by Lars Kepler
‘That’s not enough,’ he says.
‘Give it all back,’ Joona tells the blond man feebly.
‘It’s only money,’ Erik says quickly, and pulls out the last couple of notes.
‘Not to Crina,’ Joona says.
‘Run home and hide before we change our minds,’ the blond man grins, and points at them with the metal pipe.
58
Joona stands still with his arms wrapped round him, leaning forward slightly. He sees the blond man change his grip on the pipe and move to the side. The bald man takes off his jacket and hangs it over a plastic chair.
Joona slowly raises his head and looks the bald man in the eyes.
‘Give the money back to Crina,’ he repeats.
The bald man grins with surprise and steps sideways into the darkness. There’s a click as he unfolds the blade of a flick-knife.
‘I’m going to hurt you if you don’t drop the knife on the ground now,’ Joona says in his melancholic Finnish accent, and takes a step forward.
The bald man crouches down and moves aside, holding the knife in a classic hammer-grip, then reaches forward and takes a few trial stabs.
‘Be careful,’ Joona says, and coughs gently.
The knife is sharp, and glimmers in the weak light. Joona watches it with his eyes and tries to read the man’s irregular movements.
‘Do you want to die?’ the man grunts.
‘I may look slow,’ Joona says. ‘But I’m going to take that knife and break your arm at the elbow … and if you don’t lie still after that, I’ll puncture your right lung.’
‘Stab the Finn!’ the blond man shouts. ‘Stab the fucking Finn.’
‘And I’ll deal with you next, once I’ve got the knife,’ Joona says, stumbling into a rusty bicycle.
The bald man swings the knife to the side unexpectedly and the blade catches Joona across the back of his hand, which starts to bleed.
The blond man backs away with a forced smile.
Joona wipes the blood from his hand on his trousers. The bald man shouts something to the blond one. A baby starts crying in one of the caravans.
The blond man moves in behind Joona’s back; he notices, but is too weak to move.
When Joona glances over his shoulder the bald man mounts an attack. He aims low, towards Joona’s kidneys. The white blade jabs forward like a lizard’s tongue.
It happens fast, but everything is still there as a physical memory. Joona doesn’t think as he deflects the knife, grabs the man’s hand and closes his fingers over his cold knuckles.
Everything happens in rapid succession. Joona bends the man’s wrist, puts his other hand under his elbow, and jerks upward.
When the man’s arm breaks there’s a cracking sound, like standing on a twig beneath deep snow. Splinters of the radial bone pierce through ligaments and tissue, and a squirt of blood spatters a filthy bucket. The man sinks to his knees, screaming, and bends double on the ground.
‘Behind you!’ Erik shouts.
Joona turns. Suddenly giddy, he stumbles in a pool of water, stares up at the tops of the pines against the sky, but manages to keep his balance.
He spins the knife between his fingers, changes his grip and hides it behind his body as he approaches the blond man.
‘Leave me the fuck alone!’ the man shouts, and swipes at the air with the pipe.
Joona goes straight in, takes the next blow on his shoulder, cuts the man across the forehead, and rams his lower arm up into the man’s armpit, knocking his arm out its socket as the pipe falls to the ground.
The blond man gasps as he clutches the top of his arm, moves backwards, but can’t see anything for the blood running into his eyes. He stumbles over a pile of wood and remains there, lying on his back.
The man with the saucepan has disappeared into the darkness behind the camp. Joona walks over, leans down and takes the money from both men, panting as he does so.
He knocks on the door of the caravan, leaning against the frame to stop himself falling. Erik runs over and holds him up when he staggers.
‘Give the money to Crina,’ Joona says, and sits down on the step.
Erik opens the caravan door, sees the woman in the gloom at the far end, looks her in the eye and shows her where he hides the money under her carpet.
Joona slips down onto the grass with his head resting against one of the concrete blocks holding the caravan up.
The tattooed man comes back round the first caravan. He’s holding a shotgun and is approaching with long strides.
