Page 4 of The Sleepwalker
John will never forget his brother’s pupils in his wide eyes. They were impossibly small, like they had been drawn in with the tip of a needle.
Since he first started going out on patrol, John has always carried three doses of Naloxone with him, despite the fact that itisn’t required kit. It isn’t something he ever talks about, but so far he has managed to save eight lives using the nasal spray.
They drive past the dark football field, through the industrial area and into Sätraskogen nature reserve.
By the time they pull up outside the gates to the campsite, eight minutes have passed since they responded to the dispatch call.
The shop, office and Thai restaurant are all shuttered.
Heavy snowflakes fall slowly through the air, landing on the tarmac in front of them.
Without a word, John and Einar get out of the car and climb the gate. They check the site map, locate pitch G and start walking.
The vast campsite feels strangely desolate without any cars, tents or people milling around.
They cross an area of dead grass criss-crossed by roads as they make their way over to the caravan section.
To the right, the trees on the hill are all bare. Snowflakes sail down between their sprawling black branches.
They pass a small playground and the septic tank before turning off between the static caravans. The acoustics change, and the sound of their footsteps echo back at them.
The windows are dark, the flags on the tall TV aerials slack and the cramped patio areas empty.
John finds himself thinking about how afraid he was for his brother during the last year of his life. How angry Luke got sometimes, how reckless, like the time John asked him to pay back the money he had lent him.
They spot the light in one of the caravans from a way off, and as they approach, they see that it is coming from a lamp behind the curtains in one of the windows.
John stops and fills his lungs with cool air. He draws his gun, climbs the metal steps, knocks loudly and opens the door.
‘Police! We’re coming in,’ he shouts without any real weight to his voice.
He steps forward into the gloomy caravan and sees dark footprints leading in both directions on the wood-effect vinyl. His eyes scan the hallway to the right, past two closed doors and the cramped bathroom.
Everything is quiet.
With his gun lowered, he starts moving towards the brightly lit living area. The walls and ceiling creak with every step he takes.
All he can see up ahead is the dining table and four chairs. The indirect glow from the lamp further back gleams softly on the scratched surfaces.
John stops dead when he hears a woman’s hushed voice somewhere in front of him.
‘Pick up, stud. Pick up,’ she says playfully. ‘Pick up, stud .?.?.’
‘Police, I’m coming in!’ John shouts. The adrenaline coursing through his veins has made the hairs on his arms stand on end.
‘Pick up, stud. Pick up, stud. Pick up, stu—’
The woman’s voice stops abruptly, and John moves forward with his pistol raised.
The stale air is heavy with a metallic scent that reminds him of a damp whetstone.
He feels the floor shake as Einar enters the caravan, and he pauses, breathing raggedly through his nose. John listens for a second, then steps into the kitchen, swings round to the right and whimpers.
On the stainless-steel drainer, there is a human leg, complete with a plaster on its knee and a black sock on its foot. The muscles and tendons have all been crudely severed.
The hip bone has been torn out of its socket and looks glaringly white against the dark red tissue.
‘What the fuck .?.?.’
