There’s a roar outside his window. It’s so loud he jumps and drops his glass.

‘Fucking enough already!’ he announces and marches out into the hallway.

The moment he opens the door, he realises these are not local teens with souped-up mopeds and expensive ATVs. But by then, it’s too late.

Bo Ramnes doesn’t even have time to protest before he’s pushed back inside by a wall of muscles and leather.

*

He doesn’t move when he hears the rumbling of motorcycles revving up fifteen minutes later. He stays curled up on the kitchen floor with the smell of his own vomit in his nostrils. He doesn’t open his eyes and sit up until long after the noise has subsided. He’s not hurt; they hadn’t hit him even once, that wasn’t why they’d come. Not this time. The warning had been crystal clear.

For the first time in his adult life, Bo Ramnes feels fear creeping up his spine, immobilising his arms and legs, leaving him paralysed on the floor. A raw, merciless, stomach-emptying fear. He retches again, but this time, nothing comes up. The world spins and he puts his hand down in something wet. Another warm puddle. He doesn’t need to look down at his light grey trousers to know there’s a dark stain of urine on them.

Epilogue

EPILOGUE

Outside, the February dusk is falling, soft and grey. Settling over the sea, the cliffs and rocks, the bare branches of the rowan tree and the thin layer of brittle snow on the ground, blurring contours, urging patience. It’s not time yet. Perhaps the light has already changed, perhaps the shadows are not as long as just a few weeks ago. Perhaps the first lapwing has already returned, but the old song is right: ‘It’s long yet before lambs and codlings play.’

A hissing sound from the kitchen breaks the stillness, but no one moves. Leo is sitting in one of the armchairs with his guitar in his lap and a notepad on the table next to him. Big black headphones hide his ears and his lips move silently as he marks down chords. Sigrid is sprawled on the sofa with one leg hooked over the back, looking just as focused, but on a different medium; she is staring intently at her phone while her thumbs move ceaselessly across the screen.

‘For God’s sake!’ Karen exclaims, lowering her book. ‘Can’t you hear it boiling over?’

She can’t remember whether it’s Leo’s or Sigrid’s turn to cook. Just that it’s not hers. There’s another loud hiss from the hob. With a deep sigh, she stands up and walks out into the kitchen, stomping her knitted socks a little bit harder than she really needs to as she crosses the wooden floor.