The Uninvited (10 page)

‘So sit down.’ His Swedish accent is thicker than Annika’s.

‘I’ll let you stay for a moment,’ says the doctor, breaking off from her phone call. ‘But as you see he is very agitated.’ I nod, and she returns to her conversation. I sit on the plastic chair next to the bed, but I don’t know where to look.

‘There is a gang of them,’ says Jonas Svensson. He seems manic. ‘Anyway they are disgusting creatures, they just took my clothes off, those . . .’ He can’t find the word. Then he does. ‘Trolls.’

‘Trolls?’

‘Yes. Little kiddie trolls. I must’ve swallowed one. That’s how they get in, right? I’m just guessing. Like a tapeworm or something. They stink. Look at my hands. Do they look a normal size to you? Or do they look like they belong on a stinking kiddie troll?’

He shoves his huge hands towards me, clenched into fists. I recoil. On a parallel track, I’m folding paper in my head. I speed it up, but I can’t do it fast enough to get the effect I need.

I say, ‘They look a normal size. In fact they are on the large side.’

‘On the large side, is that what you think? Well think again man,’ he says with what seems to be contempt. ‘It made me fuck things up. I didn’t want to! Don’t you see?’ He’s shouting now. ‘It’s in me! It’s using me like a puppet!’

‘Sir, you should go,’ says Dr Aziz.

‘What’s using you like a puppet?’ I ask, hesitating.

‘The fucking . . . creature. It’s still in here.’ He thumps his chest. ‘It’s going to kill me.’

‘We won’t let that happen,’ says Dr Aziz, in English. Her voice is reassuring. She is preparing a syringe. ‘You’re safe in here, Jonas.’

He laughs. ‘You think they came all this way for nothing? You think they’re just having fun? Ha!’ He whips off his sunglasses. I wish he hadn’t. My breath catches in my throat. His eyes are so bloodshot that there’s no white to be seen. Just two pale blue irises swimming in a sea of red. They are leaking a kind of glue. ‘And how do you think it feels to go blind, ha?’ he asks.

‘You’re not going blind. You just have a bad infection,’ says the doctor. ‘And a pressure build-up. The antibiotics will help, you’ll see.’ She addresses me. ‘Why don’t you come back another time when he’s calmer?’

Svensson puts a fist to his brow next to his bulging right eye, then suddenly opens up his hand. It’s a baffling gesture. I think of a spread starfish. ‘That’s what happens next. Pop. Do you think we like what you did to us? Do you think we wanted to be the last?’ Dr Aziz addresses Svensson fast, in Swedish. I understand none of it, except ‘
du
’, meaning ‘you’, and ‘
nu
’, meaning ‘now’. He shoves his sunglasses back on then lifts his hands high above his head, splays his fingers again, and with a swift movement catches hold of my upper arm and digs his fingers in deep. The pain is shocking. I cry out sharply and the doctor buzzes an alarm. ‘You fucking grown-up,’ he says.

‘Security’s coming,’ says Dr Aziz, trying to pull Jonas off. But he shakes her away and tightens his grip. I start rocking. As I rock, I can see my own face moving back and forth in his distortive mirror lenses. My mouth is open, as if I am trying to shout but can’t. He’s remarkably strong. I can feel the tip of each finger digging into my flesh through the fabric of my sleeve. He digs in deeper and hisses, ‘Do you think we like starving, and fighting over food? You fucking
lap-sap
.’

I freeze.
Lap-sap
isn’t Swedish. It’s Cantonese. It means rubbish. Just then the door opens wide and a tall blond security guard enters with the black nurse. At this Jonas utters a yelp, releases his grip on my arm, jumps up and dodges past the guard. The nurse grabs his hand, but he breaks free and hurtles through the open door and out. Dr Aziz slams at a button on the wall and the wail of an alarm sets up: the guard has already gone. Outside the door, I hear Annika screaming at Jonas to stop.

Dr Aziz rushes out and I follow. There’s no sign of either Jonas or the nurse or the guard, but the swing doors are closing as Annika Svensson reaches them. She pushes them open again and bursts through, still calling after Jonas:
Hold op Jonas! Hold op!

