Killing Moon

Prim swung his hand. Harry Hole had no time to react before the tip of the syringe hit his neck and the needle sank in. He jerked but did not turn round. Prim pressed his thumb on the plunger, knew that the job was done, that the parasites were already on their way, that he had given them the shortest route to the brain, that this could go even quicker than with Våge. He saw the other man, the one in the hospital clothes, turn in the gloom. Again, something glimmered faintly in his hand, and Prim saw it now. It wasn’t a ring. It was the finger itself. It was metal.

The man had turned all the way round now. And risen to his feet. Because of the angle it had been difficult to see when they got out of the vehicle that this man was tall, taller than the man in the suit, and when they had backed onto the roof, both of them had been walking hunched over. But Prim realised now that it was him. It was the man in the hospital clothes who was Harry Hole. And now he could see his face too, those bright eyes over a grinning mouth.

Prim reacted as quickly as he could. He had been prepared for them to try and trick him somehow or other. They had wanted to since he was a little boy. That was how it had begun, and it was how it would end. But he wanted to take something with him. Something the policeman wouldn’t get. Her.

Prim had already taken the knife out as he turned to Alexandra. She had got to her feet. He raised the knife to strike. Tried to catch her eye. Tell her she was about to die. His rage rose. Because her gaze was directed over his shoulder, towards that fucking policeman. It was like with Susanne Andersen at the rooftop party, they were always looking for someone better. Well, then Hole could watch her die, the fucking whore.

Harry’s eyes fixed on Alexandra’s. She could see and knew, as both of them knew, that he was too far away to be able to save her. All he had time to do was move his forefinger in a quick circle in front of his throat and hope she remembered. Saw her move her shoulder back.

There shouldn’t have been enough time. Hadn’t been enough time, he would recall afterwards. If the parasites hadn’t also reduced their primary host’s ability to react. Helge’s body obscured his view of the blow, so Harry was unable to see if she had formed her hand into a chisel when she struck.

But she must have.

And she must have connected.

And Helge Forfang’s instincts must have taken over. They didn’t want her, or revenge, just air. Helge dropped the knife and the syringe and fell to his knees.

‘Run!’ Harry yelled. ‘Get away!’

Without a word Alexandra dashed past him, pulled open the metal door and was gone.

Harry walked over, stood beside the kneeling man in the suit, and looked down at Helge Forfang, who was holding both hands to his throat. He was making hissing sounds, like a punctured tyre. But then he suddenly rolled over on the concrete, lay on his back staring up at Harry, once again holding the syringe with the tip pointing towards himself. He opened his mouth, plainly trying to say something but only emitted more wheezes.

Without taking his eyes from Helge, Harry placed a hand on the shoulder of the man in the suit, sitting with his head hanging down.

‘How you feeling, Ståle?’

‘I don’t know,’ Aune said, in a barely audible whisper. ‘Is the girl all right?’

‘The girl’s all right.’

‘Then I’m good.’

Harry could see it in Helge’s eyes as he lay there. Recognised it. He had seen the same look in Bjørn’s eyes that last night when Harry left him, when everyone had left him, and he was found the next morning in his car, where he had blown his brains out. Harry had seen it in the mirror a few too many times in the period that followed, when the thought of Rakel and of Bjørn had made him weigh up the pros and cons of such an act himself.

The syringe Helge was holding was no longer pointed at Harry but at himself. Harry watched the needle moving closer to Helge’s face. Watched it cover one eye while the other stared fixedly at Harry. The outermost edge of the moon had begun to shine again, and Helge lowered the syringe just enough for Harry to see the tip of the needle press against the eyeball, the shortcut to the brain behind. He watched the eye begin to yield like a soft-boiled egg before the tip perforated the surface and the eye assumed its original form. Watched Prim guide the tip inwards. His face was expressionless. Harry didn’t know how many nerves there were in the eye or behind, it probably wasn’t as painful as it looked. Wasn’t that difficult to do. Easy, in fact. Easy for the man who called himself Prim, easy for the victims’ families, easy for Alexandra, easy for the public prosecutors and easy for the public who were always thirsty for revenge. They would all get what they wanted, and without the bad feeling even people in countries with the death penalty are left with after executions.

Yes, it would be easy.

Too easy.