No exaggerated ceremony and rubbish like that. Shove him in the ground next to Sonja, that’s all.
The spot has already been prepared and paid for, and Ove has put cash in the envelope for the hearse.
So, wearing nothing but his socks and underwear, Ove goes back into the hall and picks up his rifle.
He catches sight of his own body in the hall mirror. He hasn’t seen himself in this way for probably thirty-five years.
He’s still quite muscular and robust. Certainly in better shape than most men of his age.
But something’s happened to his skin that makes him look like he’s melting, he notes. It looks terrible.
It’s very quiet in the house. In the whole neighborhood, actually. Everyone’s sleeping.
And only then does Ove realize that the cat will probably wake at the sound of the shot.
Will probably scare the living daylights out of the poor critter, Ove admits.
He thinks about this for a good while before he determinedly sets down the rifle and goes into the kitchen to turn on the radio.
Not that he needs music to take his own life, and not that he likes the idea of the radio clicking its way through units of electricity when he’s gone.
But because if the cat wakes up from the bang, it may end up thinking that it’s just a part of one of those modern pop songs
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