The Sandman (26 page)

Pia Madsen returns from the toilet. Her eyelids are half-closed. A bit of toilet paper has got stuck to one of her shoes and is trailing after her. She’s approaching along the corridor with shuffling steps, her face lethargic.

‘I’m not that tired,’ she laughs, meeting his gaze.

She removes the toilet paper and throws it in the bin, then sits down at the control desk next to him and looks at the time.

‘Shall we sing a lullaby?’ she asks, before logging on to the computer and switching out the lights in the patients’ rooms.

The image of the three patients stays on Anders’s retina for a while. Just before everything went dark Jurek was already lying on his back in bed, Bernie was sitting on the floor holding his bandaged hand to his chest, and Saga was sitting on the edge of her bed, looking angry and vulnerable in roughly equal measure.

‘They’re already part of the family,’ Pia yawns, then opens her book.

At nine o’clock the staff turn out the ceiling light. Saga is sitting on the edge of her bed. She’s got the microphone tucked into the lining of her trousers again. It seems safest to keep it close until she’s able to put it in position. Without the microphone, the whole mission will be pointless. She waits, and a short while later a grey rectangle becomes visible through the darkness. It’s the thick glass window in the door. Shortly after that the shapes of the room appear as a foggy landscape. Saga gets up and goes over to the darkest corner, lies down on the cold floor and starts doing sit-ups. After three hundred she rolls over, slowly stretches her stomach muscles and starts doing push-ups.

Suddenly she gets the feeling that she’s being watched. Something’s different. She stops and looks up. The glass window is darker, shaded. Hurriedly she sticks her fingers in the lining of her trousers, takes the microphone out, but drops it on the floor.

She hears steps and movement, then a metallic scraping sound against the door.

Saga sweeps her hands quickly over the floor, finds the microphone and puts it in her mouth just as the lamp in the ceiling comes on.

‘Stand on the cross,’ a woman says in a stern voice.

Saga is still on all fours with the microphone in her mouth. Slowly she gets to her feet as she tries to gather saliva.

‘Hurry up.’

She takes her time walking towards the cross, looks up at the ceiling, then down at the floor again. She stops on the cross, turns her back nonchalantly towards the door, raises her eyes to the ceiling and swallows. Her throat hurts badly as the microphone slowly slips down.

‘We met earlier,’ a man says in a drawling voice. ‘I’m the Senior Consultant here, and I’m responsible for your medication.’

‘I want to see a lawyer,’ Saga says.

‘Take your top off and walk slowly over to the door,’ the first voice says.

She takes her blouse off, lets it fall to the floor, turns and walks towards the door in her washed-out bra.

‘Stop and hold both your hands up, turn your arms round and open your mouth wide.’

The metal hatch opens and she holds out her hand to take the little cup with her pills.

‘I’ve changed your medication, by the way,’ the Senior Consultant with the drawling voice says.

Saga suddenly grasps the full significance of being in these people’s power as she sees the doctor fill a syringe with a milky-white emulsion.

‘Stick your left arm through the hatch,’ the woman says.

She realises she can’t refuse, but her pulse quickens as she obeys. A hand grabs her arm and the doctor rubs his thumb over the muscle. A panicked desire to fight her way free bubbles up inside her.

‘I understand that you’ve been getting Trilafon,’ the doctor says, giving her a look that she can’t read. ‘Eight milligrams, three times a day, but I was thinking of trying—’

‘I don’t want to,’ she says.

She tries to pull her arm back, but the guard is holding it tight, she’s capable of breaking it. The guard is heavy and forces her arm down, making her stand on tiptoe.

Saga forces herself to breathe calmly. What are they going to give her? A clouded drop is hanging from the point of the needle. She tries to pull her arm back again. A finger strokes the thin skin over the muscle. There’s a prick and the needle slides in. She can’t move her arm. A chill spreads through her body. She sees the doctor’s hands as the needle is withdrawn and a small compress stops the bleeding. Then they let go of her. She pulls her arm free and retreats from the door and the two figures behind the glass.

‘Now go and sit on the bed,’ the guard says in a hard voice.

