There was no sign of life from Rami — no phone calls or postcards from Stockholm.
The last week in May was traditionally given over to a range of activities, and the older students went out on trips and excursions.
On the Thursday morning when Jan got to school he saw groups of pupils standing around in the corridors. He heard whispered conversations about something terrible, a crazed attack.
‘Is it true?’ people were asking. ‘Is it really true?’
Nobody spoke directly to Jan, but eventually he picked up the fact that something had happened in the forest outside the town. Someone had died. Had been killed.
Then a teacher told the class that two students had been murdered, and after that there were even more rumours flying around, and several newspaper articles about the crazed attack. The buzz continued until the summer holidays.
Jan took in everything that had happened with a kind of bleak astonishment. He couldn’t quite believe that the Gang of Four had been virtually obliterated, that Torgny Fridman was the only one left.
It was their pact. Somehow Rami had managed to fulfil her side of the bargain.
But Jan never heard from her again, and it was over five years before he saw the name RAMI in the window of Nordbro’s only music shop. Her debut album had just been released, and when he went in to buy a copy he saw that one of the songs was entitled ‘Jan and Me’.
It was a sign from her — it had to be.
He had started working at the Lynx nursery by then, and that August when he saw the psychologist Emma Halevi and her son William walking across the playground, the Unit and the Psychobabbler were the first things he thought about.
And the next thing was the pact.
Memories of his teenage years make Jan realize something down in the laundry room: not once during the autumn has he wondered why Rami is locked up in St Psycho’s.
What has she done to end up here, on a secure ward?
He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t really want to think about it now. All he can do is wait for her.
A noise breaks the silence — a wailing sound. Sirens approaching the hospital. The sound is coming from the road and is getting louder and louder through the thick walls.
Fire engines?
Jan notices that a different light has started to flash over on the paneclass="underline" a red dot below the yellow ones. Some kind of alarm?
He looks at his watch. The fire drill seems to have started early.
Suddenly his mobile starts to buzz in his pocket. Jan gives a start, but quickly takes it out.
‘Hello?’ he says quietly, expecting to hear Lilian’s voice. What is he going to say to her?
But it is a different voice, and it sounds worried: ‘Jan... it’s Marie-Louise.’
‘Hi,’ Jan says, clutching his phone tightly. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Not really... something’s happened. I’m trying to ring everyone, but hardly anyone is answering... I was just wondering, have you seen Leo? Leo Lundberg?’
‘No... why?’
‘Leo has run away from his new family,’ Marie-Louise explains. ‘He was playing out in the garden before dark, but when his foster parents went out to call him in, he wasn’t there.’
Jan listens, but he doesn’t know what to say. He finds it difficult to think about the children right now, but he has to say something. ‘Leo is my favourite.’
Marie-Louise doesn’t say anything at first; it’s as if she doesn’t understand. ‘The most important thing is to find him,’ she says after a moment. ‘Where are you, Jan? Are you at home?’
Jan feels as if he has been somehow caught out, and lowers his voice even more. ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’
‘OK, well at least you know what’s happened. The police are looking for Leo too; get in touch with them or with me if... if you see anything.’
‘Of course I will. Speak to you soon.’
Jan ends the call and is able to relax a little. He thinks about Leo, about the boy’s anxiety and restlessness. It’s unfortunate that he’s run away, but the police are involved and there is nothing Jan can do. All he can do is wait here, for Rami’s sake.
And just a few minutes later he hears a different noise: a dull clanking in the underworld, a noise that gets louder and louder.
It’s coming from the mechanism of the laundry lift.
Jan’s pulse rate increases and he takes a couple of steps towards the hatch in the wall. It doesn’t move, but the clanking keeps on getting louder. The lift is on its way down.
It stops behind the hatch with a thud, then everything goes quiet. Slowly the hatch begins to move. There is someone inside the lift, someone who wants to get out.
Jan’s heart is pounding; he steps forward. ‘You’ve made it,’ he says. ‘Welcome.’
He sees an arm appear, then a denim-clad leg. But they don’t move. The arm and the leg simply dangle there, apparently lifeless.
‘Rami?’
Jan takes a final step towards the lift and reaches out his hand — but suddenly everything is moving too fast for him. The hatch flies open with a crash, and Jan doesn’t have time to get out of the way. It hits him in the chest; the pain is instant and crippling.
Something hisses, the air is suddenly full of white mist. And Jan can’t breathe.
He closes his eyes and coughs and jerks back, but his legs give way and he falls backwards on to the floor.
Tear gas, someone has sprayed tear gas in his face.
A body is shoved out of the lift, heavy and inert, and lands next to him like a sack of potatoes.
Jan’s eyes are streaming but he blinks and tries to look up. He sees the body beside him, the staring eyes.
A man. A security guard. There is a wide gap in his throat; it has been cut. Jan touches him, and his hand is covered in warm blood.
He recognizes the guard: it’s Carl. The drummer from the Bohemos and Ivan Rössel’s escort — but he’s dying.
‘Carl?’
Or perhaps he’s already dead. Carl isn’t moving, and he’s bleeding heavily from the wound in his throat. The blood looks black; it has poured down over his T-shirt.
Jan blinks again, trying to see clearly in spite of the tear gas. In the laundry lift something is moving. A shadow.
There is another person inside the lift, he realizes; someone who has managed to squeeze in and travel down to the cellar along with the dying guard.
The shadow slithers out into the storeroom and straightens up: a tall figure dressed in hospital clothes — a grey sweatshirt, grey cotton trousers and white trainers.
A patient.
But this is not Alice Rami. The body is too tall and broad, the hair is too dark.
This is a man.
He leans over Jan in a miasma of smoke, tear gas and something else — lighter fluid, or petrol.
He makes a sudden movement towards Jan, twists his hands and pulls. ‘Relax,’ the man says quietly.
Jan is unable to move his arms. There is a plastic loop around his wrists, some kind of handcuff.
The man slips a canister into his pocket and hauls Jan to his feet. His face is in shadow, but Jan can see that he is armed with something more than tear gas. In his right hand he is holding a short knife.
No, not a knife. It’s a razor, with a jagged edge.
‘I know who you are,’ the man says. ‘I’ve heard you talking to me.’
His voice is hoarse, but calm and clear. It is only his movements that are rapid and jerky as he tugs at Jan.
‘You’re going to help me get out of here.’
Jan blinks at him. ‘Who are you?’
The man quickly brings his left hand up beneath his chin, and there is a click. ‘Look.’