Sigrid was still full of life. ‘Absolutely!’
‘Well, why don’t we split up?’ suggested Jan. ‘You play with the girls and I’ll take the boys.’
She nodded, and Jan raised his voice and shouted to the boys, ‘Playtime!’
He gathered them around him — William Halevi and the other eight.
‘Quick march!’ Like a sergeant in the marines he took command and marched the boys along the path, deeper into the forest.
16
They are small, made of white plastic, and they look just like cheap walkie-talkies. Electronic baby monitors. There are lots of different kinds, but the one Jan has chosen is called Angelguards. Guardian angels.
‘This model is actually our top seller,’ says the assistant. ‘It’s incredibly reliable, the nine-volt battery lasts for several weeks, and it transmits using a completely different frequency from mobile phones and radios. And it has an integral nightlight, which can also be used as a torch.’
‘Excellent,’ says Jan.
He is standing in a shop full of things for children: clothes, books and buggies. They sell every imaginable kind of protection and barrier and lock and alarm for little ones — ergonomic spoons and bibs that light up and little tubes to suck the snot out of a baby’s nose — but Jan is interested in only one thing: the baby monitors.
‘What’s the range?’
‘At least three hundred metres, in any conditions.’
‘Does it work through metal and concrete as well?’
‘Absolutely... Walls are no problem.’
Jan buys the Angelguards. The young sales assistant probably thinks he is yet another anxious father, because he winks at him and says, ‘These angels are set to transmit one way only, so you can hear the child, but the child can’t hear you.’
‘Brilliant,’ says Jan.
‘Is it a boy or a girl?’
‘Oh, both... and they’re different ages,’ Jan answers quickly. ‘I’ve got three.’
‘And they’re restless sleepers?’
‘No, no, things are usually pretty quiet, but, I mean, you want to make sure they’re safe, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’ The assistant places the Angels in a bag. ‘That will be three hundred and forty-nine kronor, please.’
In the evening Jan cycles up to the Dell with the Angels in his rucksack. He wonders whether to show them to Marie-Louise — perhaps demonstrating them with the same enthusiasm as the shop assistant — but she would probably dislike them just as much as a couple of TV screens. So when he arrives at exactly half past nine he says nothing; he simply puts his rucksack in his locker and takes over from Marie-Louise.
Matilda, Leo and Mira are fast asleep tonight too, and Marie-Louise doesn’t stay as long this time. Perhaps she is beginning to trust Jan.
‘Did you feel tired today?’ she asks.
‘A bit drowsy.’
‘But you slept well here last night?’
‘Absolutely. So did the children.’
Marie-Louise goes off to catch her bus at quarter to ten, and Jan locks the door behind her.
The door leading to the basement is also locked, he notices.
Now he is alone again, alone with the children.
A light is showing in exactly the same four windows up on the top floor of St Patricia’s as yesterday; he is certain it’s a corridor up there with lights that are left on all night, just like the nightlight at the pre-school.
He stops gazing up at the hospital; he has a lot to do tonight. He tidies up the boots in the cloakroom, he listens to the sports programme on the radio (keeping the volume very low, so as not to wake the children), then he has a sandwich and a cup of tea in the kitchen for his supper.
But all the time he is thinking about today’s major purchase: the Angels.
Shortly after eleven o’clock he takes them out of his rucksack and opens the door to the children’s bedroom, which is in darkness. The children lie motionless beneath their small duvets, and Jan moves silently into the room. He stands still in the darkness for a minute or so, listening to the faint sound of their breathing. A reassuring sound.
Then he switches on one of the Angels, the transmitter, and hangs it on a hook on the wall between Leo’s and Matilda’s beds.
Leo moves slightly and mumbles something to himself, but doesn’t wake up.
Jan creeps out of the room and switches on the other Angel, the receiver. The speaker on the front is small and round, and completely silent. When Jan holds it up to his ear, he hears nothing but a faint rushing sound. It rises and falls, like little waves gently lapping against the curve of a sandy shore. Presumably it is the children’s breathing he can hear — he hopes so.
With the Angel attached to his belt he walks around the building, making up his bed and brushing his teeth.
Of course he could always try to convince himself that he has bought the Angels to help him monitor the children when he is asleep, but at quarter to twelve he takes a key card out of the drawer in the kitchen and opens the door leading to the basement.
He switches on the light, looks down the stairs and suddenly remembers a few lines by Rami:
Jan takes one step down the stairs. He’s just going to go down and have a little look. He listens. Silence — even the Angel’s little speaker is silent.
Calmly and cautiously he walks down the stairs and into the corridor.
No cameras here. Marie-Louise said there were no CCTV cameras down in the basement. He believes her. He is invisible. Jan’s shadow glides along beneath the strip-lights, but he cannot be seen.
The brightly coloured animal pictures are still on the wall, but the one with the mice is slightly crooked. He quickly straightens it.
The lift is waiting, as if it has been summoned just for him. He stands in front of the door, thinking. What if he were to step inside, press the button and let the lift carry him upwards, straight up to the corridors of St Psycho’s?
Do they have a camera by the door of the lift up there? Maybe, maybe not. If not, he could just go up and step out, see what happens. Pretend he got lost. Or that he’s one of the patients...
But Jan doesn’t open the door. He listens to the Angel, even turns up the volume, but it remains silent. He wants to whisper a faint ‘Hello?’ into the speaker.
You can hear the child, the assistant said, but the child can’t hear you.
You can do whatever you like, thinks Jan. He walks past the lift and carries on along the corridor. He turns the corner and is faced by the second steel door, the wider one. The one that leads to the safe room.
He reaches out his hand, presses down the heavy handle — and it gives a bit. He grabs hold of it with both hands and pushes harder. Something clicks, and the heavy door is ajar: he can move it. It is stiff, but slowly it swings wide open.
The safe room inside is in total darkness. No windows.
Jan holds one arm out in front of him, cautiously feeling his way along the cold concrete wall. He takes one step into the room, still feeling his way, and eventually he finds the light switch. The strip-light on the ceiling flickers into life. He is standing at one end of a long, rectangular room, like a wide corridor — it extends some twelve or fifteen metres. This is where the patients will sit, if war comes.
Jan takes another step forward. But the next second a loud voice bounces off the bare walls.