Page 56 of The Square

One: I can see two bulky figures who bear a striking resemblance to the Brenden and Charlie I remember streaking from around where the entrance to the kitchen is to make their way into the cab of the vehicle. I also see Russell on the roof, sprinting to the edge of the house to, it would appear, leap down onto the escaping vehicle before Charlie and Brenden leave him stranded there.

And.

Two: The radios that Christine and Eliza are carrying erupt with sound. The sound of mingled voices shouting, “Go, mate! Fuckin’ go, go, go, go, go!”

It is immediately evident why.

The various laaities who had been seeing to it that I stayed safely within their ranks are also running after the Watsons (and an as yet unseen Danny, I suppose), rifles aimed and firing.

Ah, yes. This is more what real life looks like.

Russell reaches the front edge of the manor just as the truck is pulling away. And as I am not prone to hyperbole, when I say that he makes a death-defying leap onto the roof of the vehicle as automatic weapon fire lances the air around him, I am not exaggerating. It is quite something to watch. I’ve never been impressed by acrobatic feats. It’s just not something that interests me. But if Cirque du Soleil thought to incorporate small-arms fire into their acts, I might be forced to change my assessment.

The vehicle comes barreling straight toward us, Charlie and Brenden growing clearer in my view along with Danny, whose head I now see popped up between the twins. The look on his face is half-astonishment, half-anger. Russell is pressed flat to the roof of the truck, making himself as small as possible. The back of the cube is opening and flapping about, a couple of slabs of beef crashing to the ground as the lumbering transport weaves and jolts in our direction.

It makes its way through the only unsecured portion of the estate itself—the opening in the fence where the drive connects to the road. Two more guards wait there and my hope that no one will die today is looking increasingly unlikely. The bigger concern is that the ones dying will be us and not them. But, if we’re lucky, perhaps not.

I raise the weapon I’m still holding and point it in the direction of the guards, who appear ready to fire into the windshield. My finger is on the trigger just as it was with Liam earlier, ready to pull away.

And then, as if in support of my global thesis that life is ludicrous… the firing stops. Their shooting ceases, entirely. Every one of them. The okes chasing the vehicle all stop, seemingly at once, and lower their weapons. The guards at the edge of the property also lower their weapons and don’t make a move to stop the lorrie. Instead, they step aside and let it pass, unfettered. It comes squealing to a halt beside where we are huddled by a copse of English countryside and Charlie yells, “Get in, get in, get in!”

Eliza bounds to the open rear and in one feline pounce is up and into the back. I, in my barefooted, ill-fitting, and not-quite-yet-fully-healed state, attempt to do the same, but just like the guards, I also stop when I see that Christine is making no attempt to move forward. At all. She is just standing in place, looking ahead, impassive. Almost catatonic.

“Christine! Let’s go! Come on, nunu!”

“Christine!” Charlie yells urgently from the cab. “Make moves, luv!”

But she doesn’t. In the midst of the confusing chaos, she stands stock still. Looking back at the house, her chin lifted slightly.

“Christine!” I shout again, going back to take her by the arm and drag her if necessary. “Christine, we have to fokken—!”

And then I stop my forward energy once more. And see why she’s inanimate. Because as I look to understand what it is she sees that has frozen her thus, I become frozen in exactly the same way.

Watching from a massive third-floor window that overlooks all that just played out on the grounds of van den Berg manor—unmoving, standing as still as Christine and I have become…

There he is.

Lars.