The Sandman. Ларс Кеплер
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Jurek’s hand jerks in surprise, but he doesn’t pull his arm back until he’s given permission. The Senior Consultant closes and hurriedly bolts the hatch, removes his earplugs, smiles nervously to himself and then looks inside.
Jurek Walter is stumbling towards the bed, where he stops and sits down.
Suddenly he turns to look at the door and Roland drops the syringe.
He tries to catch it but it rolls away across the floor.
Anders steps forward and picks up the syringe, and when they both stand and turn back towards the hatch they see that the inside of the reinforced glass is misted. Jurek has breathed on the glass and written ‘JOONA’ with his finger.
‘What does it say?’ Anders asks weakly.
‘He’s written Joona.’
‘Joona?’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
The condensation clears and they see that Jurek Walter is sitting as if he hadn’t moved. He looks at the arm where he got the injection, massages the muscle, then looks at them through the glass.
‘It didn’t say anything else?’ Anders asks.
‘I only saw …’
There’s a bestial roar from the other side of the heavy door. Jurek Walter has slid off the bed and is on his knees, screaming as hard as he can. The sinews in his neck are taut, his veins swollen.
‘How much did you actually give him?’ Anders asks.
Jurek Walter’s eyes roll back and turn white, he reaches out a hand to support himself, stretches one leg but topples over backwards, hitting his head on the bedside table, then he screams and his body starts to jerk spasmodically.
‘Bloody hell,’ Anders whispers.
Jurek slips onto the floor, his legs kicking uncontrollably. He bites his tongue and blood sprays out over his chest, then he lies there on his back, gasping.
‘What do we do if he dies?’
‘Cremate him,’ Brolin says.
Jurek is cramping again, his whole body shaking, and his hands flail in every direction until they suddenly stop.
Brolin looks at his watch. Sweat is running down his cheeks.
Jurek Walter whimpers, rolls onto his side and tries to get up, but fails.
‘You can go inside in two minutes,’ the Senior Consultant says.
‘Am I really going in there?’
‘He’ll soon be completely harmless.’
Jurek is crawling on all fours, bloody slime drooling from his mouth. He sways and slows down until he finally slumps to the floor and lies still.
Anders looks through the thick reinforced glass window in the door. Jurek Walter has been lying motionless on the floor for the last ten minutes. His body is limp in the wake of his cramps.
The Senior Consultant pulls out a key and puts it in the lock, then pauses and peers in through the window before unlocking the door.
‘Have fun,’ he says.
‘What do we do if he wakes up?’ Anders asks.
‘He mustn’t wake up.’
Brolin opens the door and Anders goes inside. The door closes behind him and the lock rattles. The isolation room smells of sweat, but of something else as well. A sharp smell of acetic acid. Jurek Walter is lying completely still, with just the slow pattern of his breathing visible across his back.
Anders keeps his distance from him even though he knows he’s fast asleep.
The acoustics in there are odd, intrusive, as if sounds follow movements too quickly.
His doctor’s coat rustles softly with each step.
Jurek is breathing faster.
The tap is dripping in the basin.
Anders reaches the bed, then turns towards Jurek and kneels down.
He catches a glimpse of the Senior Consultant watching him anxiously through the reinforced glass as he leans over and tries to look under the fixed bed.
Nothing on the floor.
He moves closer, looking carefully at Jurek before lying flat on the floor.
He can’t watch Jurek any longer. He has to turn his back on him to look for the knife.
Not much light reaches under the bed. There are dustballs nestled against the wall.
He can’t help imagining that Jurek Walter has opened his eyes.
There’s something tucked between the wooden slats and the mattress. It’s hard to see what it is.
Anders stretches out his hand, but can’t reach it. He’ll have to slide beneath the bed on his back. The space is so tight he can’t turn his head. He slips further in. Feels the unyielding bulk of the bed-frame against his ribcage with each breath. His fingers fumble. He needs to get a bit closer. His knee hits one of the wooden slats. He blows a dustball away from his face and carries on.
Suddenly he hears a dull thud behind him in the isolation cell. He can’t turn round and look. He just lies there still, listening. His own breathing is so rapid he has trouble discerning any other sound.
Cautiously he reaches out his hand and touches the object with his fingertips, squeezing in a bit further in order to pull it free.
Jurek has made a short knife with a very sharp blade fashioned from a piece of steel skirting.
‘Hurry up,’ the Senior Consultant calls through the hatch.
Anders tries to get out, pushing hard, and scratches his cheek.
Suddenly he can’t move, he’s stuck, his coat is caught and there’s no way he can wriggle out of it.
He imagines he can hear the sound of shuffling from Jurek.
Perhaps it was nothing.
Anders pulls as hard as he can. The seams strain but don’t tear. He realises that he’s going to have to slide back under the bed to free his coat.
‘What are you doing?’ Roland Brolin calls in a brittle voice.
The little hatch in the door clatters as it is bolted shut again.
Anders sees that one pocket of his coat has caught on a loose strut. He quickly pulls it free, holds his breath and pushes himself out again. He is filled with a rising sense of panic. He scrapes his stomach and knee, but grabs the edge of the bed with one hand and pulls himself out.
Panting, he turns round and gets unsteadily to his feet with the knife in his hand.
Jurek is lying on his side, one eye half-open in sleep, staring blindly.
Anders hurries over to the door and meets the Senior Consultant’s anxious gaze through the reinforced glass and tries to smile, but stress cuts through his voice as he says:
‘Open the door.’
Roland Brolin opens the hatch instead.
‘Pass the knife out first.’
Anders gives him a quizzical look, then hands the knife over.
‘You found something else as well,’ Roland Brolin says.
‘No,’ Anders replies, glancing at Jurek.
‘A letter.’
‘There