Sure enough, she comes in from the cold at ten to ten.
‘Everything OK?’ Strands of blonde hair have escaped from beneath her woolly hat, and her cheeks are glowing; she seems unusually exhilarated.
Jan just nods to her and pulls on his jacket. ‘They went off at about half-seven. Things are much calmer with just the two of them.’
He has nothing more to say to Hanna, and picks up his rucksack containing the hidden envelope — but suddenly he realizes he still has one of the key cards in his back pocket. He closed the door leading to the basement when he came back from the visitors’ room, but forgot to return it to the kitchen drawer.
Idiot.
He turns around. ‘I think I forgot something...’
‘What?’ Hanna asks.
But he is already in the kitchen.
‘Did you forget to put back the card?’ Hanna is right behind him, still wearing her leather coat and woolly hat. Her cheeks are not quite so red now.
‘Yes...’ Jan closes the drawer and straightens up. ‘This afternoon, after the last handover.’
‘I’ve done that too.’
Jan doesn’t know if she really believes him, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He wishes her goodnight and sets off home. At least he hasn’t forgotten the envelope from the hospital; it is safely hidden in his bag.
As soon as he gets in his fingers rip open the envelope. His hands are trembling as he sorts through the letters on the kitchen table. It isn’t nerves, but anticipation. He dare not believe that there will be a reply from Rami already, but—
Yes, there is a letter addressed to Jan Larsson, at his old address. Rettig has let it through, if he noticed it at all.
Jan picks it up and puts it to one side. He gathers up the remaining twenty-three letters and places them on the hall table; he will go out and post them late tonight. But first of all he opens his own letter.
There is just one sheet of white paper inside, with three sentences firmly printed in pencil, and no signature:
THE SQUIRREL WANTS TO GET OVER THE FENCE.
THE SQUIRREL WANTS TO JUMP OFF THE WHEEL.
WHAT DO YOU WANT?
Jan places the letter on the table in front of him. Then he fetches a sheet of paper and sits down to write a reply. But what should he call her? Alice? Maria? Or Rami? In the end he writes just a few short sentences, as neatly and legibly as possible:
I want to be free, I want to be a sunbeam you can hang a clean sheet on. I am a mouse hiding in the forest, I am a lighthouse-keeper in a building made of stone, I am a shepherd who cares for lost children.
My name is Jan.
I was your neighbour fifteen years ago.
Do you remember me?
That is all he writes for now; he can’t send a letter to Rami anyway until it is time for the next delivery.
Rami must remember where they were neighbours, and when. She must remember those days in the Unit.
Jan has worn long-sleeved shirts and jumpers ever since. He pulls up his right sleeve now and looks at the faint pink lines following the veins. His own mark, his memory of his schooldays.
He could just as easily have pulled up his left sleeve; the razor blade has left long scars on both arms.
The first thing Jan heard when he woke up was sorrowful music.
Slow guitar chords in a minor key. They sounded close, they were coming from the other side of the wall, and they just kept on and on. Someone was sitting there playing, the same simple chords over and over again.
Jan was lying in a bed, a sturdy bed with rough sheets. He opened his eyes and saw a broad bedstead made of stainless steel. A hospital bed.
The walls around his bed were high and white. He was in a hospital room.
He listened and listened to the guitar music, unable to move; there was no strength in his arms and legs. His stomach and his head were throbbing.
His throat remembered tubes — soft tubes worming their way down to suck out the mess in his guts. The taste of bile, the smell of sour milk.
That’s what happens when you have your stomach pumped. It was terrible. His empty stomach was aching and felt like a balloon, pushing up towards his throat. He wanted to be sick, but he didn’t have the strength.
He heard voices approaching, but closed his eyes and disappeared once more.
The next time Jan woke up, the guitar music had stopped. He closed his eyes again, and when he eventually looked up a tall man with long hair and a brown beard was leaning over him.
He looked like Jesus, dressed in a T-shirt with a yellow smiley on the front.
‘How are you feeling, Jan?’ His voice echoed in the bare room. ‘My name is Jörgen... Can you hear me?’
‘Jörgen...’ Jan whispered.
‘That’s it, Jörgen. I’m a nurse here. Are you OK?’
He wasn’t OK, but nodded anyway.
‘Your mum and dad have gone home,’ said the man. ‘But they’re coming back. Do you remember their names?’
Jan didn’t say anything; he was thinking. It was strange. He could remember Mum and Dad’s voices going on and on, but not their names.
‘No?’ said Jörgen. ‘What about your name, then? What’s your name?’
‘Jan... Hauger.’
‘Good — well done, Jan. Would you like to have a shower?’
Jan stiffened in his bed. No shower. He shook his head.
‘OK... Try to get a little more sleep then, Jan.’
Jörgen floated backwards, away from the bed and out of the shimmering room.
Time passed. Jan heard a clicking sound. When he moved his head he could see that the door of his room was ajar. Something was moving out there. An animal? No. A pale face was looking in at him: a tall, slender girl of about his own age, with chalk-white hair and brown eyes. She stood there staring at him, her expression neither friendly nor malicious.
Jan swallowed; his mouth was dry. He tried to raise his head. ‘Where am I?’
‘In the Psych Unit.’
‘In the what?’
The girl looked at him meaningfully. ‘The Unit.’
Jan said nothing. He didn’t understand. The girl didn’t say anything more either; she just carried on looking at him, then suddenly she raised her arms and pointed a little black box at him. There was a pop and a flash.
He blinked. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Hang on a minute.’ She pulled a square of paper out of the camera, took two steps into the room and threw it down next to his pillow. ‘There you go,’ she said quietly.
Jan looked at the piece of paper, picked it up and watched as a picture started to appear. It was one of those photographs that developed itself, and he saw a pale face and a thin body gradually beginning to take shape. It was him, lonely and afraid in a hospital bed.
‘Thanks,’ he said. But when he looked up at the door, the girl had disappeared.
There was silence for a minute or so, and then the guitar began to play again.
Jan was feeling slightly better, and sat up. The main light was switched off and the blinds were closed, but he could see that the bed was standing in a small, bare room — almost a cell — with a desk and a chair on which his jeans and T-shirt lay neatly folded. His shoes were on the floor, but somebody had removed the laces.