“But this one stays here,” confirms the other security guard and points at Ove.
“I hardly hit him. I just gave him a little poke,” Ove mumbles, adding, “Bloody fake policemen,” just to be on the safe side.
“Honestly, he was no good at magic anyway,” says the seven-year-old grumpily in Ove’s defense as they leave to visit their father.
An hour later they are back at Ove’s garage. The Lanky One has one arm and one leg in casts
and has to stay at the hospital for several days, Ove has been informed by Parvaneh.
When she told him, Ove had to bite his lip very hard to stop himself laughing. He actually got the feeling Parvaneh was doing the same thing.
The Saab still smells of exhaust when he collects the sheets of newspaper from the seats.
“Please, Ove, are you sure you won’t let me pay the parking fine?” says Parvaneh.
“Is it your car?” Ove grunts. “No.” “Well then,” he replies.
“But it feels a bit like it was my fault,” she says, concerned.
“You don’t hand out parking fines. The council does. So it’s the bloody council’s fault,” says Ove and closes the door of the Saab.
“And those fake policemen at the hospital,” he adds, clearly still very upset that they forced him to sit without moving on that bench
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