The Sandman

by Kepler, Lars

  The woman with the pierced cheeks is standing outside the door shouting that it’s time for breakfast.

  Saga gets up, takes the narrow tray through the hatch and sits down on the bed. Slowly she forces herself to eat the sandwiches while she thinks to herself that the situation is becoming intolerable.

  She won’t be able to handle this much longer.

  Cautiously she touches the microphone and wonders about asking to break off the mission.

  After lunch she goes over to the sink on unsteady legs, brushes her teeth and washes her face with ice-cold water.

  I can’t abandon Felicia, she thinks.

  Saga sits back down on the bed and stares at the door until the lock starts to whirr between her cell and the dayroom. It clicks and opens. She counts to five, stands up and goes and gets a drink of water from the tap so she doesn’t look too eager. With a weary gesture she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then walks straight out into the dayroom.

  She’s the first one there, but the television is on behind the reinforced glass as if it’s never been switched off. She can hear angry shouting from Bernie Larsson’s room. It sounds like he’s trying to destroy his table. She hears his food tray hit the floor. He’s screaming as he throws the plastic chair at the wall.

  Saga gets on to the running machine, switches it on, takes a few steps, then stops it and sits down on the edge, close to the palm, and pulls off one shoe, pretending there’s something wrong with the inner sole. Her fingers are cold and the numbness still hasn’t gone. She knows she has to hurry, but she mustn’t move too quickly. She blocks the camera’s view with her body and tugs the microphone from her trousers, trembling as she does so.

  ‘Fucking whores!’ Bernie shouts.

  Saga removes the protective wrapping from the tiny microphone. The little object slips between her numb fingers. She catches it against her thigh and turns it the right way up in her hand. She can hear footsteps on the floor. Saga leans forward and presses the microphone to the underneath of one of the leaves. She holds it for a short while, then waits a few extra seconds before letting go.

  Bernie pulls open his door and comes out into the dayroom. The palm-leaf is still swaying from her touch, but the microphone is finally in position.

  ‘Obrahiim,’ he whispers, and stops abruptly when he sees her.

  Saga remains seated, tugs at her sock, smoothing out a crease, then pulls her shoe back on.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ he says, and coughs.

  She doesn’t look at the artificial palm at all. Her legs are trembling beneath her and her heart is beating much harder than usual.

  ‘They took my pictures,’ Bernie says, panting as he sits down on the sofa. ‘I hate those fucking …’

  Saga’s whole body feels oddly exhausted, sweat is trickling down her back, and her pulse is throbbing in her ears. It must be because of the medication. She slows the pace of the running machine, but still has trouble keeping up.

  Bernie is sitting on the sofa with his eyes closed, one leg bouncing restlessly.

  ‘Shit!’ he suddenly exclaims loudly.

  He gets up, sways, then goes over to the running machine and stands in front of Saga, very close to her.

  ‘I was top of the class,’ he says, spraying saliva in Saga’s face. ‘My teacher used to feed me raisins during breaks.’

  ‘Bernie Larsson, step back,’ a voice says over the loudspeaker.

  He stumbles to the side and leans against the wall, coughs and takes a step back, straight into the palm with the microphone hanging from its bottom leaf.

  98

  Bernie almost falls, kicks the palm, walks round the running machine and approaches Saga again.

  ‘They’re so fucking terrified of me that they pump me full of Suprefact … Because I’m a real fucking machine, a big fucking stud …’

  Saga looks at the camera and realises that she was right. Its view is blocked by the reinforced glass protruding in front of the television. There’s a narrow blind strip that the camera can’t reach, no more than a metre at most.

  Bernie walks round the palm, almost toppling it, then carries on round the running machine and stops behind Saga. She ignores him, just goes on walking as she hears his breathing close behind her.

  ‘Snow White, you’re sweating between your buttocks,’ he says. ‘Your cunt’s probably pretty sweaty now. I can get you some tissues …’

  On the television a man dressed as a chef is drawling something as he puts a load of little crabs on a barbeque.

