Rebecka Martinsson saw her dead friend lying there on the gravel in Poikkijärvi. And the world shattered. And they had to hold on to her to stop her walking into the river.

This is the third book.

Extract from case notes 12 September 2003 regarding patient Rebecka Martinsson

Reason for contact: Patient admitted to Kiruna hospital with facial injuries after a fall & trauma to head. On admission found to be in acute state of psychosis. Surgical treatment of facial injuries necessary; patient therefore sedated. On waking, clear psychotic symptoms still present. Decision made to section patient under 3 § LPT. Transferred to psychiatric clinic at St. Göran’s hospital, Stockholm—secure unit. Preliminary diagnosis: psychosis UNS. Treatment: Risperdal mix 8 mg/day plus Sobril 50 mg/day.

This is the last time.

Behold, he comes with the clouds, and every eye shall see him.

This is the final hour.

This is the time of the fiery steed. She who comes with the long sword, so that men shall slay one another.

And here! They seize me by the arms! They will not listen! Stubbornly they refuse to turn their eyes to the heavens, opening up before them.

This is the time of the pale steed.

And he paws the ground with his sharp hooves. He kicks earth out of his way.

There came a huge earthquake, and the earth turned as black as ink, and the whole of the moon was the color of blood.

And I remained behind. Many of us were left behind. We fall to our knees before our journey into the darkness, and we empty our bowels through fear. On the way to the lake burning with fire and sulfur, and this is the second death. Only a few minutes remain. We must grab hold of whatever we can. Hold fast to what is closest to us.

I can hear the voice of the seven storms. At last the words are clear.

It says. The time. Is up.

But no one here will listen!

Extract from case notes 27 September 2003 regarding patient Rebecka Martinsson

Patient responsive, answers when spoken to, able to give an account of events which triggered depressive psychosis. Displays vital signs of depression: weight loss, listlessness, disturbed sleep pattern, waking early. High risk of suicide. ECT treatments to continue. Cipramil in tablet form 40 mg/day.

One of the nurses (I have nurses, imagine that) is called Johan. Or is it Jonas? Jonny? He takes me out for a walk. I’m not allowed out on my own. We don’t go far. It still makes me incredibly tired. Perhaps he notices as we’re walking back. He doesn’t show it, though. Keeps talking the whole time. That’s good, it means I don’t have to bother.

He’s talking about Muhammad Ali’s title fight against George Foreman in 1974 in Zaire.

“He took so much punishment! Leaned against the ropes and just let Foreman keep hitting him. Foreman, well, he was cruel. We’re talking heavyweights here, and most people have probably forgotten, but people were worried about Ali before the match. Thought Foreman might actually kill him. And then Ali just stood there like a bloody…stone! And took the punishment for seven rounds. Completely psyched Foreman out. In the seventh he leaned against Foreman’s shoulder and whispered, “Is that all you got, George?” And it was! Then in the eighth, Foreman could hardly keep his guard up any longer, and then the opening came. Ali just went: bam! (he made a right hook in the air). Foreman goes down like a pine tree! Crrrash!”

I walk in silence. Notice that the trees are starting to smell of autumn. And he’s talking Rumble in the Jungle. I am the greatest. Thrilla in Manila.

Or he talks about the Second World War (is he supposed to do that with me, I wonder quietly to myself, aren’t I sensitive, sort of fragile, what would the consultant say?).

“The Japanese, now they’re real warriors. You know, when their fighter pilots ran out of juice in the middle of the Pacific, if there was an American aircraft carrier within range they flew straight into it. Pow! Or they did an elegant belly landing on the surface of the water, just to show what incredibly skillful fliers they were. Then when they were sitting there having survived, they jumped in the water and stabbed themselves. Wouldn’t let themselves be taken alive by the enemy. Same thing when they were fighting at Guadalcanal. They jumped off the cliffs like lemmings when they realized they were beaten. The Americans were standing there with their megaphones telling them to give themselves up.”

When we get back to the ward I’m suddenly afraid that he’ll ask me if I enjoyed the walk. If I liked it? If I’d like to do it again tomorrow?

I can’t manage to answer “yes” or “that would be nice.” It feels like it did when I was little. When some of the older ladies in the village bought you an ice cream or a drink. They always had to ask: “Was that nice?” Despite the fact that they could see. You were sitting there devouring it, in silent bliss. But you had to give them something. Pay the price. “Yes,” and preferably “thank you” from the little girl, the poor little soul with the crazy mother. I have nothing to give now. Not even a squeak. If he asks me I’ll have to say no. Although it was so good to breathe the air. The ward smells of medication sweated out through every pore, smoke, dirt, hospital, the cleaning fluid they use on the vinyl floor.

But he doesn’t ask. Takes me for a stroll the following day too.

Extract from epicrisis October 30 re patient Rebecka Martinsson

Patient has responded well to treatment. Suicide risk no longer regarded as likely. For the past two weeks has been nursed according to HSL. Low, but not seriously depressed. Transfer to residence in Kurravaara, village outside Kiruna, where patient grew up. To keep in contact with clinic in Kiruna. Continued medication Cipramil 40 mg/day.

The consultant asks me how I’m feeling. I reply: fine.

He looks at me in silence. Almost smiling. Knowing. He can keep quiet for as long as it takes. He’s an expert at it. Silences don’t provoke him. In the end I say: not too bad. That’s the right answer. He nods.

I’m not allowed to stay here. I’ve taken up a place for long enough. There are women who need it more than me. The kind who set fire to their hair. Who come onto the ward and swallow pieces of broken mirror in the toilets, and have to be rushed into the emergency department all the time. I can talk, answer questions, get up in the mornings and brush my teeth.

I hate him because he won’t force me to stay here forever and ever. Because he isn’t God.

Then I’m sitting on the train traveling north. The landscape hurtles past in a series of snapshots. First there are the big deciduous trees in tones of red and yellow. Autumn sunshine and lots of houses. People living their lives in every single one. Getting by somehow.

After Bastuträsk there’s snow. And then at last: forest, forest, forest. I’m on the way home. The birch trees shrink, standing black and spindly against the white background.

I press my forehead and my nose against the window.

I feel fine, I say to myself. This is what it’s like to feel fine.

S
ATURDAY
M
ARCH
15

A
n early spring evening, Torneträsk. The ice was thick, more than a meter. All along the lake, some seventy kilometers long, lay arks, small cabins on runners, four square meters in size. At this time of year the inhabitants of Kiruna made their pilgrimage up to Torneträsk. They came up on snowmobiles, towing the ark behind them.

Inside the ark there was a hole in the floor. You drilled a hole through the thick ice. A plastic pipe linked the hole in the ice to the hole in the floor, and that prevented the icy wind from getting into the ark from below. And then you sat inside fishing through the hole in the ice.

Leif Pudas was sitting in his ark in just his pants, fishing. It was eight-thirty in the evening. He’d cracked open a few beers, it was Saturday night after all. The Calor gas stove was hissing and whistling. It was lovely and warm, almost eighty degrees. And he’d caught some fish too, fifteen mountain char, only small, but still. And he’d saved a few sprats for his sister’s cat.

When it was time for a pee it felt like a kind of liberation, he was
much too hot, it would be nice to get outside and cool down a bit. He pulled on his boots and clambered out into the cold and dark in just his pants.

BOOK: The Black Path

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