Page 115 of The Sleepwalker
‘You can start by shooting this Jew if he doesn’t drink up, Knut,’ says Åke, pointing at Peck.
The boy raises the rifle, rests the butt on his shoulder and takes aim. Peck quickly picks up his mug, takes a sip and presses his lips together.
‘More,’ Åke barks, pulling the fishing line taut.
‘I’m OK, thanks.’
‘Is this really the hill you want to die on?’
The boy’s finger is now on the trigger.
Peck drains the rest of his mug in two big gulps and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Åke refills the mug and then leans back and studies the three officers.
‘Social workers .?.?. Who do you think you are, eh?’ he says. ‘Coming to my farm, asking your questions .?.?. We’ve said we don’t want anything to do with you, but you just keep on coming back.’
‘I hear what you’re saying, but I think there’s been a misunderstanding,’ Gregory tries to explain.
‘We don’t need no supported accommodation for—’
‘We’re not from social services.’
‘No?’
‘No, we’re police,’ says Gregory.
Åke stares at him and slowly grinds his teeth. The rifle is too heavy for the boy, and the barrel has begun to tremble in his hands.
‘We understand that you want to be left alone, and we respect that,’ says Peck, anxiously licking his lips.
‘Oh, I like this. This is perfect,’ Åke says with a grin. ‘Police officers, drinking methanol and eating human flesh, talking about respect.’
‘We’ll come back another day,’ says Joona.
‘Or not. What d’you reckon?’ Åke asks, tentatively pulling onthe line. ‘I swear, I don’t give a damn. I’m not going to rot away in some fucking Guantánamo.’
‘I feel weird,’ Peck tells his colleague.
‘Just take it easy,’ Gregory whispers.
‘Sorry, but I think I need to lie down.’
‘You’ll stay right there!’ Åke snarls.
Peck gets up on unsteady legs, knocking his chair over behind him and clapping a hand to his mouth.
‘Shoot the Jew!’ Åke shouts. ‘Shoot him before—’
A sharp crack cuts through the air, reverberating between the buildings. The recoil causes the boy to stumble back. Peck is hit, and he sways to one side. The full metal jacket bullet has gone straight through his throat, and blood has begun to spurt out of the exit wound and down his back.
The boy’s eyes are wide, his lips pressed tightly together. He knocked over a bucket of hen feed when he lost his balance, and he casts an anxious glance in his father’s direction.
‘Sorry,’ he whispers.
Dark blood is now pouring down Peck’s torso, and he gropes for something to lean against, reeling back.
‘Shoot the rest of ’em now.’
Gregory breathes heavily through his nose as he attempts to pull his gun from his holster with shaking hands.