  The far door opens and Jurek comes into the dayroom. Saga catches a glimpse of his furrowed face and immediately stops the machine. She steps down onto the floor, panting from the exertion, and walks towards the sofa. Jurek shows no sign of having noticed. He just gets up onto the running machine, switches it on and begins walking with long strides.

  His heavy steps echo around the dayroom once again.

  Saga looks at the chef, who is frying red onion rings in a braising pan. Bernie comes closer, wiping sweat from his neck and walking round her, very close.

  ‘You can keep your cunt when you’re my skeleton slave,’ he says, moving behind her. ‘I’ll cut off all the rest of your flesh and—’

  ‘Quiet,’ Jurek says.

  Bernie falls silent instantly and looks at her, forming the word ‘whore’ with his mouth, then licks his fingers and grabs her breast. She reacts immediately, seizing his hand and taking a step back, pulling him into the camera’s blind spot. She punches him hard on the nose. The cartilage cracks and his nose breaks. She spins round, gaining momentum from the movement and hitting Bernie over the ear with a lightning-fast right hook. He’s on the point of lurching into range of the camera, but she stops him with her left hand. He’s staring at her through his crooked glasses. A copious amount of blood is trickling through his moustache and over his mouth.

  Saga is still consumed by rage, holding him in the blind spot and hitting him with another right hook. The blow is extremely hard. His head is knocked aside, his cheeks flap and his glasses fly off to his left.

  Bernie sinks to his knees, his head hanging as blood drips onto the floor in front of him.

  Saga pulls his head up, sees that he’s on the point of losing consciousness and punches him on the nose once more.

  ‘I warned you,’ she whispers, letting go of him.

  Bernie falls forward, puts his arms out to stop himself, then stays like that, with blood dripping from his face, through his hands onto the vinyl floor.

  Saga is breathing hard, and steps away. Jurek Walter has got down from the running machine and is standing there watching her with his pale eyes. His face is motionless and his body strangely relaxed.

  Saga has time to think that she’s ruined everything as she walks past Jurek towards her own room.

  99

  The fan in the computer whirrs as Anders logs in. The second hand is moving jerkily on the clock with Bart Simpson’s weary face on it. Anders reminds himself that has to leave early today because he’s attending a class on Socratic conversations at the Autism Education Centre.

  A post-it note next to the keyboard says it’s recycling week. He has no idea what that means.

  Once the secure unit’s journal program opens up, he types in his user ID and password.

  He checks the log, then taps in Saga Bauer’s ID number to make a note about her medication.

  Twenty-five milligrams of Haldol depot, he writes. Two intramuscular injections in the outer top quadrant of the gluteal region.

  It was the right decision, he thinks, and in his mind’s eye he can see her writhing slowly on the floor with her breasts exposed.

  Her pale nipples had stiffened, her mouth had been afraid.

  If that doesn’t help her, he can try Cisordinol, although that can sometimes have serious side effects. Possibly extrapyramidal symptoms, combined with problems with vision, balance, and orgasm.

  Anders closes his eyes and thinks of how he pulled the patient�
�s underwear down in the cell.

  ‘I don’t want to,’ she had said, several times.

  But he didn’t have to listen to her. He did what he had to do. Pia Madsen had supervised the intervention.

  He gave her two injections in the buttock, and stared between her legs at her blonde pubic hair and pink, closed vagina.

  Anders goes to the surveillance room. My is already sitting at the control desk. She gives him a friendly glance as he walks in.

  ‘They’re in the dayroom,’ she says.

  Anders leans over her and looks at the screen. Jurek Walter is walking on the running machine with monotonously even paces. Saga is standing and watching television. She seems fairly unaffected by the new medication. Bernie goes over to her, says something and stands behind her.

  ‘What’s he doing now?’ Anders asks in a light tone of voice.

  ‘Bernie seems unsettled,’ My says, frowning.

