The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

It took him five minutes to reach the top of the deserted island and descend to the cabins boarded up
for the winter on the other side. Rafto’s cabin stood before him, dark and uninviting. He found a
place on a rock twenty metres away from which he had a full view of all the doors and windows.
The rain had seeped through the shoulders of his green military jacket a long time ago. He took out
one of the CS canisters and removed the safety pin. In five seconds the spring-loaded valve would
discharge and the gas would begin to hiss out. He ran towards the cabin with the canister held in his
outstretched arm and hurled it at the window. The glass smashed, making a thin tinkling sound.
Harry retreated to the rock and raised his revolver. Above the rain he could hear the canister hissing
and he could see the inside of the window turning grey.
If she was there she wouldn’t be able to stand more than a few seconds.
He took aim. Waited with the cabin in his sights.
After two minutes still nothing had happened.
Harry waited for two more.
Then he prepared the second canister, walked towards the door with gun raised and tried the door.
Locked. Flimsy though. He stepped back four paces and ran.
The door split off along the hinges, and he plunged into the smoke-filled room, right shoulder first.
The gas immediately assailed his eyes. Harry held his breath as he groped his way to the cellar
trapdoor, flipped it up, pulled out the safety pin of the second canister and let it fall. Then he ran out
again. Found a pool of water and sank to his knees with streaming nose and eyes, put his head in
with both eyes open, as deep as he could, until his nose scraped the stones. Twice he repeated the
shallow dip. His nose and palate still smarted like hell, but his eyes had cleared. He pointed the
revolver towards the hut again. Waited. And waited.
‘Come on! Come on, you bloody bitch!’
But no one came out.
After a quarter of an hour the smoke had stopped issuing from the hole in the pane. Harry went back
down to the cabin and kicked open the door. Coughed and cast a final glance inside. Wasteland
wreathed in mist. Flying on instruments. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
As he walked back to the boat it had become so dark that he knew he was going to have visibility
problems. He untied the moorings, went on board and grasped the starter lever. A thought went
through his mind: he hadn’t slept for nearly thirty-six hours, hadn’t eaten since early morning, was
drenched to the skin and had flown to fucking Bergen for absolutely nothing. If this engine didn’t
start first go he would pepper the hull with 38-mil lead and swim ashore. The engine started with a
roar. Harry almost thought it was a shame. He was just about to push the lever forward when he saw
her.
She was standing right in front of him on the steps leading down below deck. Nonchalantly leaning
against the door frame, in a grey sweater over a black dress.
‘Hands up,’ she ordered.
It sounded so childish it seemed almost a joke. The black revolver pointing at him was not. Nor was