He Who Kills the Dragon

64.

Bäckström had been obliged to postpone on three different occasions until he finally got back the weapon that was his fundamental human right as a Swedish police officer.

The first time he hadn’t even had a chance to fire a single shot.

Bäckström had taken a taxi out to a firing range south of the city. He met his shooting instructor, the altogether-too-common sort whose furrowed brow naturally merged with a shaved head. He was given his weapon, inserted a loaded magazine, reloaded, and then turned to ask which of the targets he was expected to blow holes out of.

The instructor had thrown himself to one side, suddenly pale as a headache pill, and screamed at him to put his weapon down immediately. Bäckström had done as he was told.

‘I would appreciate it, Bäckström, if you didn’t wave a loaded weapon with the safety off toward my navel. In fact, I’d be really, really happy,’ the instructor said, his voice sounding strained.

Then he had grabbed the pistol, clicked the bolt action, removed the cartridge from the chamber, pulled out the magazine, and checked with his finger just to make sure before putting the gun in his pocket.

‘Because otherwise you’ll shit yourself,’ Bäckström said, as politely as he could.

It hadn’t helped, because he wasn’t allowed to shoot. The instructor had merely shaken his head and walked away.

The second time he had a female instructor, and as soon as he caught sight of her he realized what his adversaries were up to.

The bitch had even put on a padded vest and a helmet, and stood behind him the whole time while she told him what to do. Bäckström couldn’t be bothered to listen. How could he, since he had already put on the ear protectors like she had told him to. Instead he had tried to focus on his real task, and had raised his gun, carefully taken aim, closed his left eye, and even squinted with the right one before firing a well-aimed salvo at the cardboard cutout in front of him.

Splendid, Bäckström thought, as he looked at the results a minute later. At least half his shots had hit their target, and even though he was no doctor, he could see at once that most of them would have been fatal.

‘So where do I pick up my service revolver?’ Bäckström asked.

At first she had merely shaken her head, her face the same color as her colleague’s had been previously, and, when she finally spoke, her voice sounded exactly the same as his.

‘A Swedish police officer who has been attacked and runs the risk of suffering serious violence — in other words, when he is in a so-called extreme situation — is expected to aim at his attacker’s legs. Below the knee, since even a shot to the thigh has a high risk of being fatal,’ she explained.

‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ Bäckström said. ‘If some crazy bastard is running at you with a knife and intends to stab you, you try to shoot him in the knee?’

‘Below the knee,’ the instructor corrected him. ‘The answer is yes, because that’s what firearms regulations say.’

‘Speaking personally, I’d ask him if he’d like a kiss and a cuddle,’ Bäckström said with a grin. Then he had merely shaken his head and walked away. As soon as he was in the taxi he called a cousin of his who worked at the Police Officers’ Association.

‘So your employer is still refusing to give you the right to embrace little Siggy?’ his cousin said, suddenly sounding as bloodthirsty as Bäckström felt.

‘Exactly,’ Bäckström said. ‘And what the fuck are you going to do about it?’

Everything necessary, according to his cousin. Including talking to an old and reliable associate who had once been an ombudsman in the association, and who was now working as a shooting instructor out at the Police Academy, and who had the authority to sign all the certificates that might be required.

‘I’ll talk to him, and get him to call you and arrange a time,’ his cousin said.

‘Is there anything else I need to think about?’ Bäckström asked.

‘Take a bottle with you,’ his cousin replied.

To save time Bäckström had handed over a bottle of his finest malt whiskey when he first arrived at the firing range at the Police Academy.

‘Thank you very much indeed,’ the reliable associate said, licking his lips. ‘Well, it’s time to embrace little Siggy,’ he said, handing over his own Sig Sauer to Bäckström.

‘Do you feel it?’ he went on, nodding as Bäckström felt the weapon in his hand.

‘Feel what?’ Bäckström said.

‘The only time you get a real hard-on is when you hold little Siggy,’ the instructor said, looking as happy as he had when Bäckström handed over his gift.

Probably mad, Bäckström thought, checking that he wasn’t standing behind him with another gun that he’d had hidden somewhere.

Then he had taken careful aim, closing his left eye just to be sure, squinting with the right, and fired the usual well-aimed shot, which hit where it usually did.

‘Bloody hell,’ his instructor said, finding it hard to conceal his admiration. ‘That would make him shut up.’

Before Bäckström left him, a signed certificate in his pocket, his new friend had given him a few words of advice.

‘One thing that’s struck me, Bäckström...’

‘Yes?’

‘Even though you’re aiming low, you end up hitting just a bit high, if I can put it like that.’

‘Okay,’ Bäckström said.

‘Maybe you should try aiming at the ground just in front of the target?’ the instructor suggested. ‘Considering all those old women who work in the disciplinary department, I mean.’

Forget it, limp dick, Bäckström thought. Now a full citizen and police officer. If anyone so much as raised a hand against me, I would blow their head off, he thought.