Lars Kepler 2-book Bundle (42 page)

“Yes.”

“He’s … interesting … for my research, even if I don’t really understand yet what’s happening with him. When he’s under very deep hypnosis, he always ends up in the same room, with the same memory—he’s being forced to torture people, people he knows, boys he used to play with, shopkeepers he used to buy from, teachers at his school—but then something happens.”

“During the hypnosis?”

“Yes. He refuses to go any further.”

“He refuses?”

“Free will under hypnosis is limited only by the fact that we can’t lie to ourselves.”

Time passed, and it was evening. The hall outside my office was silent and deserted.

Maja put her things away in her briefcase, wound her scarf around her neck, and stood up.

“I don’t know where the time went,” she said apologetically.

“Thanks for listening,” I said, holding out my hand.

She hesitated. “I’m the one who should thank
you
. I wonder if I could buy you a drink this evening to express my gratitude?”

I quickly ran through my plans. Simone and her friends were going to see
Tosca
, and she would be home late. Benjamin was staying with his grandfather, and as far as everyone was concerned, I’d intended to work all evening.

“One drink,” I said, picking up my jacket. I tamped down the feeling that I was overstepping the mark.

“I know a little place on Roslagsgatan,” said Maja, “called Peterson-Berger. It’s very simple but really nice.”

“Good.” I turned off the light and locked the door behind us.

It was about seven-thirty, and there was hardly any traffic. We took our bikes and rode down to Norrtull. The spring quivered in the sound of birdsong in the trees.

When we were met by the restaurant’s smiling proprietress, I grew doubtful. Should I really be here? What would I say if Simone rang and asked what I was doing? A wave of unease rose up, but I justified the outing to myself: Maja was a colleague. We wanted to continue our discussion. Simone, who never hesitated to go out alone with friends, was probably drinking wine right now in the restaurant at the opera house.

“I love their spit-roasted chicken with cumin,” Maja said, leading the way to a table at the far side of the restaurant.

We sat down, and a waitress immediately came over with a jug of water. Maja rested her chin on her hand, gazed at her glass, and said calmly, “If we get fed up with being here, we can always go back to my place.” She looked at me expectantly. For a moment I allowed myself to wonder what she was doing here with me. She was gorgeous, young, and outgoing. I must have been fifteen years older than she was, and I was married.

“Maja, are you flirting with me?”

She laughed, showing deep dimples. “My dad has always said I was born that way. An incorrigible flirt.”

I realised I knew nothing about her. “Is your father a doctor too?” I asked.

She nodded. “Professor Jan E Swartling.”

“The brain surgeon,” I said, impressed.

“Or whatever you call it when somebody pokes around inside another person’s head,” she said acidly. It was the first time the smile had left her face.

We ate. To counter my anxiety, I was drinking too quickly and ordered more wine. It was as if the looks the staff were giving us, their obvious assumption that we were a couple, were making me nervous. I got drunk and didn’t even look at the bill before I signed it, crumpled up the receipt, and missed the wastepaper basket next to the cloakroom. Out on the street, in the lovely, mild spring evening, I was definitely intending to go home. But Maja pointed to a door and asked if I would like to come up, just to see what her apartment was like and to have a cup of tea.

“Maja,” I said, “you are incorrigible. Your father is right.”

She giggled and tucked her arm under mine.

We stood very close to each other in the lift. I couldn’t help looking at her smiling mouth, her pearly white teeth, her high forehead, and her black, shiny hair.

She noticed and tentatively caressed my cheek; I leaned down to kiss her, but the lift stopped with a jerk.

“Come on,” she whispered, as she unlocked her door.

Her studio apartment was small but very pleasant. The walls were painted a soft Mediterranean blue, and white linen curtains hung at the one window. The kitchen area was fresh, with a white tiled floor and a small, modern gas stove. Maja went into the kitchen, and I heard her opening a bottle of wine.

“I thought we were having tea,” I said, when she emerged with the bottle and two wineglasses. I was slurring my words.

“This is better for you,” she said.

“Well, in that case,” I said, accepting a glass and spilling wine on my hand.

She wiped my hand with a tea towel, sat down on the narrow bed, and leaned back.

“Nice place,” I said.

“It seems strange, having you here,” she said with a smile. “I’ve admired you for such a long time.”

Suddenly she leaped up.

“I have to take a picture of you,” she exclaimed, giggling. “The important doctor here in my little place!” She got her camera and trained the lens on me.

“Look serious,” she said, peering through the viewfinder.

She giggled some more as she snapped away, encouraging, joking, telling me I was hot, I was gorgeous, asking me to pout. Gradually, I relaxed.

“Unbelievably sexy.” She laughed light-heartedly.

“Will I make the front cover of
Vogue
?”

“Unless they choose me,” she said, handing me the camera.

I got to my feet unsteadily and pointed the camera at her. She had thrown herself down on the bed.

“You win,” I said, and took a picture.

“My brother always called me Pudding,” she said. “Do you think I’m fat?”

“You’re incredibly beautiful,” I murmured. She sat up and pulled her sweater over her head. She was wearing a pale green silk bra over her voluptuous breasts.

“Take a picture now,” she whispered, unhooking her bra.

She was blushing furiously and smiling. I focused, looking into her dark, shimmering eyes, at her smiling mouth, her young, generous breasts with their pale pink nipples.

