He started to crawl towards me, but Imo was over him in a shot. This time he hunkered down, then picked Ole up in a fireman’s lift, screaming with the effort. But the seventy-something kilos he had over his shoulder wouldn’t lie still. He staggered a bit, but he kept moving towards the pen, puffing and panting. He kicked the gate wide open with his foot. Then he threw Ole down on the floor.

Ole hit his head as he landed, but he didn’t lose consciousness. Some of the pigs retreated to the back of the pen. Ole’s eyes were full of tears.

Imo was holding a hand to his back.

Then he pulled out his gun.

This was it. He was going to shoot Oskar’s dad. He was going to do it now. Then later he’d chop him up. He took a step towards Ole and lifted the gun. Again the pain in his lower back made him grimace. His knees seemed to give a bit.

In a split second, I knew what I had to do.

At the beginning of August, Imo had had surgery on his back. Every morning and evening for three weeks I had looked after the pigs for him.

Now, he leaned over in an effort to relieve the pain, and his open shirt revealed the five-centimetre scar at the bottom of his back. I grabbed a spade and went into the pen behind him. Raised it and aimed it at the point I knew would hurt the most.

And then I whacked him as hard as I could.

Imo screamed in pain and immediately fell to his knees. But he was still holding the gun. I tried to knock it out of his hands, but I missed and hit his wrist instead. That made him scream even more. And he let go of the weapon.

I stood over him, panting, ready to bring the spade down on him again, right in his face this time. I kicked the gun away from his reach. It disappeared in among the pigs.

Imo was lying on his side now, writhing with pain. He tried to push himself up with his good hand.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he roared.

Keeping an eye on Imo, I went to help Ole up. He staggered to his feet, and I only just managed to keep him upright on the slippery, wet, filthy floor.

We lurched and slid towards the gate of the pen. I kept a grip of the spade, in case Imo came after us. As we struggled out of the pen, I looked around to see Imo still lying in the mud, his breathing laboured as he tried to get up onto all fours. Now he was feeling around for the gun, and when he couldn’t find it, he began to crawl slowly towards the pigs. He would soon have his hand on the weapon.