring the argument to an end, but a train thunders past, drowning him out, so he has to repeat himself.

‘I’m sick. I need to go home and...’

Carl-Erik grabs him by the head and tries to force it down to kiss his hand. They stumble backwards together, and DJ can smell the sweat of the other man’s body.

‘I want a fucking apology!’ he yells, yanking at DJ’s hair.

David pushes him off and tries to walk away, but Carl-Erik grabs his coat again and hits him from behind.

‘That’s enough!’ DJ shouts as he spins around and pushes the man in the chest.

Carl-Erik takes two steps backwards, loses his balance and crashes into the shop window. The glass breaks behind him and he tumbles into the dry-cleaner’s.

Large shards crash out into the square, shattering on the pavement.

David Jordan hurries over and tries to help him to his feet. Carl-Erik lurches forward and clutches at the glass with one hand. One side gives out beneath him and he falls to his knees. His neck slides across a protruding piece of glass.

Blood sprays up onto the mannequin’s white dress and the yellowing poster advertising a special offer on shirts.

His jugular vein has been severed.

Carl-Erik pushes himself up with a groan and falls back onto his hip. The glass breaks beneath him. Dark blood is pulsing out from the wound in his neck, pouring down his body. He’s bellowing and coughing and tossing his head around, trying to get away from the pain and panic.

David Jordan tries to stem the flow of blood, and shouts across the square for someone to call an ambulance.

Carl-Erik collapses onto his back and tries to push David’s hands away.

Blood spreads out across the pavement in front of the building.

Ritter’s body shakes as he throws his head back and forth.

He stares at DJ, opens his mouth and a quivering bubble of blood appears between his lips.

His legs twitch as the pool of blood spreads out beneath him and seeps towards a rusty manhole cover.