I work on my outlines and type up interviews from my digital Dictaphone. Pot noodle at my desk followed by a Daim bar. Then off to Visberg.

I’m stuck behind a slow-moving mobile crane until I get to Svensson’s Saws & Axes, where the driver pulls over because she’s good enough to let me pass. The sky is white with dark-grey patches that move fast across the horizon. A deer lies dead on the side of the road, it’s neck bent round the wrong way.

The rain starts coming down heavy when I’m halfway up the hill. The white bike glistens. The cross bears up to the weather, just like it’s done for a thousand days before, except this afternoon it has a rainproof grave-candle flickering and spitting at the point where the cross meets Visberg mud.

The town hasn’t transformed the way it did on Pan Night. It’s still open to the outside world. No road blocks. The rain beats down and I park outside Konsum. A troupe of schoolkids wearing hooded raincoats carry their instrument cases over to the bandstand and shelter underneath it, their innocent faces lit by their phones.

In between me and them are dozens of bright-red toadstools. New arrivals in town. They’ve pushed up through the apple sludge and now they dot Visberg town square like it’s plagued by acne. Or plague.

People milling around. Excitement in the air. A chestnut seller sets up and the rain makes his charcoal fire smoke and hiss.

I look around at the pizzeria and think about Luka Kodro’s unregistered gun. Could it be a remnant from the terrible war? The gun he fired to scare away the bird that awful night? Could it be a weapon that has been used to end life back in the ’90s, or more recently? Above the fogged-up restaurant window is a smaller first-floor window.

Behind the glass is a woman with two girls looking out at the square.

All three have bright red hair.

39

I work away in my new office, aka my Hilux. The upstairs window above Visberg Grill is empty now. The Kodro family are most likely preparing for tonight’s trick-or treating.