  ‘I would really have liked to have increased his dosage yesterday, maybe I should have …’

  ‘He keeps following the new patient, chattering manically—’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Anders says, sounding stressed.

  ‘Leif and I are ready to go in,’ My reassures him.

  ‘But you shouldn’t have to,’ he says. ‘That means the medication is wrong. I’m raising his fortnightly dose this evening from two hundred to four hundred milligrams …’

  Anders falls silent and watches as Bernie circles Saga Bauer in front of the television.

  The other cameras are showing rooms, security doors, corridors and the empty patients’ rooms. In one square Sven Hoffman has a mug of coffee in his hand outside the airlock leading to the dayroom. He’s standing with his legs apart, talking to two of the guards.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ My suddenly yells, and sets off the emergency alarm.

  100

  A harsh, pulsing alarm begins to sound. Anders is staring at the screen showing the dayroom. The light in the ceiling is reflecting off the dusty glass. He leans forward. To begin with he can only see two patients. Jurek is standing still beside the television, and Saga is on her way to her room.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asks.

  My has got to her feet and is shouting something into the emergency radio unit. The desk lamp topples over and her office chair rolls backwards into the filing cabinet behind her. She’s yelling that Bernie Larsson is injured, and that the response unit has to go in immediately.

  Only now does Anders notice that Bernie is hidden behind the protruding section of wall.

  All he can see is a bloody hand on the floor.

  He must be right in front of Jurek Walter.

  ‘You’ve got to go in,’ My repeats into the radio unit several times, then rushes out.

  Anders remains seated, and watches as Jurek leans over and drags Bernie out by his hair, into the middle of the floor where he lets go of him.

  A trail of blood shimmers on the floor.

  He watches on the screen as Leif gives instructions to two guards outside the airlock, and sees My running to join them.

  The alarm is still ringing.

  Bernie’s face is covered in blood. His eyes are twitching spasmodically, and his arms are flailing in the air.

  Anders locks the door to patient room number 3, then talks to Sven over the radio. A group of guards is being sent down from Ward 30.

  Someone switches the alarm off.

  Anders’s radio bleeps and he can hear someone breathing hard.

  ‘I’m opening the door now, repeat, opening the door,’ My calls.

  Jurek’s expressionless face is visible on the screen showing the dayroom. He’s standing still, watching Bernie’s shocked movements, as he coughs and sprays blood across the floor.

  There’s a flash of a baton. Guards and carers are entering the airlock. Their faces look tense.

  The outer door locks and there’s a rumbling sound.

  Jurek says something to Bernie, sinks down on one knee and hits him hard across the mouth.

  ‘Christ,’ Anders gasps.

  The emergency team enter the dayroom and fan out. Jurek straightens his back, shakes the blood from his hand, takes a step back and waits.

  ‘Give him forty milligrams of Stesolid,’ Anders tells My.

  ‘Four ampoules of Stesolid,’ My repeats over the radio.

  Three guards are approaching from different directions with their batons drawn. They shout at Jurek to move away and lie down on the floor.

  Jurek looks at them, slowly sinks to his knees and closes his eyes. Leif takes a few quick steps and hits Jurek on the back of the neck with his baton. It’s a hard blow. Jurek’s head jerks forward, and his body follows. He falls to the floor and just lies there.

  The second guard holds him down with a knee on his spine, as he grabs Jurek’s arms and holds them behind his back. My is unwrapping a syringe. Anders can see her hands shaking.

  Jurek is lying on his stomach. Two guards are holding him down now, and they cuff his wrists and pull his trousers down so that My can give him the injection straight into his muscle.

  101

  Anders looks into the emergency doctor’s brown eyes and thanks her quietly. Her white coat is flecked with Bernie’s blood.

  ‘His nose bone has been reset. I’ve stitched up his eyebrow, but tape was fine everywhere else … He’s probably got concussion, so you’ll need to keep him under close supervision.’

  ‘We always do,’ Anders replies, glancing at Bernie on the monitor.

