The Asylum (14 page)

He has been back from work for a couple of hours by this stage; he has had dinner and settled down at the kitchen table with the picture books from the Dell in front of him. He has finished the first book,
The Animal Lady;
he has improved the illustrations and coloured them in. He wonders what Rami would think of the result.

He has made a start on the next book,
Viveca’s House of Stone
. He is thinking about how to fill in the faint pencil drawings as he reads through the text.

Once upon a time there was an old woman who woke up one morning. What? What? What? she thought, because she was actually lying in a wooden coffin. She wasn’t very strong, but she managed to lift up the lid and peep out. The room in which she found herself was big, with stone walls and a stone floor
.

She shouted ‘Hello?’ into the silence, but no one answered
.

She knew only one thing: Viveca. Her name was Viveca
.

Jan reads the page twice, then begins to ink in the drawing. Viveca is a skinny woman with big eyes. Her head is sticking up out of a coffin.

It was several days before Viveca felt strong enough to get out of the coffin. Ooh. Aah. Aha! When she finally managed to push off the lid and get up, she saw a shabby dog basket on the floor beside her
.

There was a label on the basket that said BLANKER, and in the bottom was a pile of grey dust and an empty dog collar. The dust was in the shape of a dog lying down
.

Jan notices that the name Blanker is in this book too, just as it was in
The Animal Lady
.

He reads on, captivated by the story, as he goes over the thin pencil lines.

Eventually Viveca was able to leave the bedroom; the room next door was huge, with beautiful furniture, but everything was old and very dusty. A white wooden clock was hanging on the wall by the staircase, but when she looked at it more closely, she saw that there was something wrong with the hands. Tock, tick. It was going backwards
.

Viveca moved into a hallway; there was an outside door, but it wouldn’t open
.

In another bedroom on the ground floor she found two more wooden coffins. They were neatly placed side by side, as if a married couple had decided to lie down in them. A man and a woman? No-no-no – Viveca didn’t want to lift the lids and look!

Next to the bedroom was a closed door, and when Viveca opened it she saw a steep staircase leading down into the darkness. Cautiously she made her way down the steps, and found herself in a cellar. On the earth floor she found a pile of yellow bones. The bones of a monster. Ugh. She quickly went back to her room
.

The days passed
.

Viveca waited. Waited and slept. Every morning when she woke up, she felt a little brighter. She felt stronger, and when she caught her reflection in the mirror, she looked younger. And
the
hands of the clock kept on moving backwards, and in the end Viveca began to suspect what was happening in this house of stone:

Time was moving backwards!

Viveca suddenly realized that she would just keep getting younger and younger, and if she waited long enough, her parents would come back to life, and so would Blanker, her dog. She wouldn’t be lonely any more
.

But of course the same thing would happen to the big bones down in the cellar. Whatever it was, it would also come back to life
.

Tock, tick, tock. The clock kept on going backwards
.

One beautiful day Viveca woke up and looked at her hands, and saw that they were small and smooth. She was full of energy, and leapt out of bed. She had become a little girl again! She heard the sound of barking, and suddenly a golden-coloured retriever jumped up on to the bed and started licking her face. Blanker had woken up
.

Her beloved Blanker!

Viveca was SO happy! She was no longer alone in the house of stone, and she hugged Blanker as tightly as she could
.

But eventually she raised her head and listened. She could hear noises coming from the cellar. The clicking of bones
.

Blanker growled. He ran over to the door and started barking. That wasn’t good! Because Viveca could hear the sound of something big and heavy that had started to move down there …

At that point Jan’s doorbell suddenly rings with a loud, cheerful tone. He gives a start and glances towards the hallway.
Who’s there?
Jan has spent eight hours with pre-school children, and he wants his peace and quiet.

The bell keeps on ringing. He quickly hides the picture book in one of the kitchen drawers, then answers the door.

‘Evening, Jan!’ A blond man is standing there smiling. It is Lars Rettig from Bill’s Bar, wearing his leather jacket. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

Jan feels as if he has been caught out somehow, but shakes his head. ‘No … no, it’s fine.’

‘Can I come in?’

‘Sure. For a while.’

The evening chill from the street still clings to Rettig’s jacket, and spreads through the hallway as he takes off his shoes and carries on into the living room. He has a carrier bag in one hand.