Her arm stings where the needle went in, as if it had burned her. An immense weariness spreads through her body. She hasn’t got the energy to pick up her blouse from the floor, just stumbles and takes a step towards the bed.

‘I’ve given you Stesolid to help you relax,’ the doctor says.

The room lurches and she fumbles for support, but can’t reach the wall with her hand.

‘Shit,’ Saga gasps.

Tiredness sweeps over her, and, just as she’s thinking that she’d better lie down on the bed, her legs give way. She collapses and hits the floor, the jolt running through her body and jarring her neck.

‘I’m going to be coming in shortly,’ the doctor goes on. ‘I was thinking we might try a neuroleptic drug that sometimes works very well, Haldol depot.’

‘I don’t want to,’ she says quietly, trying to roll onto her side.

She opens her eyes and tries to overcome the dizziness. One hip hurts after the fall. A tingling sensation rises from her feet, making her more and more drowsy. She attempts to get up, but doesn’t have the energy. Her thoughts are getting slower. She tries again, but is completely impotent.

Her eyelids are heavy, but she forces herself to look. The light from the lamp in the ceiling is strangely clouded. The metal door opens and a man in a white coat comes in. It’s the young doctor. He’s got something in his slender hands. The door closes behind him and the lock clicks. She blinks her dry eyes and sees the doctor put two ampoules of yellow oil on the table. Carefully he opens the plastic packaging of a syringe. Saga tries to crawl under the bed, but she’s too slow. The doctor grabs hold of one of her ankles and starts to pull her out. She tries to cling on, and rolls over onto her back. Her bra slides up, uncovering her breasts as he drags her out onto the floor.

‘You look like a princess,’ she hears him whisper.

‘What?’

She looks up and sees his moist gaze, and tries to cover her breasts, but her hands are too weak.

She shuts her eyes again and just lies there waiting.

Suddenly the doctor rolls her over onto her stomach. He pulls her trousers and pants down. She dozes off and is woken by a sharp prick in the top of her right buttock, then another slightly lower down.

Saga wakes up in the darkness on the cold floor and realises that she’s got the blanket on top of her. Her head aches and she has almost no
feeling in her hands. She sits up, adjusts her bra and thinks about the microphone in her stomach.

There’s very little time.

She could have been asleep for hours.

She crawls over to the drain in the floor, sticks two fingers down her throat and throws up some acrid liquid. She gulps hard and tries again, her stomach cramps, but nothing comes up.

‘Shit …’

She has to have the microphone tomorrow, so she can put it in position in the dayroom. It mustn’t disappear into her duodenum. She gets up on wobbly legs and drinks some water from the tap in the basin, then kneels down again, leans forward and sticks two fingers down her throat. The water comes back up, but she keeps her fingers where they are. The meagre contents of her stomach trickle down her lower arm. Gasping for breath, she sticks her fingers in deeper, setting off the gag reflex again. She throws up some bile, and her mouth is filled with the bitter taste. She coughs and sticks her fingers down once more, and this time she finally feels the microphone come up through her throat and into her mouth. She catches it in her hand and hides it, even though the room is dark, then stands up, washes it under the tap and tucks it into the lining of her trousers again. She spits out a mixture of bile and slime, rinses her mouth and face, spits again, drinks some water and goes back to the bed.

Her feet and fingertips are cold and numb. She has a vague itch in her toes. As Saga lies down on the bed and adjusts her trousers she realises that her pants are inside out. She isn’t sure if she put them on wrong herself, or if something else has happened. She curls up under the blanket and carefully puts one hand down to her crotch. It isn’t sore or hurt, but it feels strangely numb.

Mikael Kohler-Frost is sitting at a table in the dining room of his hospital ward. He has one hand wrapped round a cup of warm tea as he speaks to Magdalena Ronander of the National Criminal Investigation Department. Reidar is too agitated to sit, but he stands by the door and watches his son for a while before going down to the entrance to meet Veronica Klimt.

Magdalena smiles at Mikael, then gets out the bulky interview protocols and puts them on the table. They fill four spiral-bound folders. She leafs through to the marker, then asks if he’s ready to continue.

‘I only ever saw the inside of the capsule,’ Mikael explains, as he’s done so many times before.

‘Can you describe the door again?’ she asks.

