The Asylum (2 page)

At the beginning of August Högsmed had called him: Jan had been shortlisted for the post, and the doctor wanted to meet him. They had agreed on a time, and then Högsmed had added, ‘I have a couple of requests, Jan.’

‘Yes?’

‘You will need to bring some form of photo ID – your driving licence or passport, just so that we can be sure of who you are.’

‘Of course, that’s fine.’

‘And one last thing, Jan … don’t bring any sharp objects with you. If you do, you won’t be allowed in.’

‘Sharp objects?’

‘Any sharp objects made of metal … No knives.’

Jan arrived in Valla by train – without any sharp objects about his person – half an hour before his interview. He was keeping a close eye on the time, but still felt quite calm. He wasn’t about to climb a mountain; it was just a meeting about a job.

It was a sunny Tuesday in mid September; the streets near the station were bright and dry, but there were very few people around. This was his first visit to Valla, and as he walked out into the square he realized that no one knew where he was. No one. The
senior
consultant at St Patricia’s was expecting him, of course, but to Dr Högsmed he was just a name and a CV.

Was he ready? Absolutely. He tugged down the sleeves of his jacket and tidied his blond fringe before heading over to the taxi rank. There was just one cab waiting.

‘Can you take me to St Patricia’s Hospital?’

‘No problem.’

The driver might have borne a certain resemblance to Father Christmas, but he didn’t appear to share his jovial nature; he simply folded up his newspaper and started the engine. But as Jan settled down in the back seat their eyes met for a second in the rear-view mirror, as if Father Christmas just wanted to check that his passenger was sane.

Jan thought of asking whether the driver knew what kind of hospital St Patricia’s was, but it was obvious that he did.

They drove out of the square and into the street running alongside the railway line, and eventually turned into a short tunnel leading under the tracks. On the other side was a collection of large brick buildings that looked like some kind of hospital, with façades of steel and glass. Jan could see two yellow ambulances parked in front of the main entrance.

‘Is this St Patricia’s?’

But Father Christmas shook his head. ‘No, the people in here are sick in the body, not in the head. This is the local hospital.’

The sun was still shining; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. They turned off to the left once they got past the hospital, drove up a steep hill and came to the residential area where that sign warned drivers about children.

Caution! Children playing …

Jan thinks about all the children he has cared for over the years. None of them were his own; he was employed to look after them. But they grew to be his, in a way, and it was always difficult to say goodbye to them when the job came to an end. They often cried. Sometimes he cried too.

Suddenly he catches sight of some children: four boys aged
about
twelve are playing hockey by one of the garages.

Or is a twelve-year-old actually a child? When do children stop being children?

Jan leans back in his seat and pushes aside such deep questions. He needs to concentrate on coming up with clear answers. Job interviews are hard work if you have something to hide – and who hasn’t? We all have little secrets that we would prefer not to talk about. So has Jan. But today they absolutely must not come out.

Don’t forget Högsmed is a psychiatrist
.

The taxi leaves the upmarket residential area and drives past several blocks of low terraced houses. Then there are no more buildings, and the landscape opens out into an extensive grassy area. And beyond it Jan can see a huge concrete wall, at least five metres high and painted green. Thin strands of taut barbed wire run along the top. The only thing missing is a series of watchtowers with armed guards.

An immense grey building looms behind the wall, almost like a fortress. Jan can see only the uppermost section, with rows of narrow windows below a long tiled roof. Many of the windows are covered with bars.

That’s where they are, behind those bars
, he thinks – the most dangerous individuals. Those who cannot be permitted to walk the streets.
And that’s where you’re going
.

He feels his heart begin to pound as he thinks about Alice Rami, and the possibility that she might be sitting behind the bars at one of those windows, watching him at this very moment.

Calm, keep calm
.

Jan is a confident person, cheerful and pleasant, and he really
loves
children. Dr Högsmed is bound to understand this.

There is a wide steel gate set in the wall, but there is a no-waiting zone directly in front of it, so the taxi stops in the turning area. Jan has arrived. The meter is showing ninety-six kronor. Jan hands over a hundred-kronor note. ‘Keep the change.’

