The Rabbit Hunter

Rex turns away and goes back into the living room, trying to catch his breath as waves of conflicting emotions crash through him.

‘Oh, God,’ he sighs, and tries to smile at his own reaction.

Sammy is an adult, and Rex knows he doesn’t want to be defined by his sexuality. Still, he’s extremely embarrassed that he stumbled upon such an intimate situation.

On the checked sofa the man with long grey hair has tucked his hand under the younger man’s T-shirt.

Rex needs to go home and get some sleep. He waits a few seconds, wipes his mouth, then heads towards the bathroom again.

‘Sammy?’ Rex calls out before he gets there. ‘Are you in there?’

Something topples over in the bathroom, clattering against the sink. He waits a few seconds before calling his son’s name again.

Shortly after that the door opens and Sammy comes out, dressed in a pair of tight jeans and an unbuttoned floral shirt. He’s leaning against the wall with one hand. His eyelids are drooping, and his gaze is unfocused.

‘What are you doing here?’ he slurs.

‘You called me.’

Sammy looks up but doesn’t seem to understand what Rex is saying. His eyes are lined in kohl, and his pupils are dilated.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ the man in the bathroom calls out.

‘I’m coming, I just … just …’

Sammy loses his footing and almost falls.

‘We’re going home,’ Rex says.

‘I have to get back to Nico. He’ll get angry if—’

‘Talk to him tomorrow,’ Rex interrupts.

‘What? What did you say?’

‘I know you have your own life, I’m not trying to play at being your dad. I can give you money for a taxi if you want to stay,’ Rex says, trying to make his voice gentler.

‘I … I should probably get some sleep.’

Rex takes his jacket off and wraps it around his son’s shoulders. He starts to lead him out of the block of flats.

When they reach the street the sky is starting to brighten and the birds are singing loudly. Sammy is moving slowly. He’s alarmingly weak.

‘Can you stay on your feet while I call a taxi?’ Rex asks.

His son nods and leans heavily against the wall. His face is extremely pale. He sticks his finger in his mouth and leans his head forward.

‘I … I’m …’

‘Can’t we just try to get through these three weeks together?’ Rex suggests.

‘What?’

Sammy swallows, sticks his finger in his mouth again and looks like he’s about to throw up.

‘What’s going on, Sammy?’

His son looks up, breathing in laboriously. His eyes roll back and he collapses on the pavement, hitting his head against an electricity box.

‘Sammy!’ Rex yells, and tries to help him up.

The boy’s head is bleeding and his eyes are swimming behind half-closed eyelids.

‘Look at me!’ Rex shouts, but his son is unresponsive. His body is completely limp.

Rex puts him down again and listens to his chest. His heart is beating fast, but his breathing is far too slow.

‘Fuck,’ Rex mutters as he fumbles for his phone.

His hands are shaking as he tries to call an ambulance.

‘Don’t die, you can’t die,’ he whispers as the call goes through.

20 (#ulink_99655cfa-6b8f-5014-a7f8-963450f87004)

His mobile phone rings, making Rex jump so hard that his arm jerks and he hits his hand against the back of the couch. He stands up and wipes his mouth. The sky outside the hospital window is as pale as parchment. He must have dozed off.

He isn’t sure how many times they pumped Sammy’s stomach. Over and over again they poured water through a tube down his throat, and sucked it out again using a huge syringe. Sammy kept flailing his arms weakly in an attempt to remove the tube, and whimpered as the remains of the red wine and pills poured out of him.

Rex’s mobile phone is still ringing, and when he picks the jacket up his phone slips out of the pocket and bounces onto the floor.

He crawls after it and answers on all fours:

‘Hello?’ he whispers.

‘Please, Rex,’ the programme’s producer says, sounding stressed and angry. ‘Tell me you’re sitting in a taxi.’

‘It hasn’t arrived yet,’ Rex manages to say.

It’s Sunday. He cooks live on TV4 every Sunday. He can’t possibly have missed it, but he has no idea what time it is.

The lino floor and electric lights fade into darkness as Rex stands up. Leaning against the couch, he tries to explain that he wants a picture of the raw ingredients on the Barco wall, and a close-up when he stir-fries the shrimp.

‘You should be in make-up right now,’ the producer says.

‘I know,’ Rex agrees. ‘But what can I do if the taxi doesn’t show up?’

‘Call another taxi,’ she sighs, and hangs up.