‘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.’