The Sandman Read online

  The man lifts his chin and gets up softly from the chair, turns to look at the hatch in the door, and unbuttons his shirt as he approaches.

  “Stop and take your shirt off,” Roland says.

  Jurek steps slowly forward and Roland quickly closes the hatch. Jurek stops, undoes the last buttons, and lets his shirt fall to the floor.

  His body looks as if it had once been in good shape, but now his muscles are loose and his wrinkled skin is sagging.

  Roland opens the hatch again. Jurek approaches and holds out his sinewy arm.

  Anders washes his upper arm with rubbing alcohol. Roland pushes the syringe into the soft muscle and injects the liquid too quickly. Jurek’s hand jerks in surprise, but he doesn’t pull his arm back until he’s been given permission. Roland hurriedly bolts the hatch, removes his earplugs, smiles nervously to himself, and then looks inside.

  Jurek is stumbling toward the bed, where he stops and sits down.

  Suddenly he twists to look at the door, and Roland drops the syringe.

  He tries to catch it, but it rolls away across the floor.

  Anders steps forward and picks up the syringe, and when they both stand and turn back toward the cell, they see that the inside of the reinforced glass is misted. Jurek Walter has breathed on the glass and written “Joona” with his finger.

  “What does it say?” Anders asks weakly.

  “He’s written ‘Joona.’ ”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  When the condensation clears, they see that Jurek Walter is sitting as if he hasn’t moved. He looks at the arm where he got the injection, massages the muscle, then looks at them through the glass.

  “It didn’t say anything else?” Anders asks.

  “No.”

  There’s a bestial roar from the other side of the heavy door. Jurek has slid off the bed and is on his knees, screaming. The sinews in his neck are taut, his veins swollen.

  “How much did you actually give him?” Anders asks.

  Jurek’s eyes roll back and turn white. He reaches out a hand to support himself and stretches one leg but topples over backward. He hits his head on the bedside table. Then he screams, and his body jerks spasmodically.

  “Jesus Christ,” Anders whispers.

  Jurek slips onto the floor, his legs kicking uncontrollably. He bites his tongue, and blood sprays out over his chest. He lies there on his back, gasping.

  “What do we do if he dies?”

  “Cremate him,” Roland says.

  Jurek is cramping again, his whole body shaking, and his hands flail in every direction, until they suddenly stop.

  Roland looks at his watch. Sweat is running down his cheeks.

  Jurek Walter whimpers, rolls onto his side and tries to get up, but fails.

  “You can go inside in a couple of minutes,” Roland says.

  “Am I really going in there?”

  “He’ll soon be completely harmless.”

  Jurek is crawling on all fours, bloody slime drooling from his mouth. He sways and slows down until he finally slumps to the floor and lies still.

  3

  Anders looks through the thick reinforced-glass window in the door. Jurek Walter has been lying motionless on the floor for the last ten minutes. His body goes limp as the cramps subside.

  Roland pulls out a key and puts it in the lock, then pauses and peers in through the window before unlocking the door.

  “Have fun,” he says.

  “What do we do if he wakes up?” Anders asks.

  “He mustn’t wake up.”

  Roland opens the door, and Anders goes inside. The door closes behind him, and the lock rattles. The cell smells of sweat, and something else as well. A sharp smell of vinegar. Jurek Walter lies completely still, breathing slowly.

  Anders keeps his distance from him, even though he knows he’s unconscious.

  The acoustics in there are odd, claustrophobic, as if sounds follow movements too quickly.

  His doctor’s coat rustles softly with each step.

  Jurek is breathing faster.

  The tap is dripping in the sink.

  Anders reaches the bed, then turns toward Jurek and kneels down.

  He catches a glimpse of Roland watching him anxiously through the reinforced glass as he leans over and tries to look under the fixed bed.

  Nothing on the floor.

  He moves closer, looking carefully at Jurek before lying flat on the floor.

  He can’t watch Jurek any longer. He has to turn his back on him to look for the knife.

  Not much light reaches under the bed. Dust balls line the wall.

  He can’t help imagining that Jurek Walter has opened his eyes.

  He sees something tucked between the wooden slats and the mattress. It’s hard to tell what it is.

  Anders stretches out his hand but can’t reach it. He’ll have to slide beneath the bed on his back. The space is so tight he can’t turn his head. He slips farther in. Feels the unyielding bulk of the bed frame against his rib cage with each breath. His fingers fumble. He needs to get a bit closer. His knee hits one of the wooden slats. He blows a dust ball away from his face and carries on.

  Suddenly he hears a dull thud behind him in the cell. He can’t turn around and look. He just lies there still, listening. His own breathing is so rapid he has trouble discerning any other sound.

  Cautiously, he reaches out his hand and touches the object with his fingertips, squeezing in a bit farther in order to pull it free.

  Jurek has fashioned a short knife with a very sharp blade from a piece of steel skirting.