When Dr Aziz and I reach Reception a cluster of people is pointing through the revolving door and staff are yelling into walkie-talkies. Annika speeds out and I follow. Outside, others are chasing him: some wear white coats. The nurse with tribal markings is crouched on the ground, groaning and clutching his stomach. Jonas must have punched him. Then I see him, far off, racing across the parking area in a zigzag sprint, his pale buttocks jiggling as he manoeuvres past the cars, occasionally ducking and popping up again. Everyone’s shouting. Jonas is still well ahead of everyone else, and clearly heading for the vehicle exit and the road beyond. I am a fast runner, but I know it’s hopeless trying to close the gap. I keep running anyway. Up ahead, Annika screams again.

A different kind of scream.

I have never seen a traffic accident actually happen before.

The truck is a big one, with eight wheels. Dirty. Underneath the dirt, it’s red and yellow. It must weigh eight tons. There is a high screech of brakes as the driver sees Jonas and swerves to avoid him. He fails. The noise when it hits him:
BAM
or possibly
KERTHUNK.
The impact hurls Jonas sideways and upward, on a diagonal trajectory. He could be one of Freddy’s Action Men, flung gaily aside. I don’t see him land. But I see the truck smash into the wall on the opposite side of the road. There’s a huge reverberative thud and then the engine dies.

In the silence that follows, my mind goes blank. I stand there rocking. I register a security guard shouting into a walkie-talkie; Annika Svensson sinking down on to the bare tarmac; paramedics rushing past with a stretcher; a man taking a photo on his mobile phone. Within seconds, blue lights are flashing everywhere and the site of the accident is seething with people.

There’s nothing I can do, so I walk at high speed back into the hospital and find a bathroom where I vomit copiously. What comes out is dark because I ate Swedish crackers for breakfast, and these are made of rye. I also had smoked salmon, plus some fresh blueberries and redcurrants. There are traces of those too, making for a repellent colour mix.

Back at the hotel, I call the hospital to find out the news, then take a long shower. I think about how I’d tell Freddy the story of Jonas and the truck.

A Swedish man said that kiddie trolls made him ruin his work. He tried to kill himself with poison. When that failed he was locked away in a safe place. But it wasn’t safe enough. He ran under a truck. They’re operating on him now. He has suffered massive blood loss. The driver of the lorry has a broken clavicle and fractured ribs. And here’s what I know about Scandinavian trolls, Freddy K. They steal people and carry them off into the mountains. The English expression ‘off with the fairies’ stems from that belief. Trolls can change shape. Some can appear very dapper. Troll-women seduce men, but they can be spotted because they are only facades: they never show their backs. They come in all sizes. Some have tails. They never divulge their names.

I Skype Ashok and fill him in briefly on my abortive interview with Jonas Svensson and what followed. When I tell him about Jonas’ prognosis – not good – he puts his head in his hands. When he looks at me again, his hair is sticking out at odd angles.

‘Jesus. You’re sure earning your bucks on this one, Maestro.’

‘In the Chen file, there’s an envelope containing a specimen. I think it’s something mineral. Can you have it analysed?’

‘Sure. Might take a few days.’

‘And the suicide note?’

‘Is just some weird little drawings. I’ve sent you a PDF. Stephanie Mulligan’s got a theory. About Chen and Svensson. Want to hear it? Belinda, get Steph in here, will you?’

‘Sure,’ says Belinda, picking up the phone.

‘No. Don’t,’ I say.

‘Why?’ says Ashok.

‘It might cloud my judgement.’

‘You’re not thinking straight.’ He leans closer to the screen, but I can’t make out his expression. ‘And you could do with a shave. You’ve missed some on your neck. You need to keep it together, bud. A lot’s riding on this. Hey, Steph.’ He turns as she enters. ‘Come join us.’

If he had any idea what Stephanie has been to me, and perhaps still is, he would not be doing this.

I’m aware of the pale hair, the stark, unadorned face, the white neck, the eyes demanding contact. The small, mean breasts I have often fantasised about, against my will, and which, in combination with other things, have brought me to orgasm forty-seven times to date. I focus on her hairline. She raises a hand, smiles and says ‘Hi’. She can be very professional. By this I mean she is very good at pretending. She is popular at work. People call her ‘modest’ and ‘insightful’. I nod back. She pulls up a chair next to Ashok, who adjusts the screen so they are both visible.

