Wallin slurs his words and rubs his unshaven chin. God only knows when he last saw hips like Elin’s swaying through his room.
‘No need to apologise on account of that.’
Elin’s twittering tone has something brisk and hearty about it. It doesn’t quite suit her, but it brings a smile to the face of the asylum nurse.
‘I can go down to Nisse’s Eva and make a few purchases. They have decent buns. Nice big ones.’
‘Don’t you worry about that.’
Elin gently pats Wallin’s uninjured hand on the tabletop. I peer at the studio photograph on the window shelf. I assume that the pale-faced teenage lass is that daughter of his who committed suicide. She looks alarmed, almost as if the photographic flash has caught her unawares. They say Wallin himself had to tug her out when the midwife showed up late, which left her with a pitted skull and crooked spine; apparently the lass never learned from experience, and it was on account of an unwanted pregnancy that she walked into the sea many years later. The letter that I wrote earlier suddenly burns inside my coat pocket.
‘Are you visiting that film star, Kvisten? Is that why you want to come with me to work?’
‘The film star?’
I can feel Elin’s eyes on me. I avoid them. Wallin’s mouth twitches: ‘Hasn’t he told you? Kvist was a friend of Doris Steiner, from the movies.’
‘We want to visit Petrus,’ I interrupt.
‘Petrus? He’s not at Konrad?’
‘Not for more than a month. Not at the Stora Mans clinic anyway.’
‘They’re probably keeping him in isolation, then. I had no idea. Well, I can’t turn up with the pair of you in tow. I hope you understand, Missus…’
‘Miss.’
‘Miss, you must understand, we have all sorts there, and outsiders can’t just walk about without good reason.’
‘Of course. I suppose it takes quite a strong man to wander around there at night with all those freaks and morphinists and retards.’
‘It’s not for your average person, it really isn’t.’
‘I should think not.’
I chuckle silently and glance at Elin. She rearranges her red hair behind her left ear. Without any great fuss I haul out the litre-bottle wrapped in crêpe paper that I picked up at Lundin’s place before our visit, and put it on the table. There’s a glint in Wallin’s eye. He rubs his chin and smacks his lips.
‘You don’t even need to come with us,’ I say. ‘All you have to do is lean back in your armchair and listen to the world singing, with your one and only best friend, Mister Kron.’
Wallin peeks shamefacedly at Elin from under his fringe, and gives me a crooked smile. I twist the bottle top so he can smell the vodka. He flinches at the sound. We’ve got him now, he’s caught in the trap.
FRIDAY 22 NOVEMBER
Despite a few rain-heavy clouds hiding the moon, and the lack of lights in the yard out front, I can see enough to understand why they call the asylum Lunatic Palace. The towering building squats like a heavy throne in a large grass-covered field; you can make out the yellow façade between the bare trees. The lantern on top of the main building is crowned with a crucifix. The chief physician lives at the top of the hospital, with the other doctors in the flats below. The most difficult cases are placed at the far ends of the wings so the learned men don’t have to be disturbed by their screaming.
There must be room for a couple of thousand miserable sods in there.
I reach into the pocket of Wallin’s uniform, which I’ve borrowed, and get out a Meteor for myself. The trouser legs are a couple of inches too short. I turn away from the sentry box by the entrance as I light the cigar. Lundin’s hearse is sitting back in the yard; I can just about make out Elin’s silhouette in the driver’s seat. A hell of a woman just like her mother was. More stubborn than death itself, with a mouth on her that’s too much at times.
The gravel of the yard squeaks under my shoes as I turn and walk towards the looming hospital. I weigh up how I’ll get past the barrier and the sentry box. Wallin’s uniform is magnificent, of course, but it won’t fool the bloody guard.
I’ll probably have to follow the perimeter fence north, away from the new Väster Bridge, the Field Telegraph Corps and Marieberg munitions factory, to find a place where I can climb over. I let my eyes rove, seeking a tree growing close to the fence.
A bony man is approaching me across the yard, scattering the gravel with his rapid steps. He’s walking with a stoop, lugging a well-filled briefcase. A pair of half-moon glasses glint under the brim of his bowler hat.
