Pierced

Начало книги

Jocke’s Harley-Davidson is already there.

Tore Pulli parks his motorbike and removes his crash helmet. The gravel crunches when his feet touch the ground. The windows in the old factory stare blindly out into the darkness. The silence is dense and eerie.

Pulli hangs his helmet on the handlebars and walks across to the door. The hinges groan when he pushes it open. He enters warily.

‘Jocke?’

His voice bounces off the walls. His boots slam against the concrete floor. Little by little his eyes acclimatise to the darkness, but all he can see is the naked floor and walls, beams and pillars wreathed in cobwebs. The October wind howls through the panes of broken glass. White clouds of frozen breath pour from his mouth.

It’s almost like the old days, Pulli thinks as he moves forwards. The build-up to the confrontation. He can feel the adrenalin pumping and he likes it.

His eyes are drawn to something lying on the floor deeper into the shadows. He approaches with caution and is met by a pungent smell of urine and metal. He steps in something slippery and has to take a step to the side to avoid falling over. He pulls out his mobile and uses it to light up the floor.

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