I stand facing the mirror until the ventilation system has sucked all the moisture out of the room and the glass is bone dry again. ‘OK, then,’ I add without taking my eyes off the mirror. ‘Then let’s play.’ I turn on my heel and leave the bathroom.
CHAPTER 49
I make for the footboard where the old man’s jacket is still hanging and rummage through the pockets until I find his mobile phone. Once I have brought it over to my bed, I key in Ulf’s number.
‘Hi, Ulf. It’s me. Your favourite patient.’
‘Are you aware how much shit I’ve—’
‘How are things in Stavanger?’ I ask, breaking into the brewing storm of recriminations and insults.
‘What if you took a big stick and just shoved it’ – his normally so therapeutically oriented vibrato, with overtones of a Bergen accent, is working in top gear – ‘right up your arse, you bloody moron! Ruth is furious that I even let myself be persuaded to take you under my wing, and—’
‘Ruth? Who is Ruth?’
Ulf pauses his tirade for a moment before answering in a slightly calmer tone: ‘Ruth, my live-in partner, for heaven’s sake. She’s a colleague I met a while ago at a conference in Drammen.’
‘I thought she was called Solveig.’
‘No,’ Ulf says, spluttering. ‘Solveig moved out the same day you headed north. Took Frida with her and went home to Bergen.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Nothing to be done about it, nothing more to be said. These things happen. Even to psychiatrists.’ He fills his lungs with cigarette smoke. ‘So, what’s going on, Thorkild Aske? Could you please tell me? What on earth have you done?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Listen …’ Once again Ulf is on the verge of exploding, but instead pockets his pride, takes a deep breath and goes on: ‘A few minutes ago I ended a conversation with a Dr Weidemann of the renal unit at Tromsø University Hospital, who wanted to know something about a patient they’d admitted to the trauma reception facility last night. My very own Thorkild Aske, who they assume threw himself on purpose into the sea while chock-full of medicines. My medicines!’
‘Technically speaking, the medicines were mine,’ I correct him. ‘Besides, my drowning attempt came to nothing.’
‘What? What! But bloody hell …’ This time Ulf is unable to hold back his fury. After an all-encompassing, thundering speech in which he threatens everything from premeditated murder to compulsory psychiatric treatment on a rigid kill-or-cure regime of Paracet and Truxal, he finally cools his jets and is ready to talk again.
‘Well,’ he says, sounding calmer, ‘what is going on?’
‘I found Rasmus in the sea. He’d been murdered.’
‘Murdered?!’
‘According to the post-mortem he had sustained a head injury caused by a blow, and died of drowning. His body was attached with cable ties to a woman’s arm, and I reckon it was the same woman that I found out at the lighthouse.’
‘Post-mortem? A woman’s arm? But what the …’ Ulf stops to take a deep breath. ‘OK, OK, OK,’ he intones between inhalations. ‘We can discuss this further some other time. But what’s happening to you now?’
‘I’ve just had an enema.’
‘Brilliant, brilliant,’ Ulf murmurs distractedly as he lights another cigarette.
‘Ulf,’ I start to explain, ‘I didn’t think about how this would—’
‘OK, not now. We’ll go into that when you get home. Because you are coming home, aren’t you?’
‘Not yet.’
‘What? You must travel home to Stavanger at once. This has spun completely out of control, and you have no business getting entangled in a criminal case. I’ll phone Anniken right away and tell her that things have gone too far, and you can’t help her any further. Then you can come home today.’
‘That’s not on,’ I quickly contradict him. ‘I have a police interview tomorrow that I can’t get out of.’
‘Police interview?’ Ulf’s voice drops to a softer octave. ‘Why’s that?’
‘They found blood from one of the missing policemen during a crime-scene examination out there at the lighthouse. Presumably, they’ve also found something else out there that can be linked directly to one of the two policemen.’
‘But what does that have to do with you?’
‘The evidence connects Bjørkang and his sergeant to my whereabouts that evening at the lighthouse.’
‘And?’