‘Sorry to push in … I didn’t want to stand out there drawing attention to myself.’ He looks at all the furniture and boxes piled up along the walls. ‘Wow, you’ve got plenty of rubbish.’

‘That’s not mine,’ Jan says quickly. ‘It’s a sublet.’

‘Right.’ Rettig sits down on the sofa, still looking around. ‘And you’ve got drums … Do you play?’

‘A bit.’

‘Cool.’ Rettig’s eyes flash: he has had an idea. ‘You could come and do some jamming with us if you want. Our drummer in the Bohemos has just become a dad, so he can’t always make the rehearsals.’

‘OK,’ says Jan, without even thinking. He feels a shiver of anticipation, but keeps the impassive mask in place: ‘Perhaps I could come along and help out if you like … but I’m not all that good.’

Rettig laughs. ‘Or else you’re just being modest. But we can give it a try, can’t we?’ He takes something out of the bag. It’s a steaming-hot kebab with bread, wrapped in foil. He looks at it hungrily, then glances at Jan. ‘Want some?’

‘No thanks – you carry on.’

Jan closes the outside door and stands in the doorway of the lounge. ‘How did you know where I live?’

‘I checked the hospital computer … Every employee’s address is on there.’ Rettig takes a bite of his kebab. ‘How are you getting on at the nursery?’

‘Fine … but it’s a pre-school.’

‘OK,
pre-school
.’

Jan doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, then he asks, ‘So you really do work at St Patricia’s?’

‘Indeed I do. Four nights a week, with lots of free time in between. That’s when I play with the Bohemos.’

‘And you’re a security guard there?’

Rettig shakes his head. ‘We prefer the term
care worker
. I work
with
the patients, not
against
them. Most of them are no trouble at all.’

‘And do you see them often?’

‘Every day,’ says Rettig. ‘Or every night, I should say.’

‘Do you know their names?’

‘Most of them,’ says Rettig, taking another bite. ‘But new faces come along at regular intervals. Some are allowed to go home, others are admitted.’

‘But you know the names of the ones … the ones who’ve been in there a long time?’

Rettig holds up a hand. ‘One thing at a time … We can chat about our guests, but first of all I want to know if you’ve decided.’

‘Decided what?’

‘Whether you want to help them.’

Jan takes a couple of steps into the room. ‘I’d be happy to hear more … At Bill’s Bar you said something about there being too many things you’re not allowed to do.’

Rettig nods. ‘That’s what it’s all about. There’s too much bureaucracy at St Patricia’s, too many rules … particularly when it comes to the closed wards. The daytime security team rules the roost up there.’ He sighs gloomily at the thought of his colleagues on the day shift, and looks up at the ceiling. ‘The patients are not allowed to write letters to whoever they like, and their post is checked. They’re hardly ever allowed to watch TV or listen to the radio, they get searched all the time …’

Jan nods, remembering how he had to open his bag when he first went inside the hospital.

‘You just get tired of all the supervision, that’s all,’ Rettig says. ‘Some of us have been talking about this, and we think well-behaved patients ought to have a little more contact with the outside world.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Through letters, for example. People write to the patients. Their
parents,
their friends, their brothers and sisters write to them … But the daytime security team stop the letters. Or they open them and have a good snoop … So we want to try and smuggle the letters in.’

Jan looks at him. ‘And how would that work? Nobody from the pre-school is allowed into the hospital.’

‘Oh yes they are,’ Rettig says quickly. ‘You are, Jan. You and your children.’

Jan doesn’t say anything, so Rettig goes on: ‘You’re allowed to go up to the visitors’ room, unsupervised. There are no cameras in there, no checks. And at night that room is completely empty. Anyone could go up and leave a bundle of letters in there … letters that could then be collected by me and taken into the hospital.’

Jan glances around sharply, as if Dr Högsmed is standing behind him in the apartment. ‘And these letters,’ he says. ‘Where do they come from?’

Rettig shrugs his shoulders. ‘From the people who write them. People send all kinds of stuff to the hospital, but most of it gets stopped. So I’ve got to know this guy in the sorting office in town, and he’s started putting aside all handwritten letters addressed to St Patricia’s. Then he gives them to me.’

