Karen takes notes while Greta tells her about a Saturday evening that turned into a Saturday night, about a waiting room packed with the consequences of the drunkenness, bad trips, fights, and pure accidents that constitute the dark side of the Doggerian solstice celebrations. As well known to police officers as to healthcare workers.

And while she writes, Karen pictures the scene: the old lady who’s having trouble breathing, the distressed son, the crowded waiting room, the mounting frustration when stressed staff avoid making eye contact. The oxygen mask that will have to suffice until a doctor is available. Yet another ambulance. And another. Stab wounds, head injuries, alcohol poisonings. The old lady in her wheelchair is getting tired. The son approaches the reception desk for the third time. The fourth.

Until finally, he goes too far and one of the nurses snaps, ‘Pestering us won’t change anything. We have to see more seriously injured people first. Now go and sit down!’

Or something along those lines. Greta Hansen can’t remember the exact words she used. Just that she lost patience and that Gundar Freske had replied with a silent glare. And then one single word.

‘Cunt. Well, that’s the word he used,’ Greta adds as though she’s embarrassed to say it out loud.

Karen stiffens. Her grip on the pen tightens and she keeps it absolutely still. Then she slowly writes the word down in capital letters.

‘I don’t really know why it stuck with me,’ Greta Hansen says. ‘People swear at us and say far worse things than that all the time, threaten us, even, but he was completely calm when he said it. Up until then, he’d been twitchy and restless, but in that moment, it was like he was transformed.’

‘Transformed?’

‘Yes, he kind of froze, you know. It might sound strange, but I think that’s what I found so unsettling. His calmness and those eyes. Like, pure hatred.’

‘And then what happened?’

‘Nothing. Maybe that’s why I remember them. Once things calmed down and it was finally their turn, they weren’t there anymore.’

Karen clears her throat and looks down at her notes.

‘I’m really glad you told me this. Really glad.’

‘But I’m going to be in trouble. We’re not allowed to access medical records for no reason. I just wanted to be sure before I called.’

‘What I’ve written down here is that you remembered the name of a patient whose son called you a four-letter word. How you came to that recollection is none of my affair.’

A sigh of relief on the other end.

‘Thank you.’

A brief pause. Then, just as Karen is about to end the call, Greta speaks up again. Hesitantly, as though afraid she might not get the answer she’s hoping for.

‘Could it be . . . ? I mean, do you think it’s him?’

Don’t answer that.