‘Don’t you hear what I’m saying? Two policemen are missing after having gone out to a lighthouse to meet a mentally unstable, suicidal, brain-injured, ex-policeman who has just been released from prison.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘It will all come out this time,’ I continue. ‘Frei, all that shit, no matter if I’m guilty or not.’ I hesitate for an instant. ‘She was there again the last time I was out there. Not Frei, but the woman without a face. She was sitting down there in the disco. At least I think she was – that’s why I have to go back there again. I have to see for myself, and know where the dividing line is. The line between fantasy and reality, before I step inside that room. In advance of the interview.’
‘Now I understand,’ Ulf says, energetically stubbing out his cigarette as he exhales, feeling disgruntled. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Yes. Get me out of here.’
Ulf clears his throat. ‘OK. Where are you?’
‘The renal unit. They won’t tell me when I’ll be allowed out.’
‘OK, OK,’ he chants to himself in some sort of stress-releasing mantra. ‘If they regard you as suicidal, psychotic or see any sign of serious mental illness, they will use a compulsory order to admit you to an acute psychiatric ward for observation.’
‘How long would I have to stay there?’
‘Up to ten days,’ Ulf answers.
‘I don’t have time for that.’
‘I’m afraid you don’t have any choice.’
‘Help me, Ulf,’ I beg him as I hear footfalls in the corridor, heading straight for my room. ‘Help me, for God’s sake.’
‘It’s too late, Thorkild,’ Ulf sighs. ‘This time you’ve got yourself too far tangled up in the system for me to help. Take those ten days, Thorkild – I think you need them, considering all you’ve been through. Maybe I can do something to shorten the time; that’s not impossible if you just—’
‘Time’s already up, Ulf,’ I whisper as the door opens and a doctor pokes his head in.
‘Thorkild!’ I hear Ulf yell just as I move to disconnect the call.
‘Yes?’ I put the phone to my ear again. ‘What is it?’
‘Don’t fool around now.’
‘Fool around?’
CHAPTER 50
‘You’re back,’ the doctor remarks as he enters. He has a cup of coffee in one hand and a brown envelope in the other, resting it on his chin as if intending to use it as a fan. Grey-haired and about my own age, he speaks an eastern Norwegian dialect.
‘What do you mean?’
‘We were here a moment ago.’
‘I was in the toilet,’ I answer. ‘Stomach problems.’
The doctor looks down his nose as I try to summon the necessary facial gymnastics to make it both embarrassing and believable at one and the same time. The smell of the autopsy room lingers in the air, as if already impregnated in the bedclothes and walls.
‘Where are your clothes?’
‘They were cut up downstairs in trauma reception and are in a bag here somewhere.’
‘Have you anybody who can bring a change of clothes for you?’
‘No.’
The doctor casts his eyes down at his shoes. ‘OK,’ he says after a pause. ‘I’ll see if we can organise something for you from our lost property department.’ He sits down on the chair beside the bed. ‘How are you feeling today?’
‘Old,’ I reply laconically.
‘Dr Weidemann.’ He offers me a sinewy, tanned hand
with perfect fingernails.
‘Thorkild Aske,’ I reply, sinking back on to the bed.
My body feels suddenly heavy, as if exhausted and drained of energy. ‘So,’ I continue, now that the pleasantries are done with. ‘I’m cured, then? That was quick.’
‘Well,’ Dr Weidemann says, with a sigh, and starts over again. ‘We’re transferring you to the psychiatric unit at Åsgård for observation with the intention of—’
‘No, thanks,’ is my response, and I smile as broadly as my facial muscles will allow. ‘Just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in. Need to push off now.’
‘We have the law on our side.’
‘What law?’
‘The reference is paragraph 3.2 of the law on mental health care and insists on compulsory observation for up to ten days.’
‘Why?’
He gives me a resigned look, and only now do I notice that his eyes are bloodshot. ‘Considering what has taken place, we’re afraid you might be a danger to yourself.’
‘Oh?’
‘Here.’ He passes me the envelope, and I weigh it in the palm of my hand, fixing my eyes on the man by my side, crumpling so far into the chair that it looks as if he might bend in two. ‘Can I read it?’
‘Er, yes, yes of course. Inside, you’ll find mention of the paragraph about compulsory admission to an acute psychiatric ward where you can find the legal authority.’
