Hitman Anders and the Meaning of It All by Jonas Jonasson Read Free Book Online Page A

video recordings. Here, too, the receptionist invoked his own security and that of the priest, if on somewhat murkier grounds. The reporter and the photographer’s faces clouded, but they accepted.
    Hitman Anders described in detail all the ways he had killed people over the years. But, according to the prevailing PR strategy, he said nothing about being under the influence of drink or pills; instead, he was supposed to list the things that might make him fly off the handle, that might make him turn violent again.
    â€œI hate injustice,” he told Expressen ’s reporter, because he remembered the priest talking about that.
    â€œI suppose pretty much everyone does,” said the still-nervous reporter. “Is there any specific type of injustice you had in mind?”
    Hitman Anders had gone through them with the priest, but his brain was at a standstill. Should he have had a breakfast beer to get himself into proper shape? Or had he already had one too many?
    There was nothing he could do about the former, but the latter seemed unlikely. He snapped his fingers and got the receptionist to fetch him a fresh pilsner from the fridge. The hitman had it in his hand and open within fifteen seconds, and by the time half a minute had passed it was empty.
    â€œNow, where were we?” said Hitman Anders, licking the beer foam off his lips.
    â€œWe were talking about injustice,” said the reporter, who had never before seen anyone down a bottle of beer so fast.
    â€œOh, right, and how I hate it, right?”
    â€œYes . . . but what kinds?”
    During all of their practicing, the priest had learned that the hitman’s sense of reason came and went of its own accord. Right now it was likely out for a stroll, all on its own.
    And she was right about that. Hitman Anders could not for the life of him remember what it was he was supposed to hate. Plus, that last beer had really hit the spot. He was very close to just sitting there and loving the whole world instead. But, of course, he couldn’t say so. All he could do was improvise.
    â€œYes, I hate . . . poverty. And terrible diseases. They always get the good people in a society.”
    â€œDo they?”
    â€œYes, the good people get cancer and stuff. Not the bad people. I hate that. And I hate people who exploit regular people.”
    â€œWho are you thinking of?”
    Yes: who was Hitman Anders thinking of? What was he thinking? Why was it so terribly difficult for him to recall what he was supposed to say? Just take that part about killing. Was he supposed to claim that he didn’t kill people any more, or was it the other way around?
    â€œI don’t kill people any more,” he heard himself saying. “Or maybe I do. Everyone on my hate-list should probably watch out.”
    Hate-list ? he asked himself. What hate-list? Oh, please, don’t let the reporter ask a follow-up question about . . .
    â€œHate-list?” said the reporter. “Who’s on it?”
    Dammit! Hitman Anders’s brain was spinning fast and slow all at once. Have to gather my thoughts . . . What was it again? He was supposed to appear . . . insane and dangerous. What else?
    The priest and the receptionist did not pray to any higher power for their hitman to find his way: they considered themselves to have far too poor a relationship with the power in question. They did, however, stand there hoping. Hoping that Hitman Anders would land on his feet somehow.
    Over the shoulder of the Expressen reporter and through the window, Hitman Anders could make out the neon logo of the Swedish Real Estate Agency on a building a hundred yards down and across the street. Next to it was a small suburban branch of Handelsbanken. He could hardly see it from where he sat, but he knew it was there, because how many times had he stood there smoking in the bus shelter outside, waiting for the bus that would take him to the nearest den of iniquity?
    In the absence of