‘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?’
Of course Jan found out the name only a few minutes ago; it was going round and round in his head when he walked in, along with the name of the murderer Ivan Rössel, but still he looks around as if the answer might be written on the walls. ‘No,’ he lies. ‘What do they call it?’
Högsmed looks slightly strained. ‘I’m sure you already know.’
‘Maybe... The taxi driver mentioned something on the way here.’
‘Did he indeed?’
‘Is it... is it St Psycho’s?’
The doctor gives a quick nod, but still seems disappointed with the answer. ‘Yes, that’s what some outsiders call it. St Psycho’s. Even I have heard the name a couple of times, and I don’t always...’ Högsmed breaks off and leans forward slightly. ‘But those of us who work here never use that term. We use the correct name: St Patricia’s Regional Psychiatric Hospital — or just “the hospital” if we’re short of time. And if you are employed here, I would insist that you use one of those terms.’