Outside, darkness is falling. I can hear the wind whistling through gaps in the window frame just as I catch sight of two men who have appeared in the doorway. One is young, with short hair, and the other older, with a terrible haircut. Both appear to have lifetime subscriptions at a weight-lifting club and doctorates in physical confrontation.
‘Who are they?’
‘They’re here to assist.’
‘You?’
Weidemann shakes his head. ‘In case you need it.’
‘Assist with what?’
‘Anything.’
‘When am I leaving?’
‘Now, or as soon as you feel fit enough to make the move.’
‘Can I refuse?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fine, then I refuse.’
‘But …’ Weidemann raises his hand again, like a white flag between us. ‘But …’ he repeats with renewed determination. ‘Then the police will drive you there.’
‘Fantastic. Then I’ll go under my own steam.’
‘Taxi or ambulance? Jørn and Jørgen here will escort you.’
‘I don’t have any money.’
‘We’ll arrange that.’
I spread out my hands in consternation. ‘Doesn’t look as if I have any choice.’
‘Fine, then.’ Dr Weidemann drags himself out of the chair and shuffles over to the door while the two care assistants step into the room and stand smiling in front of me. Not the warm, welcoming smiles you receive from someone you know, but rather two cold invitations, as in an even now, here we stand side by side with you, a trouserless ex-policeman with nothing to lose, and still we’re smiling type of smile.
I clasp my hands reverently over the brown envelope and return the smiles, acting as friendly as I can possibly contrive, in view of the circumstances.
‘Hey!’ I call out after Dr Weidemann as he makes for the door.
‘What?’ He stops and wheels round.
‘Can you give me half an hour?’ Laying my hand gingerly on my stomach, I pull a grimace. ‘Doesn’t feel as if I’m finished in the toilet after that colonic irrigation.’
‘Of course,’ he answers. ‘In the meantime, I’ll see if I can find any fresh clothes for you.’
The two men stand just inside the door as I haul myself out of bed and hobble bent-backed over the linoleum and into the bathroom, where I close the door behind me and turn on the basin tap full blast.
I sit on the toilet-seat lid and take out the old man’s mobile phone that I have kept concealed in my hand. Time to take responsibility and show some personal initiative, as Gunnar Ore used to say when our section’s football team was being thrashed by the legal firm from across the street.
‘Thorkild?’ Liz gasps breathlessly when she hears my voice. ‘Oh my goodness, I’ve been so scared—’
‘Afterwards, Sis,’ I whisper into the handset as quietly as I can. ‘I need your help. Now, right away.’
CHAPTER 51
The goods lift in the renal unit is either the most wretched place that anyone could hang out in, or else Dr Weidemann has a vile sense of medical humour that I can’t fathom.
I’m dressed in a pair of jogging bottoms with dark blue and green stripes down the side, the kind you only see on drug addicts and teenagers in the Eastern bloc. The top I’m wearing is a thick, greyish white, woollen turtleneck sweater that keeps me constantly itchy and is too small for me.
My footwear is a pair of washed-out, well-worn trainers, out of date in every way. My own wet, sliced-up clothing has been handed to me in a yellow plastic bag from the Prix supermarket chain. I feel like a travelling poster boy from some obscure anti-heroin campaign in northern Norway, as I walk with my beaming bodyguards, Jørn and Jørgen, along the renal unit corridor towards the lift. The intention is that they will escort me to the main entrance and on by taxi to Åsgård, Tromsø University Hospital’s psychiatric unit located on the western side of Tromsøya Island.
It appears my pair of travelling companions delight in the awkward silence between us in the lift – no exchange of glances, no words, just cold smiles, as if they’re taking part in a competition that means whoever speaks first, or shows any other trait of humanity, has lost.
‘Hey, you!’ I lean towards Jørn or Jørgen on my right side. He doesn’t answer, but looks in my direction, as if expecting me to continue.
‘Do you know what’s red and says blob blob?’ I ask in an undertone without taking my eyes off the lift door in front of us. The lift stops and the door opens, but no one enters. ‘No?’ The door closes and the lift continues its descent. ‘Well, don’t let me keep you in suspense any longer than necessary. It’s actually a …’ I delay for a moment before pressing on: ‘Last chance. You get one more chance to guess what it is.’
