Sander tried to grab the knife, but it sliced his hand. Killian adjusted his grasp and punched Sander in the gut; he doubled over.
But he still didn’t let go of Killian. Killian was struggling to get away, worm out of his shirt, but it didn’t work despite his superior size. Instead, he yanked Sander up again, said something to him. Vidar couldn’t tell what it was, but the knife was dangerously close to Sander’s face.
Vidar had almost reached them. He heard a screech:
“Let go of me, for fuck’s sake!”
Sander refused. He brought up his hand and whacked Killian in the cheek, hard. It looked like something might have broken. Killian’s face contorted and he took a step back. Sander tried to swipe the knife, they fought over it, Sander with two hands and Killian with one. It was almost comical, like they were fighting over an invisible object.
Killian got a knee between Sander’s legs. Sander coughed, went red in the face, and leaned so heavily on Killian that he lost his balance again. He staggered back, and Sander followed. When Killian regained his footing, something jerked between them and they froze.
IV
The Sign and the Rain
104
Blue lights flashed through the darkness and made time contract.
Isidor Enoksson sat at his kitchen table, watching them go by in the rain. A frightful mare, bringer of bad dreams, wrapped her wings around him.
He stared at his beer bottle. One sip left.
He drank it and eyed the label with disappointment, as though it had not delivered what it had promised.
Isidor suspected the worst.
Had to get over there, even though he’d been drinking.
He staggered to the garage, past his car to his bicycle. He walked it out to the driveway in the rain; it creaked loudly as he got on. Wobbly. Very wobbly, but it should work. Once, as legend had it, Isidor’s predecessor, Hugo Edman, had made it all the way to Harplinge with the help of only a bicycle and two bottles of liquor.
Isidor placed his left shoe on the pedal and pushed. His foot slipped, and he nearly fell off but managed to catch himself in the nick of time. Would’ve been just fine to die there and then, he thought. But God hadn’t sent him that sort of trial, not today.
Isidor climbed off the bicycle and tried to figure out what was wrong.
At last he realized the back tire was flat.
Godda—
Isidor threw the bicycle down as though it had wronged him.
For I have sinned,the priest thought, gazing at the dark woods in the distance.
And then he began the walk to Skavböke.
105
It was all over, but it didn’t feel that way.
Killian had fallen onto his back. The knife was stuck in his chest, and as he lay on the floor its handle pointed at the ceiling, standing straight and tall as a flagpole.
Vidar was out in his car, sitting very still. He had blood on his hands and three missed calls from Adrian al-Hadid. He ignored them, leaned his head against the headrest, and closed his eyes.
Living almost half your life in the shadow of a single incident, never understanding what had happened or how. That was what Sander Eriksson had done. Incredible, really. But sometimes you only understand something long after the fact. Killian had killed Mikael, Killian had killed Filip, and at last he had tried to kill Sander too. His best friend.
How had it all started?
At a party one night, a long time ago.