  He’s lying on his bed, his face obscured by bandages. His mouth is half-open and his bulging stomach is moving in time with his breathing.

  ‘He says some really revolting things,’ the doctor says, then walks out.

  Leif Rajama opens the security door for her. One camera shows him waving, and another how the doctor’s coat flaps as she heads up the stairs.

  Leif comes back to the surveillance room, runs his hand through his wavy hair and says that he really hadn’t been expecting this.

  ‘I’ve read the journals,’ Anders says. ‘This is the first time in thirteen years that Jurek Walter has done anything violent.’

  ‘Perhaps he doesn’t like company,’ Leif suggests.

  ‘Jurek’s an old man and he’s used to having things his way, but he has to understand that that’s not going to work from now on.’

  ‘How’re we supposed to make him understand that?’ Leif smiles.

  Anders pulls his card through the reader and lets Leif in ahead of him. They go past patient rooms 3 and 2, and stop outside the last one, Jurek Walter’s cell.

  Anders looks into the room. Jurek is lying on the bed, strapped down. The blood from his nose has congealed and his nostrils look strangely black now.

  Leif takes a pair of earplugs out of his pocket and offers them to Anders, but he shakes his head.

  ‘Lock the door once I’m inside, and be ready to sound the alarm.’

  ‘Just go in and do what you need to, don’t talk to him, and pretend you can’t hear what he’s saying,’ Leif says, then unlocks the door.

  Anders goes in and hears Leif quickly lock the door behind him. Jurek’s wrists and ankles are fastened to the edges of the bed. Thick fabric straps are stretched across his thighs, hips and torso. His eyes are still tired after the emergency tranquiliser, and a trickle of blood has dribbled out of one ear.

  ‘We’ve decided to change your medication in light of what happened in the dayroom,’ Anders says drily.

  ‘Yes … I was expecting a punishment,’ Jurek Walter says hoarsely.

  ‘I’m sorry you choose to see it like that, but as acting Senior Consultant, it’s my responsibility to prevent violence in this ward.’

  102

  Anders lines up the ampoules of yellow liquid for the injection on the table. Jurek is lying strapped to his bed, watching him with weary eyes.

  ‘I’ve got no feeling in my fingers,’ he says, trying to free his right hand.

  ‘You kn
ow we have to apply emergency measures sometimes,’ Anders says.

  ‘The first time we met you looked scared … now you’re looking for fear in my eyes,’ Jurek says.

  ‘Why do you think that?’ Anders asks.

  Jurek takes several breaths, then moistens his mouth and looks Anders in the eye.

  ‘I can see that you’re preparing three hundred milligrams of Cisordinol, even though you know that’s too much … and that the combination of that with my normal medication is risky.’

  ‘I’ve reached a different conclusion,’ Anders says, feeling his cheeks blush.

  ‘Yet you’ll write in my notes that you’ve merely tried fifty milligrams.’

  Anders doesn’t reply, just prepares the syringe and makes sure that the needle is completely dry.

  ‘You know that the intoxication can be fatal,’ Jurek goes on. ‘But I’m strong, so I’ll probably be OK … I’ll scream, I’ll suffer terrible clonic cramps, and I’ll lose consciousness.’

  ‘There’s always a risk of side effects,’ Anders replies laconically.

  ‘Pain doesn’t bother me.’

  Anders feels his face glowing as he squeezes a couple of drops from the needle. One drop runs down the syringe. It smells a bit like sesame oil.

  ‘We’ve noticed that the other patients have unsettled you,’ Anders says, without looking at Jurek.

  ‘You don’t have to make excuses to me,’ Jurek says.

  Anders presses the needle into Jurek’s thigh, injects three hundred milligrams of Cisordinol, then waits.

  Jurek gasps, his lips quiver and his pupils contract to pinpricks. Saliva dribbles from his mouth, down his cheek and neck.

  His body twitches and jerks, then suddenly goes completely rigid, his head straining backwards, his back bowed off the bed, the straps over his body straining.