‘Now you have to watch your damned step, Kvisten.’
The man seems to be heading directly towards me, and it’s too late to turn round. I tuck my Meteor into the corner of my mouth, hide my face under the brim of Wallin’s uniform hat and rummage in my pockets as if looking for something. It’s my usual strategy in these kinds of situations; I should probably try to come up with a better one.
The steps slow down at the same time as my pulse picks up. He stops in front of me. I force myself to smile and raise my eyes: ‘Evening.’
‘Good evening,’ he croaks in response. He looks about sixty. His tongue flicks across his thin, bloodless lips as he hauls out a cigar of his own from his unbuttoned overcoat. His moustache is tinged tobacco-yellow. I offer him my box of matches. He’s wearing a pair of elegant, polished boots. I catch sight of a waistcoat under his thick woollen jacket. I can’t quite make a decision about this issue of waistcoat or no waistcoat. I have to ask Elin about it, after all she works in a boutique. The man takes the matches: ‘Why thank you. You must be the new employee, I take it? You do know you can’t bring matches into the hospital; they have to be handed over to the guard when you check in.’
‘Of course.’
‘Obviously, why else would you be standing here? Oh dear, quite a wind tonight, try again. There.’
I get my matches back.
‘Lindström, chief physician.’
My heart does a somersault. I’m standing in front of the very doctor who signed the order for Petrus’s transfer into mental-health care. I take his fragile little paw in mine. I have to use all my powers of self-restraint not to squeeze it to bits.
An hour of one-to-one with the bastard. Or fifteen minutes. It wouldn’t take much blood-letting before this white-frock started talking. He lets go of my hand. I swallow the drool that’s filled my mouth.
I’ve always had the lust for violence in my blood. Doughboy used to plead with me to take it easy; I was always getting into trouble with the screws and ending up in solitary. His anxiety was justified. There’s many a story of uncooperative prisoners who’ve been tortured to death with whip and rod in the cellars, or ended up in the sickbay and never came out again. But changing my ways was never an option.
It’s difficult to deny such a deep-rooted desire. But now I don’t have a choice.
‘Out and about very late, Doctor.’
‘Problems at Mans. Herr Jäger had a negative reaction to the insulin. I’ve had to delay an invitation for supper.’
‘I haven’t learned all the names yet.’
‘Naturally you haven’t. All in good time, all in good time. Unlike the milk delivery, which should have been here two hours ago. And now the kitchen staff have gone home.’
‘Surely the night shift can take care of it.’
‘It seems you’re a game chap, which we appreciate. Look here, have a cigar, as a welcome.’
Lindström offers me a cigar case well stocked with Havanas.
‘There, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar and no more than that,’ he adds, and lets his thin lips form themselves into a dry laugh. I can’t quite see what’s so funny.
‘My thanks, Doctor.’
‘Chief Physician.’
You bloody rat. I nod, smiling again: ‘Pardon me. Thank you, Chief Physician.’
Lindström nods a goodbye and walks off towards the cars.
I see Elin ducking down in
the front seat of the hearse. At the same time as the doctor starts his Ford, there’s the sound of another engine approaching from Mariebergsgatan. I listen out in the dark November night, and let my cigar die under my boot heel. When I strain my ears I can make out the familiar rumble of the milk van.
The little truck turns into the hospital yard and slows down. There’s no cover on the trailer. The driver’s face lights up with a red glow when he takes a pull on the cigarette dangling in his mouth.
He’s a young bloke. Beardless, blond, well scrubbed. He scrunches up one eye to avoid getting smoke in it. The truck has no wing mirrors. Crouching, I run alongside the vehicle until it starts slowing down by the sentry box. My back protests as I take a long step, jump and just manage to hang onto the edge of the trailer. The rough planks creak; a splinter pierces deep into my palm. I try my best to tuck my legs up under me.
