The Sandman (3 page)

The little hatch in the door clatters as it is bolted shut again.

Anders sees that one pocket of his coat has caught on a loose strut. He quickly pulls it free, holds his breath and pushes himself out again.
He is filled with a rising sense of panic. He scrapes his stomach and knee, but grabs the edge of the bed with one hand and pulls himself out.

Panting, he turns round and gets unsteadily to his feet with the knife in his hand.

Jurek is lying on his side, one eye half-open in sleep, staring blindly.

Anders hurries over to the door and meets the Senior Consultant’s anxious gaze through the reinforced glass and tries to smile, but stress cuts through his voice as he says:

‘Open the door.’

Roland Brolin opens the hatch instead.

‘Pass the knife out first.’

Anders gives him a quizzical look, then hands the knife over.

‘You found something else as well,’ Roland Brolin says.

‘No,’ Anders replies, glancing at Jurek.

‘A letter.’

‘There wasn’t anything else.’

Jurek is starting to writhe on the floor, and is gasping weakly.

‘Check his pockets,’ the Senior Consultant says with a stressed smile.

‘What for?’

‘Because this is a search.’

Anders turns and walks cautiously to Jurek Walter. His eyes are completely shut again, but beads of sweat are starting to appear on his furrowed face.

Reluctantly Anders leans over and feels inside one of his pockets. The denim shirt pulls tighter across Jurek’s shoulders and he lets out a low groan.

There’s a plastic comb in the back pocket of his jeans. With trembling hands Anders checks the rest of his tight pockets.

Sweat is dripping from the tip of his nose. He has to keep blinking hard.

One of Jurek’s big hands opens and closes several times.

There’s nothing else in his pockets.

Anders turns back towards the reinforced glass and shakes his head. It’s impossible to see if Brolin is standing outside the door. The reflection of the lamp in the ceiling is shining like a grey sun in the glass.

He has to get out now.

It’s taken too long.

Anders gets to his feet and hurries over to the door. The Senior Consultant isn’t there. Anders peers closer to the glass, but can’t see anything.

Jurek Walter is breathing fast, like a child having a nightmare.

Anders bangs on the door. His hands thud almost soundlessly against the thick metal. He bangs again. There’s no sound, nothing is happening. He taps on the glass with his wedding ring, then sees a shadow growing across the wall.

His shiver runs up his back and down his arms. With his heart pounding and adrenalin rising through his body, he turns round. He sees Jurek Walter slowly sitting up. His face is slack and his pale eyes are staring straight ahead. His mouth is still bleeding and his lips look weirdly red.

Anders is shouting and pounding at the heavy steel door, but the Senior Consultant still isn’t opening it. His pulse is thudding in his head as he turns to face their patient. Jurek Walter is still sitting on the floor, and blinks at him a few times before he starts to get up.

‘It’s a lie,’ Jurek says, dribbling blood down his chin. ‘They say I’m a monster, but I’m just a human being …’

He doesn’t have the energy to stand up and slumps back, panting, onto the floor.

‘A human being,’ he repeats.

With a weary gesture he puts one hand inside his shirt, pulls out a folded piece of paper and tosses it over towards Anders.

‘The letter he was asking for,’ he says. ‘For the past seven years I’ve been asking to see a lawyer … Not because I’ve got any hope of getting out … I am who I am, but I’m still a human being …’

Anders crouches down and reaches for the piece of paper without taking his eyes off Jurek. The crumpled man tries to get up again, leaning on his hands, and although he sways slightly he manages to put one foot down on the floor.

Anders picks up the paper from the floor, and finally hears a rattling sound as the key is inserted into the lock of the door. He turns and stares out through the reinforced glass, feeling his legs tremble beneath him.

‘You shouldn’t have given me an overdose,’ Jurek mutters.

Anders doesn’t turn round, but he knows that Jurek Walter is standing up, staring at him.

The reinforced glass in the door is like a screen of grainy ice. He can’t see who’s standing on the other side turning the key in the lock.

‘Open, open,’ he whispers as he hears breathing behind his back.

