The Sandman (28 page)

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.

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.

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.

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.’

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 know 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.

He remains in that position, without breathing.

The frame of the bed creaks.

Anders is staring at him open-mouthed. He’s having a protracted, unbearable cramp attack.

Suddenly the tonic state ends and Jurek’s body begins to spasm instead. He’s jerking uncontrollably, biting his tongue and emitting guttural roars of pain.

Anders tries to tighten the straps across his body. Jurek’s arms are flailing and pulling so hard that his wrists start to bleed.

He sinks back, whimpering and panting, as all the blood drains from his face.

Anders steps away, and can’t help smiling as he sees tears trickling down Jurek’s cheeks.

‘It’ll soon feel better,’ he lies softly.

‘Not for you,’ Jurek gasps.

‘What did you say?’

‘You’ll just look surprised when I chop your head off and throw it in—’

Jurek is interrupted by a fresh attack of cramps. He screams as his head twists to one side; a fan of veins stand out on his throat as the bones in his neck crack, then his whole body starts to shake again, making the bed rattle.

Saga lets ice-cold water run over her hands. Her swollen knuckles are sore and she’s got three small wounds on them.