‘So, Steph. I was just telling Hesketh you have a theory.’

I shift my eye line to the rim of the laptop.

‘You’ve probably thought of this yourself already Hesketh,’ she begins. ‘But here’s my take on it, for what it’s worth. What strikes me is that there’s such a big split between the men’s actions and their personalities that something’s got to be going on behind the scenes. Some kind of outside pressure.’ The connection is a bad one: her voice is patchy. ‘Chen and Svensson are what I’d call the drone type. They’re conscientious about their work and they’re loyal to their firm. They don’t fit the saboteur profile. We know that from your report on Chen, and from what Annika Svensson told Ashok about her husband.’

‘Who just threw himself under a truck, by the way,’ Ashok tells her. ‘Hesketh saw it happen. Guy’s fighting for his life.’

She pulls back slightly and her face changes. Her voice too. ‘Hesketh. I’m so sorry. Perhaps we should talk another time. You must be in shock.’

‘No. It’s a bad connection, but let’s just get it over with.’ They look at each other.

‘OK,’ she says. ‘So someone’s got to these men, and forced them into doing something that went against their nature. They felt manipulated. Like they were at the mercy of someone or something. Suicide was their only way of protesting and taking back control. Does that make any sense?’

I start sketching a new Venn on the hotel notepaper in front of me. I press too hard and the pencil lead breaks.

‘Yes. As far as it goes.’ She hasn’t mentioned the possibility that Chen and Svensson’s subconscious minds were in active rebellion against their conscious selves. I could raise the notion of dissociative fugue myself, but I’m not going to. This is my investigation.

Ashok says, ‘In the meantime, we’ve warned all our past clients that if they get any motiveless sabotage, in view of what’s happened we’re offering surveillance and counselling. Stephanie’s idea. Nice touch, eh?’

‘Sounds lucrative,’ I say. Stephanie looks away.

The careless way she stirred up my life.

Ashok grins. ‘All part of the elite service we offer. Look, Hesketh. We’ve got two clients so far. But I’ll be frank. Word’s going around, there are others. A lot. There’s some seriously weird global shit going on. I’ll send you some outlines, if I can get them. But for now just do your thing. Usual strategy: describe, process, prevent slash eliminate.’

Just as Stephanie starts to say something else the image freezes. So I say, ‘You’re breaking up,’ press End Call, download Ashok’s PDF and go offline.

I open the file. Sunny’s suicide drawings are striking. I can see why Mrs Chen refused to associate this odd legacy with her husband. I can’t picture him producing them either. Their boldness and brashness seems out of character. The three images are large and crudely executed in broad ink strokes. Freddy could have done them.

There’s a human eye with what might be rays of light shooting out of it, reminiscent of the all-seeing eye depicted on top of the pyramid on an American dollar bill.

There’s an ellipse that resembles a necklace strung with elongated beads. Their tips are spiked, like narrow bones.

And at the bottom right of the page, where an artist would put his signature, is a hand-print. The fingers are together, with only the thumb separate from the rest. The effect is that of a stop sign.

Have the police checked the fingerprints against Sunny Chen’s? His wife may have demanded it. She had insisted, after all, that the drawings could not have been left by Sunny. The jagged ellipse and the eye are large in relation to the hand. I pull the Jenwai folder back on my screen and call up the image of the smear that Sunny Chen was so keen for the police to fingerprint at the factory, yet so reluctant to discuss: the smear he later claimed he’d made himself. He’d called it ‘evidence’. I stare at it for a long time. Then I text Ashok asking for the dimensions of the original ‘suicide drawings’. If I know the scale, I’ll know if the hand-print is a normal size for a man. If it is not, then how could Sunny have made it? He said ‘they’ had pressured him, and made his body disobey his mind. And Jonas claimed ‘little kiddie trolls’ used him as a puppet to sabotage the system. He thought he might have ‘swallowed’ one. He used the analogy of a tapeworm.

They are travellers
, said Sunny Chen.
They go wherever they like.