Rettig looks pleased with himself, but Jan isn’t smiling.

‘So you don’t know anything about these letters? You don’t know what’s in them?’

‘Yes, we do,’ says Rettig. ‘Paper, paper with words on it … They’re just ordinary letters.’

Jan’s expression is doubtful. ‘I’m not smuggling drugs.’

‘It’s not drugs. Nothing illegal.’

‘But you
are
breaking the rules.’

‘We are.’ Rettig nods. ‘But so did Mahatma Gandhi. For a good cause.’

Silence falls.

Jan clears his throat. ‘Can you tell me a bit about the patients?’

‘Which ones?’

Jan doesn’t want to mention Rami’s name, not yet. ‘I’ve seen an old woman up there,’ he says. ‘Grey hair, dressed in a black coat.
She
goes around sweeping up the leaves just inside the fence … I wondered if she works at St Patricia’s, or if she’s a patient.’

Rettig has stopped smiling. ‘She’s a patient,’ he says quietly. ‘Her name is Margit. But she’s not as old as you might think.’

‘Really? I’ve seen her standing by the fence, watching the children.’

‘She’s done that ever since the pre-school opened,’ says Rettig. ‘Whenever she’s allowed outside she goes and stands by the fence.’

‘Does she like children?’

Rettig doesn’t answer at first. ‘Margit had three children of her own,’ he says eventually. ‘She was married to a potato farmer in Blekinge … This was twenty-five years ago. Her husband used to leave the farm on Fridays and go into town to meet customers. But one day Margit found out from a neighbour that he had a room in a hotel in town, a room where he used to entertain his girlfriend … maybe several girlfriends. So she went to the gun cupboard and took out his shotgun.’

Jan looks at him. ‘She went to the hotel and shot him?’

Rettig shakes his head. ‘She took the children out to the barn and shot
them
. First of all the two oldest, then she reloaded and shot the little one.’ He sighs. ‘She’s been locked up in St Patricia’s ever since.’

The room is now deathly quiet.

Rettig has stopped eating. He shakes himself, as if he wants to forget what he has said, then goes on: ‘But Margit is kept well away from your children, there’s no need to worry … She’s kept away from all children.’

Jan slowly opens his mouth. ‘I don’t think I wanted to know that.’

‘Well, now you do know,’ Rettig says. ‘There’s a lot we don’t want to know about the people around us … I know way too much, personally.’

‘About the patients?’

‘About everyone.’

Jan nods slowly. He is thinking about the children’s books hidden in his kitchen. He has secrets of his own.

‘And it’s only letters you want me to take in? Nothing else?’

‘No drugs, no weapons, just letters,’ Rettig insists. ‘Think about it, Jan. I work there. Do you think I want people like Ivan Rössel to get their hands on drugs or knives?’

Jan stares at him. ‘Is Ivan Rössel in there?’ He recognizes the name from the newspapers and TV. And the taxi driver mentioned him too.

‘He is.’

‘Ivan Rössel the serial killer?’

‘That’s right,’ Rettig answers in a subdued voice. ‘We’ve got quite a few celebrities among the guests at our establishment … If you only knew.’

Alice Rami
, Jan thinks. But out loud he simply asks, ‘So when do you want an answer about the letters?’

‘Preferably now.’

‘I need to give it some thought.’

Rettig leans forward. ‘There’s a place down by the harbour; we use one of the rooms for our rehearsals. We can meet up there, do some jamming with the Bohemos … and afterwards we can have a chat. How about that?’

Jan isn’t sure, but he accepts the invitation anyway.

‘Come down there tomorrow, about seven. It’ll be cool, as they say.’

When Rettig has gone and Jan has locked the front door, he immediately regrets his decision. Why did he agree to play with the Bohemos? He’s heard them, and they’re too good for him.

He glances over at his drums, wanting to sit down and practise right away, but it’s too late at night. Instead he goes into the kitchen and gets out the four hidden books:
The Animal Lady, The Princess with a Hundred Hands, The Witch Who Was Poorly, Viveca’s House of Stone
. He almost knows the stories off by heart now. He knows the princess shouts, ‘I’m not unhappy, I just like
unhappiness
!’ when she first arrives in the village, and he knows that the first symptom of the witch’s illness is that her hair melts.