The Snowman by Jo Nesbø, Don Bartlett Page B

the hatchet held out to her.
    ‘Just take it.’
    Sylvia got to her knees and took the hatchet.
    ‘What are you going to do with it?’ the voice asked.
    Sylvia felt the fury surge up inside her, the fury that always accompanies fear, and the result was ferocious. She lunged forward with the hatchet raised and swung low with an outstretched arm. But the wire tugged at her, the hatchet just sliced the darkness and the next moment she was lying in the water again.
    The voice chuckled.
    Sylvia fell onto her side. ‘Go away,’ she groaned, spitting pebbles.
    ‘I want you to eat snow,’ the voice said, getting up and briefly holding the side where the jacket had been slashed open.
    ‘What?’ Sylvia exclaimed, in spite of herself.
    ‘I want you to eat snow until you piss yourself.’ The figure stood slightly outside the radius of the steel wire, tilted its head and watched Sylvia. ‘Until your stomach is so frozen and full that it can’t melt the snow any longer. Until it’s ice inside. Until you’ve become your true self. Something that can’t feel.’
    Sylvia’s brain perceived the words, but could not absorb the meaning. ‘Never!’ she screamed.
    A sound came from the figure and blended into the gurgle of the stream. ‘Now’s the time to scream, dear Sylvia. For no one will hear you again. Ever.’
    Sylvia saw it raise something. Which lit up. A loop formed the outline of a red, glowing raindrop against the dark. It hissed and smoked as it came into contact with the surface of the stream. ‘You’ll choose to eat snow. Believe me.’
    Sylvia realised with a paralysing certainty that her final hour had come. There was only one possibility left. In the past minutes night had fallen quickly, but she tried to focus her gaze on the figure between the trees as she weighed the hatchet in her hand. The blood tingled in her fingers as it streamed back, seeming to know that this was the last chance. They had practised this, the twins and her. On the barn wall. And every time she had thrown and one of them had pulled the hatchet out of the fox-shaped target, they had cheered with jubilation: ‘You killed the beast, Mummy! You killed the beast!’ Sylvia put one foot slightly in front of the other. A one-step run-up, that was the optimum to get the right combination of power and accuracy.
    ‘You’re crazy,’ she whispered.
    ‘Of that . . .’ the figure said, and Sylvia thought she could discern a little smile, ‘there is little doubt.’
    The hatchet whirled through the thick, almost tangible darkness with a low hum. Sylvia stood perfectly balanced with her right arm pointed forward and watched the lethal weapon. Watched it whistle through the trees. Heard it cut off a thin branch. Watched it disappear into the darkness and heard the dull thud as the hatchet buried itself in the snow somewhere deep in the forest.
    She leaned back against the tree trunk and slowly slumped to the ground. Felt the tears come without attempting to stop them this time. Because now she knew. There would be no afterwards.
    ‘Shall we begin?’ the voice said softly.

9
    DAY 3.
    The Pit.
    ‘W AS THAT GREAT OR WHAT ?’
    Oleg’s enthusiastic voice drowned out the spitting fat in the kebab shop crowded with people pouring in after the concert at Oslo Spektrum. Harry nodded to Oleg who was standing in his hoody, still sweaty, still moving to the beat, as he prattled on about the members of Slipknot by name, names Harry didn’t even know since Slipknot CDs were sparing with personal data, and music magazines like MOJO and Uncut didn’t write about bands like that. Harry ordered hamburgers and looked at his watch. Rakel had said she would be standing outside at ten o’clock. Harry looked at Oleg again. He was talking non-stop. When had it happened? When had the boy turned eleven and decided to like music about various stages of death, alienation, freezing and general doom? Perhaps it ought to have worried Harry, but it didn’t. It