the stomach.
“Come out, or I’ll shoot the girl!” Hoffmann shouted.
I heard a deep sigh beside me. It was Klein, who had got to his feet and was aiming his sawn-off shotgun in front of him, towards Hoffmann. But the table and Hoffmann junior’s coffin were in the way, so he had to take a step closer to the coffin to get a clear line of fire.
“Get back, or I’ll shoot her!” Hoffmann was screaming in falsetto now.
The shotgun was pointing down, at an angle of about forty-five degrees, while Klein leaned back, away from the shotgun, as if he were afraid it was going to go off in his face.
“Klein,” I said. “Don’t do it!”
I saw him begin to close his eyes, the way you do when you know something’s going to go off, but you don’t know exactly when.
“Sir!” I shouted, trying to get eye contact with Hoffmann. “Sir! Let the girl go, please!”
Hoffmann stared at me as though to ask if I took him for a fool.
Damn. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. I reached out and took a step towards Klein.
The blast from the shotgun rang in my ears. A cloud of smoke rose towards the ceiling. Short barrel, large spread.
The girl’swhite blouse was now covered in polka dots, one side of her neck was torn open, and Hoffmann’s face looked like it was burning. But they were both alive. As Hoffmann’s pistol skidded away across the floor, Klein leaned over the coffin on the table and stretched his arm out so that the barrel was against the girl’s shoulder and the end reached Hoffmann’s nose, as he tried desperately to hide behind her.
He fired again. The shot blew Hoffmann’s face back into his head.
Klein turned to me with the excited face of a madman. “A unit! Was that enough of a unit for you, you bastard?”
I was ready to shoot Klein in the head if he raised the shotgun towards me, even if I knew it contained nothing but two empty cartridges now. I glanced at Hoffmann. His head was sunken in the middle, like a windfall apple that had rotted from within. He was fixed. So what? He would have died in the end. We all die in the end. But at least I had outlived him.
I got hold of the girl, grabbed the cashmere scarf from Hoffmann’s neck and wound it roundher neck, which was pumping out blood. She just stared at me with pupils that seemed to fill her whole eyes. She hadn’t said a word. I sent the Dane over to the stairs to check that no one was coming while I got the grandmother to press her hand against the wound in her granddaughter’s neck to stop the worst of the bleeding. From the corner of my eye I saw Klein reload that ugly gun of his with two new cartridges. I kept a firm grip on my pistol.
The sister was on her knees beside her husband, who was moaning in a low, monotonous voice, his hands folded over his stomach. I’d heard that getting gastric acid in a wound is agony, but I guessed he’d live. But the girl…Shit. What harm had she done anyone?
“What do we do now?” the Dane asked.
“We sit quietly and wait,” I said.
Klein snorted. “What for? The pigs?”
“We wait until we hear a car start up and drive away,” I said. I remembered the calm look of concentration beneath the bearskin cap. I could always hope he wasn’t really that devoted to duty.
“The gravedigger has—”
“Shut up!”
Klein stared at me. The tip of the shotgun tilted upwards slightly. Until he noticed where my pistol was pointing, and lowered it again. And he shut up.
But someone else didn’t. The voice came from under the table.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking bastard fucking hell…”
For a moment I thought that the guy was dead but his mouth was refusing to stop, like the body of a snake chopped in half. I’d read that they could carry on wriggling for up to a day afterwards.
“Shit crap fucking bollocking bastard fucking cunt crap.”
I squatted down beside him.
Where Pine had got his nickname was a subject of debate. Some people said it came from the Norwegian word for
“Come out, or I’ll shoot the girl!” Hoffmann shouted.
I heard a deep sigh beside me. It was Klein, who had got to his feet and was aiming his sawn-off shotgun in front of him, towards Hoffmann. But the table and Hoffmann junior’s coffin were in the way, so he had to take a step closer to the coffin to get a clear line of fire.
“Get back, or I’ll shoot her!” Hoffmann was screaming in falsetto now.
The shotgun was pointing down, at an angle of about forty-five degrees, while Klein leaned back, away from the shotgun, as if he were afraid it was going to go off in his face.
“Klein,” I said. “Don’t do it!”
I saw him begin to close his eyes, the way you do when you know something’s going to go off, but you don’t know exactly when.
“Sir!” I shouted, trying to get eye contact with Hoffmann. “Sir! Let the girl go, please!”
Hoffmann stared at me as though to ask if I took him for a fool.
Damn. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. I reached out and took a step towards Klein.
The blast from the shotgun rang in my ears. A cloud of smoke rose towards the ceiling. Short barrel, large spread.
The girl’swhite blouse was now covered in polka dots, one side of her neck was torn open, and Hoffmann’s face looked like it was burning. But they were both alive. As Hoffmann’s pistol skidded away across the floor, Klein leaned over the coffin on the table and stretched his arm out so that the barrel was against the girl’s shoulder and the end reached Hoffmann’s nose, as he tried desperately to hide behind her.
He fired again. The shot blew Hoffmann’s face back into his head.
Klein turned to me with the excited face of a madman. “A unit! Was that enough of a unit for you, you bastard?”
I was ready to shoot Klein in the head if he raised the shotgun towards me, even if I knew it contained nothing but two empty cartridges now. I glanced at Hoffmann. His head was sunken in the middle, like a windfall apple that had rotted from within. He was fixed. So what? He would have died in the end. We all die in the end. But at least I had outlived him.
I got hold of the girl, grabbed the cashmere scarf from Hoffmann’s neck and wound it roundher neck, which was pumping out blood. She just stared at me with pupils that seemed to fill her whole eyes. She hadn’t said a word. I sent the Dane over to the stairs to check that no one was coming while I got the grandmother to press her hand against the wound in her granddaughter’s neck to stop the worst of the bleeding. From the corner of my eye I saw Klein reload that ugly gun of his with two new cartridges. I kept a firm grip on my pistol.
The sister was on her knees beside her husband, who was moaning in a low, monotonous voice, his hands folded over his stomach. I’d heard that getting gastric acid in a wound is agony, but I guessed he’d live. But the girl…Shit. What harm had she done anyone?
“What do we do now?” the Dane asked.
“We sit quietly and wait,” I said.
Klein snorted. “What for? The pigs?”
“We wait until we hear a car start up and drive away,” I said. I remembered the calm look of concentration beneath the bearskin cap. I could always hope he wasn’t really that devoted to duty.
“The gravedigger has—”
“Shut up!”
Klein stared at me. The tip of the shotgun tilted upwards slightly. Until he noticed where my pistol was pointing, and lowered it again. And he shut up.
But someone else didn’t. The voice came from under the table.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking bastard fucking hell…”
For a moment I thought that the guy was dead but his mouth was refusing to stop, like the body of a snake chopped in half. I’d read that they could carry on wriggling for up to a day afterwards.
“Shit crap fucking bollocking bastard fucking cunt crap.”
I squatted down beside him.
Where Pine had got his nickname was a subject of debate. Some people said it came from the Norwegian word for
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