The Rabbit Hunter

‘It was supposed to be a joke.’

The waiter arrives with their appetisers. He lingers a little too long, then blushes as he asks if Rex would mind giving the gang in the kitchen his autograph.

‘That depends on the food,’ Rex replies seriously. ‘I can’t stand it when a lemon emulsion tastes like sweets.’

The waiter stands beside the table, smiling awkwardly, as Rex picks up his knife and fork and cuts a piece of chargrilled asparagus.

‘Take it easy,’ DJ cajoles, rubbing his blond beard.

Rex dips a piece of smoked salmon in the lemon sauce, smells it, then tastes it, chewing with a look of intense concentration. He finally takes out a pen and writes on the back of the menu: My congratulations to the master chefs at Dalarö Strand Hotel. Warm regards, Rex.

The waiter thanks him and hurries back to the kitchen with a look of unfeigned delight on his face.

‘Is it really that good?’ DJ asks quietly.

‘It’s OK,’ Rex replies.

DJ leans across the table, fills Rex’s glass with water, then nudges the bread-basket towards him. Rex takes a sip and looks out at a large yacht heading out to sea from the harbour.

Their plates of fried herring, charred red onion and mashed potatoes arrive.

‘Have you checked to see if you can make it next weekend?’ DJ asks tentatively.

‘Is that when we’re meeting the investors?’ Rex asks.

Rex and his team have spent over a year developing the first items in a set of kitchen equipment with Rex’s name on them.

They’re very good quality, sleek design at a reasonable price, and intended to be for ‘kitchen royalty’. Rex of Kitchen.

‘I thought we could spend some time with them, have a decent meal. It’s really important that they feel special,’ he explains.

Rex nods and cuts a piece of herring, then reaches across the table for DJ’s glass of chilled beer.

‘Rex?’

‘No one needs to know,’ he says with a wink.

‘Don’t do it,’ DJ says calmly.

‘Are you going to start too?’ Rex says, smiling, and puts the glass down. ‘I’m sober, but it’s pretty ridiculous. Everyone’s just decided that I have a problem without asking me.’

They finish their meal, pay, and walk down to the hotel jetty, where DJ’s motorboat, a Sea Ray Sundancer that’s seen better days, is moored.

It’s a warm evening, almost impossibly beautiful. The water is still, the sun is setting slowly, and the clouds are lit with golden light.

They cast off and slowly pull away from the jetty, rocking through the wake of another boat. They head carefully into the main waterway. The hillside on the port side is strewn with ornate wooden houses.

‘How’s your mum these days?’ Rex asks, sitting down beside DJ on the white leather seat.

‘A little better, actually,’ he replies, accelerating slightly. ‘The doctors have switched her medication and she’s not feeling too bad now.’

His voice is drowned out by the roar of the engine when they reach open water. White foam whips up behind them, the bow lifts up and the hull strikes the waves. They keep accelerating, and the boat starts to plane and shoots off across the water.

Rex stands up unsteadily and starts to pull on the water-skis that are tucked behind the seats.

‘Aren’t you going to take your suit off?’ DJ shouts.

‘What?’

‘It’ll get soaked.’

‘I’m not going to fall in!’ Rex shouts back.

He starts unrolling the line, then feels his phone buzz in his inside pocket. It’s Sammy, and Rex gestures at DJ to slow down.

‘Hello?’

He can hear music and voices in the background.

‘Hi, Dad,’ Sammy says, with his phone very close to his mouth. ‘I just thought I’d check what you’re doing tonight.’

‘Where are you?’

‘At a party, but …’

The swell from a large yacht makes Rex sway. He loses his balance and sits down on the white leather cushion.

‘Are you having a good time?’ he asks.

‘What?’

‘I’m out at Dalarö with DJ, but there’s some of last night’s sole in the fridge … You can have it cold, or heat it up in the oven for a few minutes.’

‘I can’t hear you,’ Sammy says.

‘I won’t be late,’ Rex tries to shout.

He can hear loud music over the phone, the thud of a heavy bassline, and a woman shouting something.

‘See you later,’ Rex says, but the line has already gone dead.

19 (#ulink_dc94d02c-668a-5bd3-b5de-d40ad72cffb3)

It’s late at night when the taxi rolls down Rehns Street and stops in front of an ornate wooden door. Rex has borrowed some dry clothes from DJ, and has his wet suit in a black bin-bag. He’s supposed to appear on television early the next morning, and should really have been asleep hours ago.

Rex makes his way inside, shivering as he presses the button for the lift. It doesn’t move. He steps forward and peers up into the lift shaft. The cabin is standing motionless on the fifth floor. There’s a creaking, scraping sound. The cables are swaying and he wonders idly if someone is moving out in the middle of the night.

He waits a little longer, then starts to walk up the stairs, the bag of wet clothes over his shoulder like he’s Santa Claus.