He looks in the direction the train is coming from and slowly starts counting. It’s important that the timing is absolutely right, he determines.
The sun is just up; it shines obstinately into his eyes like a child who has just been given a flashlight. And that’s when he hears the first scream.
Ove looks up just in time to see the suit-wearing man in his black overcoat
starting to sway back and forth, like a panda that’s been given a Valium overdose.
It continues for a second or so, then the suit-wearing man looks up blindly and his whole body is struck with some form of nervous twitching.
His arms shake convulsively. Then, as if the moment is a long sequence of still photographs,
the newspaper falls out of his hands and he passes out,
falling off the edge onto the track with a thump, as if he were a sack of cement mixture.
The chain-smoking old girls with the county council logos on their breasts start shrieking in panic.
The drug-taking youths stare at the track, their hands enmeshed in their backpack straps as if fearing that they might otherwise fall over.
Ove stands on the edge of the platform on the other side and looks with irritation from one to the other.
“For Christ’s sake,” fumes Ove to himself at long last as he jumps down onto the track.
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