Lene Kaaberbol - Invisible Murder

“You’re coming down,” Tommi hissed. “With or without holes. It’s up to you.”

At first it didn’t seem like the person intended to obey, but when Tommi raised the gun again, the figure began moving with difficulty. With difficulty, because he or she was impeded by an astronaut-like protective suit of the type used for asbestos removal. The legs came first, and then the rest followed, with a wriggle and a twist, and the ceiling voyeur dropped down onto the floor between Sándor and Tommi.

The suit made it impossible to tell much other than that it was a human being. But Tommi was far more interested in the padded envelope the figure had taped to its chest.

“Payday.…” he whispered, tearing the envelope free. “Money, money, money.…”

He was actually singing it. Hoarsely and off-key, but it was unmistakably Abba.

Now, Sándor thought. Now, while he’s not paying attention to anything else.

All he had was the sand-filled paint can. He swung it at the Finn’s head with all his might, at this moment utterly indifferent to where the sand and cesium ended up.

He missed. Tommi jumped back, dropped the envelope, and fired the gun all in one motion.

OMEONE HAD SETher on fire, and Nina knew she had to wake up. Now. The strange darkness enveloping her kept dragging her back; even when she succeeded in forcing her eyes open, it was as if her brain refused to come back online. The floor felt hard and cold against her hipbone and her shoulder. Then she realized that she wasn’t actually on fire. The burning, throbbing pain was coming from the lower rib on her right side. A broken rib can perforate the lung, she thought woozily. Avoid sharp movements. But everything was moving. The room was a big teetering, swirling darkness that for a brief, absurd moment made her think of a gigantic hall of mirrors, the kind where everything is crooked and distorted. She was still desperately thirsty, and the floor she was lying on was terribly cold and dusty. There was dust in her mouth and on her hands.

Ida.

She pictured Ida in Mr. Suburbia’s arms in the darkness in front of her. And Ida on her way down into her dark, subterranean tomb. Nina could hear voices and turned her head toward the sound. A narrow strip of light shone in from a half-open door a little further into the hall, and she recognized Mr. Suburbia’s family-man silhouette next to the door. Nina swore to herself and lay still. Maybe he would think she was still unconscious. Tommi had probably stationed him there to keep an eye on her. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness now so that she could see the wide double doors that led out to reality. It wouldn’t take more than a few seconds of running, and once she was out.… The pain in her side gave a brutal jab as she inhaled. Perforated lungs. She couldn’t run if she had a punctured lung. If she ran, she could puncture a lung. Her thoughts chased each other around in circles, like white mice in a laboratory maze. It felt as if someone had plunged a chisel under her rib and wrenched at it. She didn’t remember how it happened, but when she carefully ran her fingers over the lower edge of her ribcage, she felt a clear angle that shouldn’t be there. A fracture, it was definitely broken. She wasn’t running anywhere.

And Ida was still alone in the dark.

Bang .

The sound of the shot echoed through the empty, tiled hall and made Mr. Suburbia’s silhouette cower.

“What the hell is going on?” he muttered.

He walked over to the doorway but appeared to change his mind and stayed put with his back against the doorframe, peering furtively into the next room. Apparently no one answered him, but they could still hear the Finn in there. It almost sounded as if he were singing.

Singing?

Mr. Suburbia glanced over at her, perplexed, then he turned around and disappeared into where Tommi and Sándor were.

Now, Nina thought. You can’t die here. You have to do it now.

She tried take shallow breaths as she pushed herself up off the floor with both arms. The pain in her side made everything go black before her eyes, and twice she was forced to stop altogether and wait for the world to slowly come into view again. Then she continued hobbling across the floor toward the exit.

Which was when the second shot rang out. She was so startled it almost knocked her over. But she still didn’t look back.

She reached the door. Splinters from the damaged wood around the lock jutted out like barbs, and her fingers were too clumsy to open it silently. The wind from outside grabbed it and blew it all the way open with a distinctive bang. Then she was standing outside in the chilly May evening. The construction site’s puddles glittered yellow-brown in the light from the overhead spotlights. She could see the paved road just a hundred meters away, and on the other side of it, a row of peaceful looking suburban homes with dark beech hedges and birch trees, their black branches swaying in the cool breeze. There were lights on and people at home in one of the closest ones.

Help, she thought. Get help for Ida.

She started walking toward the light, staggering but obstinate, and didn’t stop despite hearing another three shots ring out from inside the mosque behind her.

HE SHOT RIPPEDa hole in his side, right under his ribs. He felt it first as an impact, then as a burning, wet sensation. He was still standing, hadn’t been dramatically hurled backward like in the action movies. He had, however, dropped the paint can.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

The voice was Frederik’s, but it was almost unrecognizable from the shock. Tommi was just laughing, a completely normal laugh, as if someone had said something really funny.

“Boom!” he said. “You’re dead.” And then the pistol clicked as he let yet another bullet slide forward into the chamber.

Sándor didn’t want to fall. That would most definitely hurt, and he had already experienced enough pain. But his legs didn’t ask for permission. They just crumpled beneath him, so he fell to his knees, and after that forward, and then onto his side. And, yes, it hurt.

There was yet another shot, but Sándor didn’t feel anything. While the bang was still ringing in his ears, he saw the asbestos-suited figure spin halfway round and topple over onto the floor. Ah, he got shot this time, not you, Sándor thought with a strange sensation of remoteness, as if it were some sort of public statement that didn’t pertain to him.

“Stop it,” Frederik yelled.

“Why? Dude, it’s a Muslim terrorist and a Gypsy. I’m doing the world a fucking service here.”

Someone hoisted up Sándor’s aching body. It was Frederik. The man put his arms around Sándor and supported him, almost affectionately, it felt like, but Sándor wished he would leave him alone. Then the man pushed something cold and metallic into Sándor’s good hand and closed his fingers around it.

The grip of a pistol.

He forced his eyelids open. Yes, it was pistol. A flat, little black one. Smaller than Tommi’s.

“Shoot him,” Frederik whispered. “He’s insane! Shoot him before he kills us all.…”

Why don’t you shoot him? But his irritable question didn’t make it any further than his mind. Frederik raised his hand, placed his index finger over Sándor’s index finger on the trigger, and squeezed.

The back of the Finn’s head exploded. Sándor just had time to see the singed black hole in the face mask, approximately where the man’s mouth was. Then Tommi fell over and hit the tile floor with a jellyfish-like slap.