The door slides open and Anders stumbles out of the isolation cell. He stumbles straight into the concrete wall of the corridor and hears the heavy clang as the door shuts, then the rattles as the powerful lock responds to the turn of the key.

Panting, he leans back against the cool wall. Only then does he see that it wasn’t the Senior Consultant who rescued him but the young woman with the pierced cheeks.

‘I don’t know what happened,’ she says. ‘Roland must have lost it completely, he’s always incredibly careful about security.’

‘I’ll talk to him …’

‘Maybe he got ill … I think he’s diabetic.’

Anders wipes his clammy hands on his doctor’s coat and looks up at her again.

‘Thank you for letting me out,’ he says.

‘I’d do anything for you,’ she jokes.

He tries to give her his carefree, boyish smile, but his legs are shaking as he follows her out through the security door. She stops in the control room, then turns back towards him.

‘There’s only one problem with working down here,’ she says. ‘It’s so damn quiet that you have to eat loads of sweets just to stay awake.’

‘That sounds OK.’

On a monitor he can see Jurek sitting on his bed with his head in his hands. The dayroom with its television and running machine is empty.

Anders Rönn spends the rest of the day concentrating on familiarising himself with the new routines, with a doctor’s round up on Ward 30, individual treatment plans and discharge tests, but his mind keeps going back to the letter in his pocket and what Jurek had said.

At ten past five Anders leaves the criminal psychology ward and emerges into the cool air. Beyond the illuminated hospital precinct the winter darkness has settled.

Anders warms his hands in his jacket pockets, and hurries across the pavement towards the large car park in front of the main entrance to the hospital.

It was full of cars when he arrived, but now it’s almost empty.

He screws up his eyes and realises that there’s someone standing behind his car.

‘Hello!’ Anders calls, walking faster.

The man turns round, rubs his hand over his mouth and moves away from the car. Senior Consultant Roland Brolin.

Anders slows down as he approaches the car and pulls his key from his pocket.

‘You’re expecting an apology,’ Brolin says with a forced smile.

‘I’d prefer not to have to speak to hospital management about what happened,’ Anders says.

Brolin looks him in the eye, then holds out his left hand, palm up.

‘Give me the letter,’ he says calmly.

‘What letter?’

‘The letter Jurek wanted you to find,’ he replies. ‘A note, a sheet of newspaper, a piece of cardboard.’

‘I found the knife that was supposed to be there.’

‘That was the bait,’ Brolin says. ‘You don’t think he’d put himself through all that pain for nothing?’

Anders looks at the Senior Consultant as he wipes sweat from his upper lip with one hand.

‘What do we do if the patient wants to see a lawyer?’ he asks.

‘Nothing,’ Brolin whispers.

‘Has he ever asked you that?’

‘I don’t know, I wouldn’t have heard, I always wear earplugs.’ Brolin smiles.

‘But I don’t understand why …’

‘You need this job,’ the Senior Consultant interrupts. ‘I’ve heard that you were bottom of your class, you’re in debt, you’ve got no experience and no references.’

‘Are you finished?’

‘You should give me the letter,’ Brolin replies, clenching his jaw.

‘I didn’t find a letter.’

Brolin looks him in the eye for a moment.

‘If you ever find a letter,’ he says, ‘you’re to give it to me without reading it.’

‘I understand,’ Anders says, unlocking the car door.

It seems to Anders as if the Senior Consultant looks slightly more relaxed as he gets in the car, shuts the door and starts the engine. When Brolin taps on the window he ignores him, puts the car in gear and pulls away. In the rear-view mirror Brolin stands and watches the car without smiling.

When Anders gets home he quickly shuts the front door behind him, locks it and puts the safety chain on.

His heart is beating hard in his chest – for some reason he ran from the car to the house.

From Agnes’s room he can hear Petra’s soothing voice. Anders smiles to himself. She’s already reading
Seacrow Island
to their daughter. It’s usually much later before the bedtime rituals have reached the story. It must have been a good day again today. Anders’s new job has meant that Petra has risked cutting her own hours.