Erik realises that Joona is in no condition to run, so crawls beneath the caravan and tries to pull him in behind him.
‘Try to help,’ he whispers.
Joona kicks his legs and slowly slides in. The grit catches his jacket and they can hear steps nearby.
They hear the man with the gun open the caravan door and shout at the old woman. The floor above them thunders as he goes inside.
‘Come on,’ Erik says, crawling further in. He hits his head on a cable tray.
Joona shuffles after him, but catches his jacket on a strut. Erik emerges on the other side of the caravan and hides among some nettles.
Beneath the caravan Joona watches as the tattooed man steps down on to the ground again.
They hear voices and suddenly the man bends down, puts his hands on the ground and stares right at Joona as he lies under the caravan.
‘Get them!’ the blond man shouts.
Joona tries to pull himself free and the seams of his jacket creak. The tattooed man starts to walk round the caravan, through the rough undergrowth.
Erik slips hurriedly underneath again, crawls over to Joona and frees his jacket.
They roll sideways, crawl between the concrete blocks and emerge into the weeds, toss aside a rusty sheet of tin and take cover beside a shack.
The tattooed man comes round the caravan, slips on the wet ground, raises his gun and takes aim.
Erik pulls Joona out of his line of fire.
The man follows them with his gun raised. They crouch down beside a kitchen sink mounted between two trees.
The gun goes off and a stack of crockery on the draining board explodes. Broken shards rain down on them.
There’s shouting and voices echo through the trees now. Erik leads Joona in behind the shack. The tattooed man follows them, the broken crockery crunching beneath his feet. The gun sighs as he expels the cartridge and feeds in a new one.
Erik can feel his legs shaking as he pulls Joona after him into the forest.
They hurry across the uneven ground, pushing through tight thickets of pine scrub and getting caught on branches.
Joona’s back is wet with sweat, his hip is burning and he’s lost all feeling in one foot. He can’t focus properly and fever is rolling through him in waves, rushing icily through his veins and making him shiver with cold.
Erik is holding him firmly by the arm as they move through the edge of the woods towards the car. Between the trees they can see the flickering light of pocket torches, and a dozen migrants arguing after they disarm the tattooed man with the gun.
Joona has to rest for a while before he and Erik cross the road to the car.
His legs give out and he all but falls into the passenger seat and closes his eyes, coughing so badly that it makes his lungs burn.
Erik runs round the car, gets in and locks the doors as there’s a sudden thud on the windscreen. The blond man with the blood-smeared face is lit up by the headlights. He’s holding a heavy branch, and raises it again as Erik starts the engine and puts his foot down. The front wheel spins on the verge, and grit and small stones fly up beneath the car.
There’s another crash and the wing mirror comes loose and dangles from its wires as they lurch back onto the road. They can already hear the sound of emergency vehicles beyond the patch of woodland.
59
Erik took a double dose of pills that night to get to sleep, but still wakes early and gets up at first light. He thought he had hu
ng a blue shirt over the back of the chair the night before in advance of his trip to Karsudden, but now he can’t find it, and has to get another one from his wardrobe.
The three new murders are reminiscent of the old one, but Rocky has been locked up the whole time and the police believe he had a partner, a disciple, who for some reason has become active again. Erik has been asked to find out what Rocky remembers, and ask him about the ‘unclean preacher’.
Joona is still asleep in the guestroom when he leaves the house, performs a makeshift repair on the wing mirror with some duct tape, and drives away.
As Erik overtakes a horsebox, he thinks about how he helped Joona take his clothes off, got him into the shower, then put him to bed in the guestroom. The towel ended up covered in blood as he cleaned the knife-wound to the Finn’s hand and taped the edges of the cut together. Joona was awake the whole time, looking at him calmly. Erik gave him an intramuscular tetanus injection, some more penicillin, intravenously, got him to drink a glass of water, and then examined the injury to his hip. The old wound had caused a lot of internal bleeding, which had run down into his leg beneath the skin. Nothing was broken. Erik injected some cortisone into the muscle just above his hip, and tucked him in.
