The Asylum
Authors: Johan Theorin
About the Book
‘We don’t talk about sick or healthy people at St Patricia’s. Words such as hysteric, lunatic and psychopath . . . They are no longer used. Because who amongst us can say that we are always healthy?’
An underground passage leads from the Dell nursery to St Patricia’s asylum. Only the children enter, leaving their minders behind. On the other side, heavily guarded and closely watched, are their parents – some of the most dangerous people in the country.
Jan has just started working at the nursery. He is a loner with many secrets and one goal. He must get inside the asylum . . .
What is his connection with one of the inmates, a famous singer?
What really happened when a boy in his care went missing nine years ago?
Who can we trust when everyone has something to hide?
Contents
To Klara
Dear Ivan, is it possible to write a love letter to someone you have never met? I’m going to try in any case. I’ve only seen your picture in the newspapers, below those terrible, screaming headlines. Black and white photographs taken by the press to show ‘Ivan Rössel, the crazed child-killer’, or whatever it is they like to call you
.
The pictures are harsh and unfair, but still I have spent a lot of time looking at them. There is something about the look in your eyes, so calm and wise and yet so penetrating. You seem to see the world as it is, and to see right through me. I would like you to be able to look at me in reality too. I would love to meet you
.
Loneliness is a terrible thing, and unfortunately I have suffered my fair share of it over the years. I assume that you too must sometimes feel lonely, in your locked room behind the walls of the hospital. In the silence late at night, when no one else in the whole wide world is awake … It is so easy to be sucked in by loneliness, to be suffocated by it in the end
.
I am enclosing a photograph of myself, taken on a hot, sunny day last summer. As you can see I have fair hair, but I like dark clothes. I hope you will want to look at this picture of me, just as I have looked at those pictures of you
.
That’s all for now, but I would very much like to write to you again. I hope this letter reaches you on the other side of the wall. And I hope that you will somehow be able to send me a reply
.
Is there anything I can do for you?
I’ll do anything, Ivan
.
Anything at all
.
PART ONE
Routines
Yet everyone begins in the same place; how is it that most go along without difficulty but a few lose their way?
John Barth,
Lost in the Funhouse
1
CAUTION! CHILDREN PLAYING! Jan reads through the side window of the taxi. The words are printed on a blue plastic sign, and beneath it is the exhortation to DRIVE SLOWLY.
‘Bloody kids!’ the driver yells.
Jan is thrown forward. The taxi has swung around a corner and braked sharply in front of a tricycle.
A child has abandoned the trike virtually in the middle of the road.
The street is in a residential area in the town of Valla. Jan can see low wooden fences in front of white houses, and the big warning notice.
Caution! Children playing!
But the streets are empty, in spite of the three-wheeler. There are no children here to necessitate caution.
Perhaps they are all indoors
, Jan thinks.
Locked inside
.
The driver glances at him in the rear-view mirror. He looks close to retirement age, with deep lines etched on his forehead, a Father Christmas beard and a weary expression.
Jan is used to weary expressions; they are everywhere.
The driver had hardly said a word before the sudden outburst when he slammed on the brakes, but as the taxi moves off again he has a question for Jan: ‘The hospital … St Patricia’s … do you work up there?’
Jan shakes his head. ‘No. Not yet.’
‘Not yet? So you’re applying for a job there?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I see,’ says the driver.
Jan lowers his eyes and does not respond. He doesn’t want to reveal too much about himself, and he doesn’t know what he’s allowed to tell other people about the hospital.
The driver goes on: ‘You know there’s another name for that place?’
Jan looks up. ‘No. What’s that?’
The driver gives a little smile. ‘I’m sure they’ll tell you when you get there.’
Jan gazes out of the window at the rows of houses, thinking about the man he is soon to meet.
Dr Patrik Högsmed, senior consultant. His name was at the bottom of a job advert Jan found at the beginning of July:
CLASSROOM ASSISTANT / PRE-SCHOOL TEACHER
wanted at The Dell. This is a temporary post.
The wording below the heading was similar to many others that Jan had read:
You are a classroom assistant / pre-school teacher; we would be pleased to welcome a young man, since we are committed to the creation of a team which meets the criteria of equality and diversity
.
As a person you are confident in yourself, and you are both open and honest. You enjoy music and play, and all kinds of creative activity. Our pre-school adjoins a green area, so you will also appreciate the value of excursions into the surrounding forest and countryside
.
You will actively strive
for
a positive atmosphere at the pre-school and
against
all forms of abusive treatment
.
Much of this applied to Jan. He was a young man, a qualified pre-school teacher, he enjoyed play, and had been something of a drummer in his teenage years – although mostly on his own.
And he didn’t like abusive behaviour, for personal reasons.
But was he open and honest? That depended. He was good at
appearing
open, at any rate.
It was the contact details that made Jan cut out the advert: Patrik Högsmed, Admin Department, St Patricia’s Regional Psychiatric Hospital, Valla.
Jan had always found it difficult to sell himself, but the advert had stared at him from its place on the kitchen table for several days, and in the end he had called the number below the senior consultant’s name.
A deep male voice had answered. ‘Högsmed.’
‘Dr Högsmed?’
‘Yes?’
‘My name is Jan Hauger, and I’m interested in the position you’re advertising.’
‘What position?’
‘At the pre-school. Starting in September?’
There was a brief silence before Högsmed responded: ‘Oh yes, that position …’ He spoke quietly and seemed distracted. But he continued with a question for Jan: ‘May I ask
why
you are interested in this post?’
‘Well …’ Jan couldn’t tell the truth; he had immediately started to lie, or at least to conceal things about himself. ‘I’m curious,’ was all he said.
‘Curious,’ said Högsmed.
‘Yes … curious about the working environment and about the town. I’ve spent most of my time working in pre-schools and nurseries in cities. So it would be exciting to move to somewhere slightly smaller, and to compare the way in which a pre-school is run in that kind of place.’
‘Good,’ Högsmed had replied. ‘Of course this is a slightly unusual situation, since the children’s parents are actually patients …’
He had gone on to explain why St Patricia’s Hospital had a pre-school: ‘We started it a few years ago, as an experiment. The central idea is based on research into the critical aspect of a child’s relationship with its parents in terms of the child’s development
into
a socially mature individual. Both long-term and temporary foster homes always fall short in some respects, and here at St Patricia’s we believe it is extremely important for the child to have both regular and stable contact with the biological mother or father, in spite of the special circumstances. And of course, for the parent, this contact with the child forms part of their treatment.’ The doctor paused, then added, ‘That is what we do here: we
treat
the patients. We do not punish them, whatever they might have done.’
Jan had listened, and noticed that the doctor hadn’t used the word
cure
.
Högsmed had concluded with a further question: ‘How does that sound?’
Jan thought it sounded interesting, and had submitted an application along with his CV.
