‘Where’s my chair?’ I asked.

‘The pole just slipped out,’ Geir Rugholmen said to the doctor, adjusting his plug of snuff with his tongue. ‘We weren’t going to pull it out, but we had to break it off outside the wound before we brought her here. And it… it just slipped out. But she’s not bleeding so much any more.’

‘Where’s my chair?’

‘I know we should have left the pole in,’ said Rugholmen.

‘Where’s her chair?’ asked Dr Streng, without taking his eyes off the wound; he had ripped open my trouser leg, and I had the feeling that his hands were quick and precise in spite of their size and shape.

‘Her chair? Her wheelchair? It’s on the train.’

‘I want my chair,’ I said.

‘Bloody hell, we can’t go back and…’

The doctor looked up. He fished a pair of enormous horn-rimmed spectacles out of his breast pocket, put them on, and said quietly: ‘I would very much appreciate it if someone could fetch this lady’s wheelchair. As soon as humanly possible.’

‘Have you any idea what the weather’s like out there? Are you aware -’

The index finger, no longer quite so comical, pushed the spectacles up the doctor’s nose before he fixed his gaze on Rugholmen.

‘Fetch the chair. Now. I imagine you would find it quite unpleasant if your legs were left behind on a train while you yourself were helplessly carted off. Having seen you and your excellent colleagues working out in the storm, I presume it’s a relatively simple matter to go and fetch something that is so important to our friend here.’

Once again, that big smile. I got the feeling that the man consciously made use of his handicap. As soon as you began to overlook the circus-like appearance, he made sure he resembled a clown once again. His mouth didn’t even need the traditional red paint, his lips were thick enough as they were. The whole thing was very confusing. Which must have been the intention. At any rate, Geir Rugholmen got reluctantly to his feet, mumbled something and headed for the porch, where he had left his outdoor clothes.