On his way back from Karsudden Hospital he needs to stop at a chemist and pick up some topiramate for Joona’s migraines.
The roads are quiet, and it’s still early in the morning as he drives past Katrineholm and approaches the large institution.
Casillas is standing on the steps outside reception, tapping his pipe against the railing. He holds out his hand to greet Erik as he approaches along the path.
‘We’ve conducted numerous neurological examinations,’ he explains as they head towards the gloomy brick buildings. ‘This isn’t my area, but the experts have ruled out surgery. They say the damage to his brain tissue is permanent … he can function, but he just has to accept the blackouts and erratic memory.’
After checking in to Section D:4 they are met by a female member of staff with laughter lines around her eyes.
‘Rocky Kyrklund is waiting for you in the calm room,’ she says, shaking hands with Erik.
Regardless of the outcome of this meeting, Erik will tell Margot about the unclean preacher, the man Rocky tried to blame nine years ago.
They stop and Casillas explains to the guard that she should wait outside the calm room and then escort Erik to the exit when he’s finished.
Erik pushes the bead curtain aside and goes in. Rocky is sitting in the middle of one of the sofas with his arms stretched out along the back of it, as if he’s been crucified. There’s a mug of coffee and a cinnamon bun on the low table in front of him. Gentle classical music is streaming from two loudspeakers.
Rocky scratches the back of his head against the wall, then looks at Erik with a completely relaxed expression.
‘No cigarettes today?’ he says after a while.
‘I can arrange that,’ Erik replies.
‘Get me a pack of Mogadon instead,’ Rocky says, tucking his hair behind his ears.
‘Mogadon?’
‘Then Jesus will forgive you your sins.’
‘I can have a word with your doctor if—’
‘You’re on Mogadon,’ Rocky interrupts. ‘Or is it Rohypnol?’
Erik reaches into his inside pocket and gives him a whole blister-pack. Rocky presses one pill out and swallows it without drinking anything.
‘Last time I was here I asked you about someone, a colleague of yours,’ Erik says, sitting down in an armchair.
‘I don’t have any colleagues,’ Rocky says darkly. ‘Because God lost me somewhere along the way … and didn’t come back to look for me.’
He moves his white plastic mug and picks up a piece of pearl sugar on his index finger.
‘Do you have any memory of having an accomplice in the murder?’
‘Why are you asking?’ Rocky wonders.
‘We talked about it last time.’
‘Did I say I had an accomplice?’
‘Yes,’ Erik lies.
Rocky closes his eyes and nods slowly to himself.
‘You know … I can’t trust my memory,’ he says, and opens his eyes again. ‘I can wake up in the middle of the night and remember a day twenty years ago and write it all down, then when I read what I wrote a week later it feels like I made it all up, like it never happened … and of course I don’t really know … It’s the same thing with my short-term memory, half the days disappear, I take my medicine, play billiards, talk to some idiots, eat lunch, then it’s all gone.’
‘But you haven’t said if you had an accomplice when you murdered Rebecka.’
‘I don’t give a damn about that, you tell me you were here, but I’ve never met you before—’
‘I think you remember that I was here.’
‘Do you?’
‘And I think you lie sometimes,’ Erik says.
‘Are you saying I tell lies?’
‘Just now you referred to the cigarettes I gave you last time.’
‘I wanted to see if you were keeping up,’ Rocky says with a smile.
‘So what do you remember?’
‘Why should I tell you?’ he asks, taking a sip of coffee then licking his lips.
‘Your accomplice has starting murdering on his own.’
‘Serves you right, in that case,’ Rocky mutters, and suddenly starts to shake.
The mug falls from his hand, spilling the last of the coffee across the floor, and his chin trembles. His eyes roll backwards, his eyelids close and twitch. The epileptic attack lasts just a few seconds, then he straightens up, wipes his mouth and looks up, apparently unaware of what just happened.
