Anders eased off the gas pedal. The dial on the glowing plate of the speedometer dipped from sixty to fifty-five and then down toward fifty and the car, a big Volvo with a thick crust of frozen snow on the roof, overtook them.

But that did nothing to help matters. Because now its tail lights morphed into a pair of red eyes that hypnotised Geir.

‘They want us to die,’ he said quietly.

‘No one wants us dead!’

‘This is dangerous,’ he whimpered. ‘It’s dangerous.’

Anders was getting seriously worried now. Geir was acting very strange. Should he call someone? Åsa maybe? He pulled out his phone but ended up just holding it in his hand.

What had he meant to do again?

Had he meant to call Micke Moilanen? Or Johanna? Fragments of what he had just thought whirled around, but there was nothing to tie them down. His eyes darted between the road and the screen of his phone. The clock showed 6.68 p.m. He knew that was wrong and waited for the digits to correct themselves.

But they didn’t.

He swallowed hard. Tried to focus his eyes.

Six sixty-eight.

‘Anders. You’re bleeding.’

It took him a moment to understand what Geir was saying. Bleeding? He pressed his thumb against his nostril and when he felt it getting wet, he reached up to the ceiling and groped around for the light switch.

His thumb was red. Why did he have a damn nosebleed? He never had nosebleeds. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his hand. A red streak along his index finger. He placed both hands on the steering wheel, raised his chin higher and swallowed.

‘Who hit me?’ he said.

When there was no reply, he glanced at Geir, who was sitting with his head at an odd angle. Blood had trickled out of his nose. A thin rivulet across his lips and down his chin.

‘You’re bleeding too.’

Geir nodded.

‘I know.’

The car pulls over and comes to a stop, tyres skidding. Anders gets his door open and staggers out, one hand pressed against his nose. His throat emits short, rumbling noises when he sucks the cold air into his lungs and he realises he has had a headache for quite a while without being aware of it. The pain is a sound, a torturous squeaking that is drilling further and further into him. He squeezes his head with his hands and pleads for mercy.

‘Go away,’ he says. ‘Please, go away.’

He falls to his knees and spits and spits. Coins of blood that are absorbed by the snow while his thoughts flap around. A lorry with a shining halo thunders past; he shuts his eyes tight. Why won’t it stop? Why won’t it stop?

Someone is speaking to him. It is Geir, who is staggering about in the dark, saying they have to release the wolf.