When the truck stops I sway slightly, hanging there from the edge of the flatbed. I hold my breath while the driver and the guard exchange a couple of words. The gearbox grinds angrily but finally the kid finds the slot with his gearstick, and we slowly roll into the hospital grounds. The splinter in my hand is hurting me, my muscles are burning, but I don’t let go. I hang on tight as if I’m clutching the railing of a ship in a storm.
We rattle along the road towards the massive building. My heart is thumping in the palm of my hand. The wind is ripping through my uniform. Every tree we pass has nesting boxes nailed into its trunk, sometimes as many as three or four. I jump off the truck, land awkwardly and take a tumble onto the roadside.
While the milk truck is parking up by the gable at the far end, I brush off my uniform and pull out the splinter in my hand using my teeth. According to Wallin I have to enter via the main entrance and head to the left until I can’t get any further, then down a flight of stairs to the section for those in solitary confinement. The big bunch of keys and whistle jingle against my thigh as I stroll up to the main entrance. I feel like a screw, wearing this fucking outfit. I clear my throat and gob out my self-loathing.
The guard post in the central hall is empty. I follow Wallin’s instructions, and head down a long corridor to the left, its dimly lit, wall-mounted shell lights with green hoods casting a sickly glow ahead of me. I meet a nurse in a light-blue cotton dress, an apron and a starched bonnet tied under her chin. I nod at her and continue on my way. I hear her steps slowing down; her eyes burn a hole in my back. The keys thump harder against my leg as I involuntarily quicken my pace.
To avoid calling too much attention to myself, I unlock a door to my right with the master key and enter a large, gloomy room. Along each side runs a line of white cast-iron beds, a metre’s space in between them.
The mattresses stink of piss-soaked shredded-wood fibre. In each of the beds a head sticks out from beneath a blanket strapped to the mattress using a system of eyelets and hooks on the lower parts of the bed frame. One or two are sleeping, others turn their heads and look at me with dead eyes. Someone gives a muted cough, another weeps gently. In the second bed to the right from the door lies a younger, unshaven man; the taut blanket jerks violently as he tries to pleasure himself. He lies with his head on one side and his eyes tightly shut. A string of saliva runs from his mouth, seeking its way through the stubble on his chin.
In the far right corner of the room, one of the patients has managed to slip out of his bed. He stands there in his nightshirt and long johns, pulling at the fingers of one of his hands and making a clicking sound.
‘I don’t understand why you had to take my dolls away from me,’ he whispers to me, in a tender voice. ‘I’m an adult, am I not?’
He cracks his finger joints again.
‘You have to lie down now.’
My eyes look into his, bloodshot from crying. He looks away.
‘Of course. How silly of me. I apologise.’
He lies back on his bed, clasping his hands together over his chest. I leave the room, lock the door behind me and look around. The corridor is deserted; I continue towards my goal. On the floor above someone starts howling like a mangy street-dog. A shrill whistle cuts through the noise, and I hear soft-spoken men’s voices. I walk faster.
After managing to reach the left-hand wing without running into any other staff, I arrive at a granite stairwell. According to Wallin, the more disruptive patients are kept in the isolation cells below.
My scalp is sweating under my peaked cap. Instinctively I bite the end off a Meteor, but I get a hold of myself and put it back in my pocket. Instead, I take out my little notebook and aniline pen and walk down the dark staircase, which makes a half-turn as it descends.
My progress is blocked by a steel door inset with a small glass window. Along the corridor are ten more doors on each side, all with sturdy locks and observation slits. At the far end, a screw is on duty in a sentry box. Through a rectangular glass window he can keep the entire corridor under surveillance, but he’s holding a copy of Stockholms-Tidningen in front of his face – I recognise the typeface.
A brown head of hair sticks up from behind the newspaper. A pair of worn shoes are propped up on the desk. The desk lamp is on. Behind that damned screw is a telephone, bolted to the wall. I take a deep breath, push the door open and slip into the corridor. Quietly, but as casually as I can, I walk up to the first door on the right. With a trembling hand, I pull the catch and slide the little hatch open to have a look inside.
