His fists are clenched. His tone is pointed and threatening. But his opponent looks quite calm.
He puts out the cigarette against the paintwork of the door and drops it on the ground.
As if everything Ove had said was nothing more than the inarticulate raving of a senile old man.
“And what exactly are you going to do to stop me, Ove?” says the man at long last.
The way he flings out his name makes Ove look as if someone just shoved a mallet in his gut.
He stares at the man in the white shirt, his mouth slightly agape and his eyes scanning to and fro over the car.
“How do you know my name?” “I know a lot about you.”
Ove only manages by a whisker to pull his foot out of the way of the wheel as the Škoda moves off again and drives down towards the houses.
Ove stands there, in shock, staring after them. “Who was that?” says the woman in the windbreaker behind him.
Ove spins around. “How do you know my name?” he demands.
She takes a step back. Pushes a few evasive wisps of hair out of her face without taking her eyes off Ove’s clenched fists.
“I work for the local newspaper—we interviewed people on the platform about how you saved that man...”
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