his father’s air gun; as a teenager he’d taken idiotic pot shots at sparrows and pigeons with his mates. Now he shot at targets with his service gun. He liked the caution required when handling firearms—the care, the rituals involved. Usually it didn’t leave much room for other thoughts, but today his brain wouldn’t settle.
He remembered the scene of the crime that he’d been called to the previous night—all that blood. He remembered the corpse, and the witness who had found the dead woman and surprised the murderer. A peculiar story. So much to get straight, and so many questions.
The night had been long and strenuous. No chance of going home before dawn and crawling into bed with Mia. Then he’d made a stupid mistake. Even now, he didn’t know how he could have let it happen. He was usually so unfazed when dealing with victims’ relatives. No idea why the whole thing had got under his skin like that. The victim had looked pretty awful—seven stab wounds. But it wasn’t the first time he’d seen such a thing. True, he’d been exhausted. But he was used to that.
It must have been the woman, maybe a few years younger than himself—the witness who’d found her sister stabbed to death and seen the murderer escape. Jonas had caught himself watching her as he talked to his colleagues. A paramedic draped a blanket round her shoulders—an odd gesture given the heat that night. The woman was sitting there, deep in thought. She hadn’t trembled or cried. Perhaps the shock, Jonas thought, until she turned her head and looked straight at him with a strange intensity. Not tearful or confused or dazed or in shock in any way, but utterly lucid.
Since then, the scene had kept coming back to him; he couldn’t get it out of his head. The woman had shaken off the blanket, come towards him, and looked him in the eye. As if full sentences required too much energy, she spoke only a single word.
‘Why?’
Jonas had to swallow.
‘I don’t know.’
But he had the feeling that wasn’t enough—that he must give her something more—and before he had time to think, added, ‘I don’t know what happened here, but I promise you I’ll find out.’
He could have hit himself. How could he make promises to a relative? They might never find the culprit. He didn’t know anything about the crime. He had behaved with a complete lack of professionalism! Like an idiot policeman in some stupid film.
He recalled the reproachful look his new colleague Antonia Bug had given him: wasn’t he supposed to be more experienced and less easily fazed than her? He’d expected her to mention it as soon as they were alone together, and how grateful he’d been when she hadn’t.
Jonas reloaded his gun. He tried to concentrate, to shake off the scene. He had enough problems as it was; he couldn’t go wallowing in self-reproach for some small blunder. He hadn’t really promised the woman anything. He couldn’t make promises—everyone must know that. It was something you said sometimes: ‘promise’. Just a word. Anyway, the statement had been taken now; he’d probably never see the woman again. He raised his gun, tried not to think of anything, and shot.
9
I fight my impulse to flee. It is difficult for me. I feel my pulse racing and notice that my breathing is frantic. I try to apply what I have learnt—to work with my physical reactions instead of ignoring them. I concentrate on my pulse and count my breaths—twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three. I focus my attention on my revulsion instead of making a pointless effort to suppress it. My revulsion is in my chest, beneath my fear. It is thick and sticky like mucus. I examine it carefully; it swells and subsides, like toothache. I want to dodge it; I want to get away. It’s a normal desire—that’s something else I have learnt.
The instinct to flee is normal. But there’s no point in evasion, in trying to avoid pain and fear. I grope for the mantra I’ve formulated with
He remembered the scene of the crime that he’d been called to the previous night—all that blood. He remembered the corpse, and the witness who had found the dead woman and surprised the murderer. A peculiar story. So much to get straight, and so many questions.
The night had been long and strenuous. No chance of going home before dawn and crawling into bed with Mia. Then he’d made a stupid mistake. Even now, he didn’t know how he could have let it happen. He was usually so unfazed when dealing with victims’ relatives. No idea why the whole thing had got under his skin like that. The victim had looked pretty awful—seven stab wounds. But it wasn’t the first time he’d seen such a thing. True, he’d been exhausted. But he was used to that.
It must have been the woman, maybe a few years younger than himself—the witness who’d found her sister stabbed to death and seen the murderer escape. Jonas had caught himself watching her as he talked to his colleagues. A paramedic draped a blanket round her shoulders—an odd gesture given the heat that night. The woman was sitting there, deep in thought. She hadn’t trembled or cried. Perhaps the shock, Jonas thought, until she turned her head and looked straight at him with a strange intensity. Not tearful or confused or dazed or in shock in any way, but utterly lucid.
Since then, the scene had kept coming back to him; he couldn’t get it out of his head. The woman had shaken off the blanket, come towards him, and looked him in the eye. As if full sentences required too much energy, she spoke only a single word.
‘Why?’
Jonas had to swallow.
‘I don’t know.’
But he had the feeling that wasn’t enough—that he must give her something more—and before he had time to think, added, ‘I don’t know what happened here, but I promise you I’ll find out.’
He could have hit himself. How could he make promises to a relative? They might never find the culprit. He didn’t know anything about the crime. He had behaved with a complete lack of professionalism! Like an idiot policeman in some stupid film.
He recalled the reproachful look his new colleague Antonia Bug had given him: wasn’t he supposed to be more experienced and less easily fazed than her? He’d expected her to mention it as soon as they were alone together, and how grateful he’d been when she hadn’t.
Jonas reloaded his gun. He tried to concentrate, to shake off the scene. He had enough problems as it was; he couldn’t go wallowing in self-reproach for some small blunder. He hadn’t really promised the woman anything. He couldn’t make promises—everyone must know that. It was something you said sometimes: ‘promise’. Just a word. Anyway, the statement had been taken now; he’d probably never see the woman again. He raised his gun, tried not to think of anything, and shot.
9
I fight my impulse to flee. It is difficult for me. I feel my pulse racing and notice that my breathing is frantic. I try to apply what I have learnt—to work with my physical reactions instead of ignoring them. I concentrate on my pulse and count my breaths—twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three. I focus my attention on my revulsion instead of making a pointless effort to suppress it. My revulsion is in my chest, beneath my fear. It is thick and sticky like mucus. I examine it carefully; it swells and subsides, like toothache. I want to dodge it; I want to get away. It’s a normal desire—that’s something else I have learnt.
The instinct to flee is normal. But there’s no point in evasion, in trying to avoid pain and fear. I grope for the mantra I’ve formulated with
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