‘Thanks.’ Father Christmas seems disappointed by his tip; four kronor won’t buy any presents for the children. He doesn’t get out of the car to open the passenger door.

Jan can fend for himself.

‘Good luck with the job,’ the driver says as he passes Jan a receipt through the half-open window.

Jan nods and straightens his jacket. ‘Do you know anyone who works here?’

‘I don’t think so,’ says Father Christmas. ‘But most people keep quiet about the fact that they work up here … it means they don’t have to deal with a load of questions about the inmates.’

Jan notices that a smaller door next to the wide gate has opened. Someone is now standing there waiting for him: a man in his forties with thick brown hair and round, gold-framed glasses. From a distance he looks a little bit like John Lennon.

Lennon was shot by Mark Chapman
, Jan thinks. Why does he remember that? Because the murder brought Chapman worldwide notoriety overnight.

If Alice Rami is in St Patricia’s, what other celebrities might be locked up in there?

Forget about it
, says a voice inside his head.
And forget about Lynx too. Concentrate on the interview
.

The man waiting in the doorway is not wearing a white coat, just black trousers and a brown jacket, but it is perfectly obvious who he is. Dr Högsmed adjusts his glasses and gazes over at Jan. The assessment has already begun.

Jan looks at the taxi driver one last time. ‘Will you tell me the name now?’

‘What name?’

Jan nods in the direction of the concrete wall. ‘The name of the hospital … What do people call it?’

Father Christmas doesn’t answer immediately; he merely smiles with satisfaction at Jan’s curiosity. ‘St Psycho’s,’ he says eventually.

‘What?’

The driver gestures towards the wall. ‘Say hello to Ivan Rössel for me … He’s supposed to be in there.’

The window is wound up and the taxi pulls away.

2

AS HE WALKS
over to Dr Högsmed and shakes his hand, Jan works out that it is no ordinary barbed wire that surrounds St Patricia’s psychiatric hospital – it is electrified. The strands of wire form an electric fence a metre high right on top of the wall, with glowing red diodes flashing on each post.

‘Welcome.’ Högsmed looks at him through his spectacles, without a trace of a smile. ‘Did you have any trouble finding your way here?’

‘No, not at all.’

The concrete wall and the electric fence remind Jan of some kind of old-fashioned zoo, a tiger enclosure perhaps, but on the gravel to the right of the gate he spots a little bit of everyday life: a bicycle rack, with ladies’ and men’s bicycles in a row, kitted out with baskets and reflectors. One of them even has a plastic child seat on the back.

The steel door clicks and is slid to one side by invisible hands.

‘After you, Jan.’

‘Thank you.’

Walking in through a prison gate is like taking the first steps into the mouth of a pitch-black cave. An alien, isolated world.

The door slides shut behind them. The first thing Jan sees is a long, white surveillance camera, with the lens pointing straight at him. The camera is fixed to a post next to the door, silent and motionless.

Then he sees another camera on another post closer to the hospital, and yet more attached to the building itself. A yellow sign by the road carries the warning CCTV CAMERAS IN OPERATION 24 HOURS.

They walk past a car park festooned with several more signs: one of them says AMBULANCES ONLY, another POLICE VEHICLES ONLY.

Now he is inside the wall, Jan can see the hospital’s entire pale-grey façade. It is five storeys high, with long rows of narrow windows. Strands of some kind of ivy are creeping around the windows on the ground floor, like big hairy worms.

Jan feels slightly claustrophobic out here, trapped between the wall and the hospital. He hesitates, but the doctor leads the way, walking purposefully.

The path ends at a second steel door. It is closed, but the consultant swipes his magnetic card and waves to the nearest camera; after approximately thirty seconds, the lock clicks open.

They enter a smallish room with a glassed-in reception area, and yet another camera. The place smells of cleaning fluid and wet concrete – the floor has just been mopped. A broad-shouldered shadow is sitting behind the dark glass.

A security guard. Jan wonders if he is armed.

The thought of violence and guns makes him listen out for any noise from the patients, but they are probably too far away. Locked up behind steel doors and thick walls. And why should he be able to
hear
them? They’re hardly likely to be bellowing or laughing or hammering on the bars with metal mugs. Are they? Their world is more likely to consist of silent rooms, empty corridors.