There’s a damp patch on the hall rug around Agnes’s muddy winter boots. Her woolly hat and snood are on the floor in front of the bureau. Anders goes in and puts the bottle of champagne on the kitchen table, then stands and stares out at the garden.

He’s thinking about Jurek Walter’s letter, and no longer knows what to do.

The branches of the big lilac are scratching at the window. He looks at the dark glass and sees his own kitchen reflected back at him. As he listens to the squeaking branches, it occurs to him that he ought to go and get the shears from the storeroom.

‘Just wait a minute,’ he hears Petra say. ‘I’ll read to the end first …’

Anders creeps into Agnes’s room. The princess-lamp in the ceiling is on. Petra looks up from the book and meets his gaze. She’s got her
light brown hair pulled up into a ponytail and is wearing her usual heart-shaped earrings. Agnes is sitting in her lap and saying repeatedly that it’s gone wrong and they have to start the bit about the dog again.

Anders goes in and crouches down in front of them.

‘Hello, darling,’ he says.

Agnes glances at him quickly, then looks away. He pats her on the head, tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, then gets up.

‘There’s food left if you want to heat it up,’ Petra says. ‘I just have to reread this chapter before I can come and see you.’

‘It all went wrong with the dog,’ Agnes repeats, staring at the floor.

Anders goes into the kitchen, gets the plate of food from the fridge and puts it down on the worktop next to the microwave.

Slowly he pulls the letter out of the back pocket of his jeans and thinks of how Jurek repeated that he was a human being.

In tiny, cursive handwriting, Jurek had written a few faint sentences on the thin paper. In the top right corner the letter is addressed to a legal firm in Tensta, and simply constitutes a formal request. Jurek Walter asks for legal assistance to understand the meaning of his being sentenced to secure psychiatric care. He needs to have his rights clarified, and would like to know what possibility there is of getting the verdict reconsidered in the future.

Anders can’t put a finger on why he suddenly feels unsettled, but there’s something strange about the tone of the letter and the precise choice of wording, combined with the almost dyslexic spelling mistakes.

Thoughts about Jurek’s words are chasing round his head as he walks into his study and takes out an envelope. He copies the address, puts the letter in the envelope, and sticks a stamp on it.

He leaves the house and heads off into the chill darkness, across the grass towards the letter-box up by the roundabout. Once he’s posted the letter he stands and just watches the cars passing on Sandavägen for a while before walking back home.

The wind is making the frosted grass ripple like water. A hare races off towards the old gardens.

He opens the gate and looks up into the kitchen window. The whole house resembles a doll’s house. Everything is lit up and open to view. He can see straight into the corridor, to the blue painting that has always hung there.

The door to their bedroom is open. The vacuum cleaner is in the
middle of the floor. The cable is still plugged into the socket in the wall.

Suddenly Anders sees a movement. He gasps with surprise. There’s someone in the bedroom. Standing next to their bed.

Anders is about to rush inside when he realises that the person is actually standing in the garden at the back of the house.

He’s simply visible through the bedroom window.

Anders runs down the paved path, past the sundial and round the corner.

The man must have heard him coming, because he’s already running away. Anders can hear him forcing his way through the lilac hedge. He runs after him, holding the branches back, trying to see anything, but it’s far too dark.

Mikael stands up in the darkness when the Sandman blows his terrible dust into the room. He’s learned that there’s no point holding your breath. Because when the Sandman wants the children to sleep, they fall asleep.

He knows full well that his eyes will soon feel tired, so tired that he can’t keep them open. He knows he’ll have to lie down on the mattress and become part of the darkness.

Mum used to talk about the Sandman’s daughter, the mechanical girl, Olympia. She creeps in to the children once they’re asleep and pulls the covers up over their shoulders so they don’t freeze.

Mikael leans against the wall, feels the furrows in the concrete.

The thin sand floats like fog. It’s hard to breathe. His lungs struggle to keep his blood oxygenated.

He coughs and licks his lips. They’re dry and already feel numb.

His eyelids are getting heavier and heavier.