twenty-two months later
It’s always the same scream.
Henning Juul blinks and fumbles for the light switch. The sheet under him is wet and the air quivers with heat. He runs clammy fingers over the scars on his neck and face. His head is pounding with a bass rhythm that is pouring out from an open window in Steenstrupsgate. In the distance a motorbike roars as it sets off, then there is silence. Like the drumroll before an execution.
Henning takes a deep breath and tries to strangle the dream that still feels all too real, but it refuses to go away.
It had started off as a good dream. They had gone...