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Socialism’s enemies
democratic and economic principles.
genocide. In the Third World millions starve to death
Europe is threatened by mass immigration and the resultant chaos, deprivation and struggle for survival.’
the door opened wide and a large man strolled in. Krohn noted that the man was wearing a suit jacket which was slightly too small, black jeans and large Dr Martens boots. The close-shaven head and the slim athletic body suggested an age somewhere around the early thirties
although the bloodshot eyes with bags underneath and the pale complexion with thin capillaries bursting sporadically into small red deltas pointed more in the region of fifty.
‘Police Officer Har...
This highlight has been truncated due to consecutive passage length restrictions.
‘Yes.’
YOU’RE GOING TO DIE, OLD CHAP.
The words were still ringing in the old man’s ears when he walked down the steps to leave and stood still, blinded by the fierce autumn sun. As his pupils slowly shrank, he held on tight to the handrail and breathed in, slow and deep. He listened to the cacophony of cars,
he noticed how much life there was in the streets, how much exhilaration, what voracious lust for life.
‘I know how you —’ ‘You know nothing,
I can guarantee you one thing: you know nothing.’
his back muscles strain against the material. Latissimus dorsi – the upper back muscles.
He was sixty years old, but didn’t look a day over fifty. Not that he was preoccupied with his appearance. He was well aware that he was an attractive man to look at, without needing to do very much more than the training that he loved anyway, as well as putting in a couple of sessions in the solarium in the winter
‘I may remind you that four American presidents have died as a result of assassinations. Abraham Lincoln in 1865, James Garfield in 1881, John F. Kennedy in 1963 and . .
‘Oh, yes, William McKinley. In . . .’ ‘1901,’
Harry Truman, Gerald Ford and Ronald Reagan were all targets of serious attacks while they were in office.’
the relentless lament of the Volvo car horn behind him sawed the day in two.
Every fifth bullet went off in a parabola, like a firefly.
followed by several distant rumbles. It was as unreal as being at the cinema, except that it was thirty degrees below and there was no one to put your arm around.
They say you never hear the shell that hits you,
In his white winter uniform he was outlined against the black sky and the flare, which hung like an aura of light over his head. He looks like an angel,
They reminded him of another country boy who had been there. He had gone crazy in the end, pissed in his shoes one night before going on duty and all his toes had had to be amputated
‘Uriah.
Møller blinked, and kept blinking. He was thinking about Bergen again. Of snow-free winters. Of Sunday outings with his wife and boys on Mount Fløyen. Somewhere decent to grow up. A few good-natured pranks, a bit of hash, no criminal gangs and no fourteen-year-olds taking overdoses.
He stood at a pedestrian crossing with a gang of swarthy youths jabbering away in another language and waited for the green man.
A verse from a poem occurred to him: Elm and poplar, birch and oak, Deathly pale, blackened cloak.
the huge oak tree
He followed the trunk with his eyes up to the crown of the tree. How old could it be? Two hundred years? Three hundred?
glyphosate solution, which the sales assistant in a hardware shop in Kirkeveien had called Round-Up,
It wouldn’t have any effect if he injected the outer layer; he had to reach the cambium, the tree’s inner, life-giving organs.
