Page 61 of The Sleepwalker
Pontus squints over to the far side again.
This time, there is no doubt about it: there really is a slim figure standing right by the bridgehead.
What are they waiting for?
It is impossible to see their face in the haze.
Pontus decides he should keep walking, possibly even say hello, but that he would rather not stop to chat.
He reminds himself to act normally if they do exchange a few words, that he can’t forget that he is likely radiating a kind of manic energy, his pupils dilated.
Despite that, something makes him hold back, and he can’t bring himself to start walking. Instead, his eyes start compulsively scanning the driving snow again.
The figure is a little closer now, even though they seem to be standing perfectly still.
Pontus feels a childish fear of the dark take hold of him, and he lifts his hand to shield his eyes again.
As he does so, the figure starts walking towards him, stooped over with a hood or shawl covering their head. They are getting closer to the next lamppost, causing the snow on the ground to swirl up behind them like some sort of train.
Pontus sees something gleam in their hand, and wonders if they are using some sort of walking stick.
Their movements do seem disjointed, halting.
The object in their hand catches the light again, giving Pontus time to catch the flash of an axe blade.
He feels a sting of anxiety in the pit of his stomach.
This is surreal, he thinks. The urge to turn and run takes hold of him, but he decides against it, knows that the drugs can cause rash behaviour.
It’s probably just a forest ranger out clearing fallen branches from the road.
And yet .?.?. There is something off about the person up ahead, something that just doesn’t feel right.
The snow and the shifting light from the streetlamps make it look as though they are approaching at a speed that seems out of sync with their movements.
Pontus realises that he can’t simply stand still, waiting for them to reach him, and he hears a rattling sound, like small pebbles in a bag.
He turns around, his mouth suddenly bone dry, and decides to walk away as fast as he can without breaking into a run.
He takes a step forward, but something immediately yanks him back. Glancing down, he realises that the belt of his coat is caught on the railing.
The slender figure has almost reached him now, their heavy footsteps thudding against the boards.
Pontus tugs at the belt, but it is well and truly stuck, and he has just started to struggle out of his coat when the broadside of the axe hits him square on the cheek.
His head snaps to the side, and his left knee gives way.
His vision goes dark and he falls blindly, somehow managing to break his fall with his hands. He scrambles up onto all fours and spits out his broken teeth.
A string of bloody saliva dangles from his mouth.
There must be some sort of misunderstanding, he thinks. He just needs to get to his feet and run.
Right then, for some reason, he remembers the tiny, tame bees from his childhood.
‘God,’ he pants, straightening up.
The roar of the river comes surging back to him, as loud as a freight train. It is dark and it is snowing, and he feels confused, can’t immediately remember where he is.
