Thord puts out his hand but the Chief says, ‘It’s alright, you go right ahead. I’ll let old Markus Carlsson know to expect your call, if you like. He’s a fair man, Markus. Tough, but fair. I reckon he’d hear you out.’

Fuck this.

I turn to walk out and then I remember the note.

I check my pocket and drag out the folded front page of the Visberg Tidningen dated two weeks ago. It’s damp and limp.

‘Got this under my door earlier today. Pushed under, in the secure area of my apartment.’

Thord reads it and then walks over to Chief Björn and hands it to him.

The Chief puts on his glasses.

‘Neighbourly dispute?’ he says. ‘You still live on Marksplatsen?’

‘I moved.’

‘New building, new neighbours. We’ll look into this if you like.’

I stare at Thord and his radio comes to life. It’s Noora’s voice. Some kind of code. Thord replies with a code of his own and then turns to me and says, ‘The constable will be here in a few minutes. End of shift.’

Noora and I head back to my place in the Hilux. I tell her what happened on the hill. I tell her about the Chief’s reaction.

‘I’m staying with you for the next few days,’ she says. ‘I already have two shelves in your wardrobe. I’m armed and trained. I won’t let anything happen to you, you hear me?’

I nod and she places her hand on my knee.

I stagger upstairs to my apartment. The adrenaline has left my vascular system and I am barely a shell of a person.

Noora makes us both scrambled eggs while I shower. I come out in my robe with a towel wrapped around my head.

‘Sit down,’ she says. ‘Thord’s filled me in on the contents of the note.’

Eggs, golden and perfectly cooked. Silky ribbons and folds. Rough crystals of sparkling sea salt, cracked black pepper and tiny rings of sliced chive, all resting upon rough-cut sourdough toast. The steam rises up and I can sense the heat from the pepper.

I eat and she eats.

Then she puts me to bed.

Noora lets me rest my damp hair on her arm and she sings a nursery rhyme in Arabic. Something beautiful and soothing her mother sang to her as a child in Gothenburg. I try to forget the three bullets, the three near-death experiences. She sings and my eyes close.

28

Noora wakes me with a kiss to the forehead and I pull her in close.

An hour later I cook her American-style pancakes from a packet I bought in ICA Maxi last week. I add blueberries and syrup. They look pretty decent considering I made them. She makes lattes and we sit out on my little two-person balcony with blankets over our knees.

‘Sunday brunch,’ she says.