Jørn or Jørgen on my right side still makes no response, and Jørn or Jørgen on my left doesn’t bat an eyelid, instead simply concentrating intently on his statue impression as he listens. ‘OK, here it comes … a red blob blob!’ I exclaim, nudging his shoulder as I guffaw and clap my hands against the carrier bag’s soft plastic.
The lift stops again. Jørn and Jørgen indicate that we have reached the right level, and that I should move. We advance into a bright department and set off along a wide corridor towards a huge space that I realise must be the exit area, even though I can’t see any exit doors for the crowds of people.
‘And you?’ I prod the other Jørn or Jørgen’s shoulder, the one on my left-hand side. ‘Do you know what’s red and says blob blob?’
He doesn’t answer either, and merely steers his way purposefully through the wheelchair users, pregnant teenage mothers, patients with plasters and bandages, and their relatives.
‘Don’t you know?’ I say, nodding as we pass two men standing with a ladder, busy changing a fluorescent light tube on the ceiling. ‘I just told you, you know,’ I continue. ‘But that was wrong. That’s what’s so funny. It’s not a red blob blob. Not this time. It’s a cranberry with an outboard motor! Get it? It changes every time. So you can’t win.’ I jab his shoulder again. ‘You just can’t win.’
‘Hey,’ Jørn or Jørgen on my right side whispers. ‘What if we just calm down a bit now? OK?’ On the other side of the ladder and the men changing the fluorescent tube, I spy a row of red chairs, and behind these a room divider half a metre high with plastic plants and clay pebbles. Beyond the plastic plants lies a spacious enclosed area where patients and relatives are huddled around tables, some reading newspapers, while others are eating or chatting on mobile phones.
‘Yes, OK, of
course,’ I answer. ‘I just wanted to explain how the same joke—’
‘Yes, we get it.’ Jørn or Jørgen to my left raises his voice a notch. ‘You can’t win because it changes every time.’
‘Exactly,’ I say, laughing, and poke him, light as a feather, on the shoulder again. ‘You just can’t win. No matter how many times you try.’ I lean towards him once more, as if to give him yet another harmless little prod, but instead shove all my weight against his shoulder and ram him into the group of seats occupied by patients and relatives, so that he trips over the room divider with plastic plants and clay pebbles to land in amongst the dining tables on the other side. Then I slap the yellow plastic bag full of my wet, sliced-up clothes straight into Jørn or Jørgen’s face, the one on my right-hand side this time. Losing shoulder contact as he takes a step to one side, he collides with the ladder that one of the men has just begun to climb, holding a replacement fluorescent tube in his hand. The result is that the man drops the light tube when he has to grab the ladder and it smashes on the floor.
As for me, I break into a run.
I turn to the left, past the seating area, and hare off after a group of people in outdoor clothing just beside the entrance to a pharmacy – they are making their way towards a sloping corridor that seems to lead outside. Unfortunately my hunch turns out to be wrong, and the corridor simply runs down into another, narrower passage.
I turn tail abruptly, about to retreat, when the younger Jørn or Jorgen suddenly cannons into me from the side, so that we both collapse on to the floor and roll up against a cardboard box full of items on special offer, on display at the pharmacy entrance.
My arms flail in an effort to recover my footing and I throw a bottle of sun cream, reduced to half price, straight at the younger Jørn or Jørgen, hitting him smack in the face, just as he is about to jump me. I scramble to my feet again and set off towards an information desk, where I spot a large sign and an arrow showing the way out.
All at once I spot the older Jørn or Jørgen, standing right between a pillar and me. The exit is behind him. He holds his hands out at hip level, snorting like a quick-tempered bull, as he glares furiously at me. The sight of him makes me slow down, calling to mind a duel scene from some old Western film in which the townspeople – in this case a glorious mixture of battle-scarred patients and cancer sufferers desperate for a smoke – run in panic in every direction until there are only the two duellists left in a main street blowing with dust. The problem is just that neither of us has a weapon, if neither of us is keen to grab a walking frame from someone in the crowd of spectators or a tube of wart ointment from the pharmacy.
I Will Miss You Tomorrow Page 22