The Sandman. Ларс Кеплер
Brolin smiles.
‘But I don’t understand why …’
‘You need this job,’ the Senior Consultant interrupts. ‘I’ve heard that you were bottom of your class, you’re in debt, you’ve got no experience and no references.’
‘Are you finished?’
‘You should give me the letter,’ Brolin replies, clenching his jaw.
‘I didn’t find a letter.’
Brolin 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 Anders as if the Senior Consultant looks slightly more relaxed as he gets in the car, shuts the door and starts the engine. When Brolin taps on the window he ignores him, puts the car in gear and pulls away. In the rear-view mirror Brolin stands and watches the car without smiling.
When Anders gets home he quickly shuts the front door behind him, locks it and puts the safety chain on.
His heart is beating hard in his chest – for some reason he ran from the car to the house.
From Agnes’s room he can hear Petra’s soothing voice. Anders smiles to himself. She’s already reading Seacrow Island to their daughter. It’s usually much later before the bedtime rituals have reached the story. It must have been a good day again today. Anders’s new job has meant that Petra has risked cutting her own hours.
There’s a damp patch on the hall rug around Agnes’s muddy winter boots. Her woolly hat and snood are on the floor in front of the bureau. Anders goes in and puts the bottle of champagne 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 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 squeaking branches, it occurs to him that he ought to 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 bit 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 left 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 worktop next to the microwave.
Slowly 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 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, and simply constitutes a formal request. Jurek Walter asks for legal assistance to understand the meaning of his being sentenced to secure psychiatric care. He needs to have his rights clarified, and would like to know what possibility there is of getting the verdict reconsidered in the future.
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.
Thoughts about Jurek’s words are chasing round his head as he walks into his study and takes out an envelope. He copies the address, 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 towards the letter-box up by the roundabout. Once he’s posted the letter he stands and just watches the cars passing on Sandavägen for a while before walking back home.
The wind is making the frosted grass ripple like water. A hare races off towards the old gardens.
He opens the gate and looks up into the kitchen window. The whole house resembles a doll’s house. 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 realises that the person is actually standing in the garden at the back of the house.
He’s simply visible through the bedroom window.
Anders runs down the paved path, past the sundial and round 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 see anything, but it’s far too dark.
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. Because 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 can’t keep them open. He knows he’ll have to lie down on the mattress and become part of the darkness.
Mum used to talk about the Sandman’s daughter, the mechanical girl, Olympia. She creeps in to the children once they’re asleep and pulls the covers up over their shoulders so they don’t freeze.
Mikael leans against the wall, feels the furrows in the concrete.
The thin sand floats like fog. It’s hard to breathe. His lungs struggle to keep his blood oxygenated.
He coughs and licks his lips. They’re dry and already feel numb.
His eyelids are getting heavier and heavier.
Now the whole family is swinging in the hammock. The summer light shines through the leaves of the lilac bower. The rusty screws creak.
Mikael is smiling broadly.
We’re swinging high and Mum’s trying to slow us down, but Dad keeps us going. A jolt to the table in front of us makes the glasses of strawberry juice tremble.
The hammock swings backwards and Dad laughs and holds up his hands like he was on a rollercoaster.
Mikael’s head nods and he opens his eyes in the darkness, stumbles to the side and leans his hand against the cool wall. He turns towards the mattress, thinking that he should lie down before he passes out, when his knees suddenly give way.
He falls and hits the floor, trapping his arm beneath him, feeling the pain from his wrist and shoulder