The meat market. Lars’s gaze swept across the dance floor. Girls, far too young to be let in, held their hands high over their heads, bounced up and down in time with the music. Was that how people danced now? He used to pogo at punk concerts when he was young, but this? He shook his head, turned to the girl at the bar, and raised a finger. Another club soda. In the dim light, the girl leaned over the rows of beer and water, allowing Lars to see all the way down her top, and shouted something in his ear. He nodded, even though he couldn’t hear a single syllable. The girl walked down the bar, pulled out a Coke, opened it, and placed a glass and the bottle in front of him. He held out forty kroner, but she shook her head. At least the staff was helpful. Toke appeared next to him. “Have you spotted him?” “No idea.” Toke looked at his watch. It was almost 1:30 a.m. One hour to go. Lene stood in the middle of the dance floor, at one with the mass of moving flesh.
What do You think about The House That Jack Built?