“I’ll take a close-up,” I mumbled and knelt down, feeling desire pulse through my body.

She supported one heavy breast with her hand. The camera flashed. I had a powerful erection; it was aching and pulling. I lowered the camera, leaned forward, and took one breast in my mouth. She pressed it against my face, and I licked and sucked at the hard nipple.

“God, yes,” she whispered. “God, that’s wonderful.”

Her skin was hot, steaming. She unbuttoned her jeans, pulled them down, and kicked them off. I stood up, thinking that I mustn’t go to bed with her, that I couldn’t do that, but I picked up the camera and photographed her again. She was wearing only a pair of thin pale-green panties.

“Come here,” she whispered.

I looked at her through the lens again as she smiled and parted her legs. I could just see the dark pubic hair curling around the crotch of her panties.

“It’s fine,” she said.

“I can’t.”

She smiled. “Oh, I think you can.”

“Maja, you’re dangerous, so dangerous,” I said, putting down the camera.

“I know I’m a naughty girl.”

“But I’m a married man, you have to understand that.”

“Don’t you think I’m beautiful?”

“You’re amazingly beautiful, Maja.”

“More beautiful than your wife?”

“Stop it.”

“But I turn you on, don’t I?” she whispered, then giggled before suddenly becoming serious.

I nodded, moved back, and saw her give a very satisfied smile. “I can still carry on with my interviews, can’t I?”

“Absolutely,” I said, moving towards the door.

She blew me a kiss, I blew one back, and then I left her studio, hurried downstairs, and headed for my bike.

That night I dreamed I was looking at a stone relief depicting three nymphs. I woke myself up saying something out loud, so loud I could hear the echo of my own voice in the dark, silent bedroom. Simone had come home while I was asleep; she stirred in her sleep beside me. I was drenched with sweat from my dream, and the alcohol was still coursing through my blood. A street cleaning truck rumbled past the window, flashing its light. The building was silent. I got up to take a pill and tried not to think, but what had happened the previous evening returned, immediately and vividly: I had photographed Maja Swartling while she was practically naked. I had taken pictures of her breasts, her legs, and her transparent spring-green panties. But we didn’t have sex, I kept repeating to myself. I hadn’t intended to, I hadn’t wanted to—I had overstepped, but I hadn’t betrayed Simone. Had I? I was wide awake now, chillingly wide awake. What was the matter with me? How the hell had I let myself be persuaded to photograph Maja naked? She was beautiful and seductive, and I had been flattered by her attention. Was that all it took? I realised with surprise that I had discovered a real weak point in myself: I was vain. Nothing within me could claim I was falling in love with her. It was my vanity that enjoyed her company so much.

I rolled over and pulled the duvet over my face, and after a while I fell into a heavy sleep again.

Marek was in a state of deep hypnotic rest. He sat low in his chair, his sweater straining over his powerful upper arms and his overdeveloped back muscles. His hair was cropped very short, exposing a scalp covered with scars. His jaws were chewing slowly; he raised his head and looked at me with empty eyes.

“I can’t stop laughing,” he said loudly. “The shocks are making this guy from Mostar jump around like a cartoon character.”

Marek looked happy, his head swaying from side to side.

“He’s lying on the concrete floor, dark with blood, breathing fast, very fast. And then he curls up and starts crying. Fucking pussy. I shout at him, tell him to get on his feet, tell him I’ll kill him if he doesn’t get up. I lean over to give him one more shock, but his body just jerks like a dead pig. I call over to the door and tell them the fun is over, but they come in with this guy’s older brother. I know him, we worked together for a couple of years at Aluminij, the factory—”

Marek stopped speaking, his chin quivering.

“What happens now?” I asked quietly.

He sat in silence for a while before he began speaking again. “The floor is covered with green grass; I can’t see the guy from Mostar any more; there’s just a little mound of grass.”

“Isn’t that strange?” I asked.

“I don’t know, maybe, but I can’t see the room any more. I’m outside, walking across a summer meadow; the grass is damp and cold beneath my feet.”

Carefully, I brought everyone out of the hypnosis, checking to make sure each of them was all right before I started the discussion. Marek wiped the tears from his cheeks and stretched. He had big patches of sweat under his arms.

“I was forced to do it, that was their thing. They forced me to torture my old friends,” he said.

“We know.”

He looked at us with a shy, searching smile. “I laughed because I was frightened. I’m not like that. I’m not dangerous,” he said.

“You liked hurting people,” Lydia said with a soft smile. “Why can’t you admit that?”

“Shut your mouth!” yelled Marek, moving over to her with his hand raised.

“Sit down,” I said forcefully.

“Don’t shout at me, Marek,” Lydia said calmly.

He met her gaze and stopped. “Sorry,” he said, with an uncertain smile; he ran his hand over his head a couple of times and sat down. I called for a break.

It was a gloomy day. Rain hung heavily in the air. The wind blowing in was cold, and carried with it a faint smell of wet leaves, a reminder of winter that made me feel glum. My patients began to return to their seats.

Eva Blau was dressed all in blue; she had even painted her narrow lips with blue lipstick and made up her eyes with blue mascara. She seemed anxious as usual, placing her cardigan around her shoulders and then taking it off, over and over again.

Lydia was talking to Pierre; as he listened, his eyes and mouth contracted in painful, repetitive tics.

Marek had turned his back on me. His body-builder’s muscles twitched as he searched for something in his backpack.