  “Hurry up,” Roland calls through the hatch.

  Anders tries to get out, pushing hard, and scratches his cheek.

  Suddenly he can’t move. He’s stuck. His coat is caught, and there’s no way he can wriggle out of it.

  He imagines he can hear the sound of shuffling from Jurek.

  Perhaps it was nothing.

  Anders pulls as hard as he can. The seams strain but don’t tear. He realizes that he’s going to have to slide back under the bed to free his coat.

  “What are you doing?” Roland calls in a brittle voice.

  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 around 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. He meets the chief’s anxious gaze through the reinforced glass and tries to smile, but stress cuts through his voice.

  “Open the door.”

  Roland Brolin opens the hatch instead.

  “Pass me the knife 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, gasping weakly.

  “Check his pockets,” the chief says.

  “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 pockets.

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

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

  There’s nothing else in his pockets.

  Anders hears a distant alarm and turns back toward the reinforced glass. It’s impossible to see if Roland is standing outside the door. The reflection of the lamp in the ceiling is shining like a gray 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. Roland isn’t there.

  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.

  Anders feels a shiver run up his back and down his arms. With his heart pounding and his adrenaline rising, he turns around. 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 strangely red.

  4

  Jurek Walter is sitting on the floor and blinks at Anders 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, and slumps back, panting, onto the floor.

  “A human being,” he repeats.

  He puts one trembling hand inside his shirt, pulls out a folded piece of paper, and tosses it over toward 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 have 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 a key is inserted into the lock of the door. He turns and stares out through the reinforced glass, feeling his legs shake beneath him.

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

  Open, open, Anders thinks. He hears breathing behind his back.

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

  “The alarm sounded, and the door to the cell automatically locked, so I had to go override it,” Roland says.

  “This is insane.”

  “Did you find anything more?” Roland asks.

  “Just the knife,” Anders says.

  “So he didn’t give you anything?”

  “No.”

  “It would be better if you gave it to me.”

  5

  Anders Rönn spends the rest of the day familiarizing himself with the new routines—doctor’s rounds up on Ward 30, individual treatment plans, and discharge examinations—but his mind keeps going back to the letter in his pocket and what Jurek 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 keeps his hands in his jacket pockets and hurries across the pavement toward the large parking lot 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 realizes that there’s someone standing behind his car.

  “Hello?” Anders calls, walking faster.

  The man turns around and rubs his hand over his mouth. Roland Brolin.

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

  Roland holds out his left hand, palm up.

  “Give me the letter,” he says. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

  “What letter?”

  “The letter Jurek gave you,” 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,” Roland says. “You don’t think he’d put himself through all that pain for nothing?”

  Anders looks at the chief 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,” Roland whispers.

  “Has he ever asked you that?”

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t have heard—I always wear earplugs.” Roland smiles.

  “But I don’t understand why—”

  “You need this job,” Roland interrupts. “Your grades were poor, you’re in debt, you’ve got no experience and no references.”

  “Are you finished?”

  “You should give me the letter,” Roland replies, clenching his jaw.

  “I don’t have a letter.”

  Roland 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 him that the chief looks slightly more relaxed as Anders gets in the car, shuts the door, and starts the engine. When Roland taps on the window, Anders ignores him, puts the car in gear, and pulls away. In the rearview mirror, Roland is standing and watching the car.

  6

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

  From Agnes’s room, he can hear Petra’s soothing voice. Anders smiles to himself. She’s already reading Seacrow Island by Astrid Lindgren to their daughter. It’s usually much later before the bedtime rituals have reached story time. It must have been a good day again today. Anders’s new job has meant that Petra has been able to cut down her own hours and spend more time with Agnes.

  There’s a damp patch on the hall rug around Agnes’s muddy winter boots. Her wool hat is on the floor in front of the bureau. Anders goes in and puts the bottle of champagne that he picked up on the way home 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 bush 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 creaking branches, it occurs to him that he should 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 part 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 in the fridge, 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 counter, next to the microwave.

  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 Walter 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. Jurek asks for assistance in understanding why he
has been sentenced to secure psychiatric care. He would like to know whether he can get the verdict reconsidered.

  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.

  Jurek’s words echo in his mind as he walks into his study and takes out an envelope. He copies the address from the letter, 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, toward the mailbox by the rotary. Once he’s dropped the letter in the box, he stands and watches the cars passing on Sanda Road before walking home.

  The wind is making the frosted grass around the house ripple like water. A rabbit bounds around the side of the house and into the back garden.

  He opens the gate and looks up into the kitchen window. The whole structure resembles a dollhouse. 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 realizes that the person is actually standing in the garden in back of the house. He’s simply visible through the bedroom window.

  Anders runs down the paved path, past the sundial, and around 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 catch a glimpse of him, but it’s far too dark.

  7

  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: 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 won’t be able to keep them open. He knows he’ll have to lie down on the mattress and become part of the darkness.