‘It’s made of metal, and is completely smooth … at the start you could pick little flakes of paint off it with your fingernails … there’s no keyhole, no handle …’

‘What colour is it?’

‘Grey …’

‘And there was a hatch which—’

She breaks off when she sees him swipe the tears from his cheeks and turn his face away.

‘I can’t tell Dad,’ he says, his lips trembling. ‘But if Felicia doesn’t come back …’

Magdalena gets up and goes round the table, hugs him and repeats that everything is going to be OK.

‘I know,’ he says, ‘I know I’d kill myself.’

Reidar Frost has barely left Södermalm Hospital since Mikael came back. He’s been renting a room at the hospital, on the same floor as Mikael, so he can be with his son the whole time.

Even though Reidar knows it wouldn’t do any good, it’s all he can do to stop himself running out to join the search for Felicia. He’s paid for adverts in the national press every day, pleading for information and promising a reward. He’s employed a team of the country’s best private detectives to look for her, but her absence is tearing at him, stopping him sleeping, forcing him to roam the corridors hour after hour.

The only thing that makes him feel calm is watching Mikael get better and stronger with each passing day. Inspector Joona Linna says it’s a huge help if he can stay with his son, letting him talk at his own pace, listening and writing down every memory, every detail.

When Reidar gets down to the entrance Veronica is already waiting for him inside the glass doors that lead to the snow-covered car park.

‘Isn’t it a bit early to be sending Micke home?’ she asks, handing over the bags.

‘They say it’s fine,’ Reidar smiles.

‘I bought a pair of jeans and some softer trousers, shirts, T-shirts, a thick jumper and a few other—’

‘How are things at home?’ Reidar asks.

‘Lots of snow,’ says Veronica, laughing, then she tells him about the last few guests leaving.

‘What, even my cavaliers?’ Reidar asks.

‘No, they’re still there … you’ll see.’

‘What do you mean?’

Veronica just shakes her head and smiles.

‘I told Berzelius that they’re not allowed to come here, but they’re very keen to meet Mikael,’ she replies.

‘Are you coming up?’ Reidar asks, smiling and adjusting her collar.

‘Another time,’ Veronica replies, looking him in the eye.

As Reidar drives, Mikael sits there in his new clothes, changing stations on the radio. Suddenly he stops. Satie’s ballet music fills the car like warm summer rain.

‘Dad, isn’t it a bit over the top to live in a manor?’ Mikael smiles.

‘Yes.’

He actually bought the run-down estate because he could no longer bear the neighbours in Tyresö.

Snow-covered fields spread out before them. They turn into the long avenue where Reidar’s three friends have lit torches all along the drive. When they stop and get out of the car, Wille Strandberg, Berzelius and David Sylwan come out onto the steps.

Berzelius takes a step forward, and for a moment it looks as though he doesn’t know whether to embrace or shake hands with the young man. Then he mumbles something and hugs Mikael hard.

Wille wipes some tears away behind his glasses.

‘You’re all grown up, Micke,’ he says. ‘I’ve—’

‘Let’s go inside,’ Reidar interrupts, coming to his son’s rescue. ‘We need to eat.’

David blushes and shrugs his shoulders apologetically:

‘We’ve organised a backwards party.’

‘What’s one of those?’ Reidar asks.

‘You start with dessert and conclude with the starter.’ Sylwan smiles, slightly embarrassed.

Mikael is first through the imposing doorway. The broad oak tiles in the hallway smell as if they’ve recently been scrubbed.

There are balloons hanging from the ceiling of the dining room, and on the table is a large cake decorated with a figure of Spiderman made out of coloured marzipan.

‘We know you’re grown up, but you used to love Spiderman, so we thought …’

‘We got it wrong,’ Wille concludes.

‘I’d love to try some,’ Mikael says kindly.

‘That’s the spirit!’ David laughs.

‘Then there’s pizza … and alphabet soup to finish up with,’ Berzelius says.

They sit down at the huge oval table.

‘I remember one time when you said you had to keep an eye on a cake in the kitchen until the guests arrived,’ Berzelius says, cutting Mikael a large slice. ‘It was completely hollow by the time we came to light the candles …’