A naked bulb on the ceiling spreads a sickly light in the sparse cell. The furnishings in there are easily summarised: nothing but a bed equipped with sturdy leather straps, on which a poor, emaciated, lifeless sod is lying. I glance at the guard, still immersed in his newspaper about seven metres away, while I carefully bolt the hatch back into place.
The next cell is empty and, as the guard turns the page, I go to the third door. With a slight screeching sound, I force the hatch open.
My heart aches as if it was my turn to be shoved into the back of the hearse. My tight collar is damp with sweat.
The bulky body is resting heavily on the bunk, like the carcass of a bull on a butcher’s block. His head, with its unruly blond locks, lies directly on the mattress. Petrus is awake but strapped down. The whites of his eyes gleam in the semi-darkness. He stares up at the ceiling.
I glance over at the guard’s cubicle. I am so close now that I can read the headline of the newspaper’s front page: ‘Italian Aviators Hunting the Emperor of Abyssinia’.
‘Petrus,’ I whisper ineffectually through the slit to the deaf man, while fumbling with the keys. ‘Petrus!’ I blink the sweat out of my eyes and, trembling, manage to get the first key halfway into the lock before it jams. When I snatch it back, the entire jingling bunch of keys hits the floor.
‘Fuck it.’
I curse silently to myself as I pick the keys up. The guard is still reading his newspaper behind the window. I straighten up and try another key. While I’m trying the fourth key Petrus suddenly flinches. I hold my breath. He lifts his head as well as he can and looks into my eyes. I snatch off my cap so he can see me better, and point idiotically at my face.
Before I know it, the deaf mute opens his mouth and brays deafeningly.
My blood curdles. The guard’s gaze is on me. He’s a young lad with his eyebrows halfway up his smooth forehead. He opens and closes his mouth twice before he throws himself at the telephone on the wall behind him. Petrus lets out another awful yell. His massive body tugs and strains against the straps. I fumble with the keys, calling pointlessly through the hatch: ‘What happened to your mother? What happened to Beda? Who did it?’
Petrus is shaking, his bulk vibrating against the bunk.
On the other side of the glass, the guard hangs up and throws himself at his whistle instead. The shrill sound cuts through the narrow corridor.
‘I’ll be back,’ I whisper through the hatch even though the lad can’t hear me. ‘In a while, when everything’s calmed down. A promise is a promise.’
The
guard opens the door of his cubicle and blows his whistle again. Before long the place will be heaving with screws. I turn my back on him, open the steel door and run up the stairs.
*
I need to cough, there’s a fluttering feeling in my chest like a bird thrashing its wings, but I control the reflex and run up another flight of stairs. The large, silent building is suddenly filled with noise. Boots thump against floor tiles, the piercing sounds of whistles bounce between the walls, blending with the screams of terrified lunatics.
I throw open the first door on my left and jump inside, finding myself in a bathroom. The lights are off, the bathtubs lined up in rows. The walls are tiled from floor to ceiling. Each of the deep tubs is covered by a piece of cloth, more or less like tarpaulins thrown over boats. In the daytime, those who have taken shelter in madness can lie here and sweat out their delusions.
I lope quietly towards the door at the other end of the room, while the sound of feet on the stairs grows louder.
‘Search every floor,’ someone yells.
I try the door but it’s locked. Like an old woman counting the stitches in her knitting, I check the keys on my ring, my fingers trembling.
‘Every room! Don’t let the swine get away!’ the fierce voice calls out again, just outside the door.
I drop the keyring into my pocket and pull away the sheet covering the nearest bathtub. I step into the empty tub and lie down on my back. Using both my hands, I manage to roll the sheet back into place without making a sound.
Before I shut out the last bit of light, I check my timepiece. Almost half past eight.
Almost immediately afterwards, the door opens and at least two people come in. I cover the pocket watch with my hands to stifle the sound of the mechanism. If there’s any trouble I’m in the worst possible position, lying at the bottom of a tub. One leg is jammed under the other and my left foot is already going to sleep. The steps come closer.
Someone sits down on the edge of the bath, which rocks. I think about Doughboy for a moment; he’ll probably be alone and locked up in his night cell by now. I’m sweating and freezing at the same time.
Down for the Count Page 11