Under the towel was a fleshy crater glazed with coagulated blood. She took out a roll of gauze, wrapped it around the arm and tied it off with a neat bow that she folded in under the bandage.

The shirt she lay out for him was black and the logo on the chest read ‘MEKONOMEN’ in yellow letters. She cut a four-inch slit in the sleeve. When he had put the shirt on, she grabbed his upper arm and helped him stand up; he then supported himself with one hand on the wall, moving slowly toward the innermost darkness of the camper. A curtain was pulled closed behind him. He couldn’t see much. But the smell was unambiguous. He rummaged around among the blankets until he felt coarse fur against his fingertips. He gently pushed the old animal aside before lowering himself onto the cot.

He soon noticed that it was not just the hare that had found a bedding spot among the blankets. His presence caused astonishment. The little ones pitter-pattered around him and darted back and forth; it was not long before they were scurrying all over him. Just like children, they soon overcame their shyness and grew affectionate and then intrusive. The scratching of their claws had a relaxing effect on him; he was soon lost in deep sleep.

It was a Monday…

It was a Monday. I had just opened the shop and nothing much was happening. Out in the square, on the other hand, things were lively. They were putting together the frame for that gigantic beer tent they have every year during the festival. Any day now a tent was going to appear smack dab in front of my shop window too; one always does. They block me out, plunging my shop into darkness; the tourists can’t see that I exist but what is there to be done about it?

For the time being, though, I had a view and as I sat there on my stool, craning my neck to see if Ella was among the gaggle of teenagers hanging about the square, Roland appeared from behind a building site fence. He zigzagged between transport racks and steel crates and the bikes the teenagers had left strewn about with quick strides, and since he usually moves at a leisurely pace, I figured something must have happened.

‘Have you seen this?’ he said.

‘What?’ I said, not bothering to get up.

‘He’s escaped. The cult leader.’

He handed me his newspaper, one of the tabloids. When I saw the headline, which read ‘LENNART BRÖSTH ON THE LAM’, an icy wave surged through my gut and it was probably a good thing I was already seated.

Lennart Brösth, the leader of the so-called Jillesnåle Cult, has escaped from Sundsvall Psychiatric Hospital. Brösth absconded last Saturday from the local A&E, where he had been taken after sustaining an arm injury.