A slit of light appears in the darkness.
Then it widens, Kees’ eyes complaining at the onslaught.
But he fights, just keeps them open, enough to see two figures standing against the clouded sky in the ever-widening gap. One of them reaches down and grabs him.
As they bundle him out, something on the lip of the boot catching his hip on the way, he can see it’s Lumberjack and Van der Pol himself.
They’re at the edge of a field, the grass brown and broken, a thin wire fence marking out the perimeter just a few feet away. Clouds press down on them, and the humidity feels like it’s going for some kind of record.
‘I know it was you,’ Van der Pol says. ‘I know you’re working for the cops.’
Kees is standing, Lumberjack to his left, using his physical presence to intimidate, an alpha dog claiming his space in the pack. But really the alpha here is Van der Pol, that’s where all the bad energy is coming from.
They stand as if they’re waiting for Kees to say something.
But really, what is there to say?
‘I know Smit sent you to spy on me,’ Van der Pol says after some more grass has died. ‘And the punishment for that is … Well, put it this way. It’s not pain-free, or quick.’
For some reason, the only thing which matters to Kees now is not saying anything. If he’s going to die, fine, but he’s not saying another goddamned word in this fucked-up excuse for a world. No matter what they do, no matter how hard they push, he’s going quietly. Stoically.
Beside him Lumberjack pulls out a knife.