the radio plays all the time these days. And then go back to sleep. That is Ove’s train of thought.
There’s no modern pop song on the radio, Ove hears, when he comes back into the hall and picks up the rifle again. It’s the local news bulletin.
So he stays where he is for a moment and listens. Not that it’s so important to listen to the local news when you’re about to shoot yourself in the head,
but Ove thinks there’s no harm in keeping yourself updated. They talk about the weather. And the economy. And the traffic.
And the importance of local property owners staying vigilant over the weekend because of a large number of burglary rings on the rampage all over town.
“Bloody hooligans,” Ove mutters, and grips the rifle a little more firmly when he hears that.
From a purely objective point of view, the fact that Ove was wielding a gun was something two other hooligans,
Adrian and Mirsad, would ideally have been aware of before they unconcernedly trotted up to Ove’s front door a few seconds later.
They would then quite likely have understood that when Ove heard their creaking steps in the snow he would not immediately think to himself,
“Guests, how nice!” but rather, “Well, I’ll be damned!”
And they’d probably also know that Ove, wearing nothing but socks and underpants, with a three-quarter-century-old hunting rifle in his hands,
would kick the door open like an aging, half-naked, suburban Rambo.
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