‘You told me before about a preacher,’ Erik says.
‘I was alone when I murdered Rebecka Hansson,’ Rocky says in a low voice.
‘So who’s the unclean preacher?’
‘What difference does it make?’
‘Just tell me the truth.’
‘What do I get out of it?’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want pure heroin,’ Rocky says, and looks Erik in the eye.
‘You can get permission to go out if you help,’ Erik says.
‘I don’t remember, anyway, it’s all gone, this is pointless.’
Erik leans forward in the soft armchair.
‘I can help you remember,’ he says, after a pause.
‘No one can help me.’
‘Not in a neurological sense, but I can help you remember what happened.’
‘How?’ he asks.
‘I can hypnotise you.’
Rocky sits still, leaning his head back against the wall. His eyes are half-closed and his mouth slightly pursed.
‘There’s nothing to be concerned about – hypnosis is merely a way of accessing another level of consciousness by being in a deep state of relaxation.’
‘I read the journal, Cortex, and I remember a long article about neuropsychology and hypnosis,’ Rocky says, waving his hand.
60
They have moved to Rocky’s room, with the door closed and the lighting turned down. The weak lamplight is reflecting off a Playboy calendar. Erik has set up his tripod, attached the video camera and adjusted the angle and exposure, and has made sure the microphone is pointing in the right direction.
A small red dot indicates that the camera is recording.
Kyrklund is sitting on a chair, his broad shoulders are relaxed, rounded, like a bear’s. His head is drooping. He slid into deep relaxation very quickly, and responded well to the induction.
The difficult part isn’t the act of hypnosis, but finding the right level and placing the patient in a state where the brain is as relaxed as possible, yet still able to distinguish between real memories and dreams.
Erik is standing just behind Rocky, slowly counting backwards as he prepares Rocky to examine his memories.
‘Two hundred and twelve,’ Erik says in a monotone. ‘Two hundred a
nd eleven … you will soon find yourself standing outside Rebecka Hansson’s house …’
When a patient is placed in deep hypnosis, the hypnotist often enters a sort of trance as well, in what is known as hypnotic resonance.
It’s vital that Erik manages to differentiate between his absolutely present self, and a clearly observing self.
The observing self, in his own personal trance, is always underwater. That’s become his internal image of hypnotic immersion.
While his patients are led through their memories, Erik sinks into a warm sea, past steep cliffs and coral.
In this way Erik can remain utterly present in the patient’s experience, yet still maintain a protective distance.
‘Eighty-eight, eighty-seven, eighty-six,’ Erik goes on in a somnolent voice. ‘The only thing that exists is my voice, and your desire to listen to it … With each number you’re sinking deeper and deeper into relaxation … eighty-five, eighty-four … there’s nothing dangerous here, nothing to be worried about …’
As Erik counts down, he sinks through strangely pink water together with Rocky Kyrklund. They’re following the chain of an anchor. The rusty links are covered in stringy algae. Above them, on the silvery surface, is the hull of a large ship with motionless propellers.
They drift lower.
Rocky’s eyes are closed and small air-bubbles are rising from his beard. He’s got his arms by his sides, but the water passing them makes his clothes sway.
‘Fifty-one, fifty, forty-nine …’
Out of the violet darkness sticks the top of a vast underwater mountain, grey-black, like a heap of ash.
Rocky raises his face and tries to look, but only the whites of his eyes are visible. His mouth opens, and his eyes close again. His hair is drifting above his head as bubbles emerge from his nostrils.
‘Eleven, ten, nine … You will be able to remember all your real memories of Rebecka Hansson when I say so …’
As Erik sinks through the water, simultaneously he observes Rocky on the chair in his room. A string of saliva is hanging from his mouth, and the seams of his white vest are coming loose under his arms.
‘Three, two, one … Now you open your eyes and can see Rebecka Hansson the way she was when you last saw her …’