The doctor has asked a question.

Jan turns his head. ‘Sorry?’

‘Your ID,’ Högsmed repeats. ‘Did you remember to bring it with you?’

‘Of course …’ Jan rummages in his jacket pocket and holds out his passport. ‘There you go.’

‘You hang on to it,’ says Högsmed. ‘Just open it at the page with your personal details and hold it up in front of this camera.’

Jan holds up his passport. The camera clicks and he is registered.

‘Good. We just need to take a quick look inside your bag as well.’

Jan has to unzip his bag and take out the contents in front of Dr Högsmed and the guard: a packet of tissues, a waterproof jacket, a folded newspaper …

‘All done.’

The doctor waves to the guard behind the glass, then leads Jan through a big steel archway – it looks like a metal detector – and on to another door, which he unlocks.

It seems to Jan that the air grows colder and colder as they make their way further into the hospital. After three more steel doors they are in a corridor which ends in a plain wooden door. Högsmed opens it. ‘So, this is where I hang out.’

It’s just an ordinary office. Most of the items in the doctor’s room are white, from the walls to the framed diplomas hanging next to the bookshelves. The shelves are also white, just like the piles of paper on the desk. There is only one personal possession on display: a photograph on the desk shows a young woman who looks tired but happy, holding a newborn baby in her arms.

But on the right-hand side of the desk Jan notices something else: a pile of assorted headgear. Five items, all well worn. A blue security guard’s hat, a white nurse’s cap, a headteacher’s black mortar board, a green hunting cap and a red clown’s wig.

Högsmed indicates the pile. ‘Choose one if you like.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I usually let my new patients choose one of the hats and put it on. Then we talk about why he or she chose that particular hat, and what it might mean … You’re welcome to do the same, Jan.’

Jan reaches out his hand. He wants to choose the clown’s wig, but what does that symbolize? Wouldn’t it be better to be a helpful nurse? A good person. Or a headteacher, who represents knowledge and wisdom?

His hand begins to tremble slightly. In the end he lowers it. ‘I think I’ll pass.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well … I’m not a patient, after all.’

Högsmed gives a brief nod. ‘But I could see you were thinking of choosing the clown, Jan. And that’s interesting, because clowns often have secrets. They hide things behind a painted smile.’

‘Oh?’

Högsmed nods again. ‘John Wayne Gacy, the serial killer, used to do voluntary work as a clown in Chicago before he was arrested; he liked performing in front of children. And of course serial killers and sex offenders are children in a way; they see themselves as the centre of the world, and have never grown up.’

Jan doesn’t say any more, he just tries to smile.

Högsmed stares at him for a few seconds, then he turns and points to a pine chair in front of the desk. ‘Take a seat, Jan.’

‘Thank you, Doctor.’

‘I know I’m a doctor, but please feel free to call me Patrik.’

‘OK … Patrik.’

Jan thinks this sounds wrong. He doesn’t want to be on first-name terms with the doctor. He sits down, lets his shoulders drop and tries to relax, glancing quickly at the senior consultant.

Dr Högsmed seems young to be in charge of an entire hospital, but he doesn’t look too good. His eyes are bloodshot. Once he is seated behind his desk, he quickly leans back in the ergonomic office chair, takes off his glasses and opens his eyes wide, staring up at the ceiling.

Jan wonders what on earth Högsmed is up to, then he sees that the doctor has taken out a little bottle of eye drops. He squeezes three drops into each eye, then shuts them tight for a moment.

‘Keratitis,’ he explains. ‘Doctors can be ill too; people sometimes forget that.’

Jan nods. ‘Is it serious?’

‘Not particularly, but my eyeballs have felt like sandpaper for the last week.’ He leans forward, trying to blink away thin tears, before putting his glasses back on. ‘As I said before, welcome to St Patricia’s, Jan. I assume you know what the locals call this place?’

‘I don’t think I …’

The consultant rubs his right eye. ‘Down in the town … the nickname people have come up with for St Patricia’s?’