It was a black and white picture of Rami, standing on a little stage with her electric guitar, legs apart, her spiky hair illuminated by the spotlights, the rest of the band like blurred ghosts behind her. Her eyes were closed, she was twenty years old, and she looked as if she was growling into the microphone. It was the only pin-up of her he had ever found, which was why he had kept it all these years.
One of his colleagues, a few years older than Jan, stopped to look at it. ‘Rami?’ she said. ‘Do you like her?’
‘Sure,’ said Jan. ‘Her music, I mean... Have you heard her sing?’
His colleague answered, her eyes fixed on Rami, ‘I used to listen to her when the first album came out, but that was a long time ago. She never released a follow-up, did she?’
‘No,’ Jan said quietly.
‘And now they’ve put her away.’
Jan looked at her. This was news to him. ‘Put her away? What do you mean?’
‘She’s in some kind of mental hospital. St Patrick’s, on the west coast.’
Jan held his breath. Alice Rami in a mental hospital? He tried to picture it.
Yes, he could see it. ‘How do you know?’ he asked.
His colleague shrugged her shoulders. ‘I heard it somewhere a few years ago, I don’t really remember... it was just gossip.’
‘Do you know why... Why she ended up in there?’
‘No idea,’ she said. ‘But I assume she must have done something stupid.’
Jan nodded without speaking.
St Patrick’s Hospital. He wanted to ask more questions, but didn’t want to appear obsessed with Rami. From time to time over the years he had joined various forums on the internet to search for news of Rami, but had never found anything. This was the best lead so far.
Then nothing happened; the summer drifted by and Jan drifted along with it, out of work. For several weeks he’d been scanning the local ads for jobs in pre-schools in Göteborgs-Posten and had found quite a few to apply for.
Then at the beginning of July the ad from the Dell had appeared. It was very similar to all the rest, but it was the address of the contact person that made Jan cut it out: Dr Patrik Högsmed, Admin Department, St Patricia’s Regional Psychiatric Hospital in the town of Valla, just an hour by train from Gothenburg.
Jan read the advert over and over again.
A pre-school at a psychiatric hospital?
Why?
Then he remembered the rumour: Alice Rami was supposed to be locked up in ‘St Patrick’s Hospital, on the west coast’. St Patrick could be a distortion of St Patricia.
That was when he sat down and picked up the phone to call Dr Högsmed.
Jan had already applied for a dozen jobs at pre-schools in and around Gothenburg, without success. He might as well apply for one more.
6
Jan’s telephone rings at quarter past eight on the following Thursday morning, while he is lying in bed. He crawls out and answers; there is a male voice on the other end.
‘Good morning, Jan! Patrik Högsmed at St Patricia’s here. Did I wake you?’ The doctor’s voice is full of energy.
‘No... it’s fine.’
His own voice is hoarse and slow; he slept heavily, with weird dreams. Was Alice Rami in them? There was definitely a woman, wearing a dark fur coat and standing on a stage, she had climbed into a big box...
The doctor brings him back to the present. ‘I just wanted to let you know that we had a little chat after you left the day before yesterday, the staff at the Dell and I. It was a very productive discussion. Then I went back to the office and gave the matter some thought, and had a word with the hospital management. And now we’ve made our decision.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘So I was wondering if we could go over the terms of your contract now? With a view to you starting work here next Monday?’
Life can change so quickly. A day later Jan is back in Valla, his new home town. But he has no home here yet, so this afternoon he is gazing into a narrow hallway full of furniture and cardboard boxes. He is looking at a flat in a big apartment block, north of the town centre and to the west of St Patricia’s.
A silver-haired old lady in a grey cardigan picks her way through the piled-up boxes; she is so small that they seem to be looming over her.
‘Most of the people who live here are getting on a bit,’ she says. ‘Hardly any families with children, so there’s no noise.’
‘Good,’ says Jan, making his way into the apartment.
‘The rent as a sublet is four thousand one hundred,’ the old lady says, looking sideways at Jan with a slightly embarrassed expression. ‘I’ve hardly added anything to the original rent, so there’s no point in haggling... but it is fully furnished.’ ‘OK.’
Fully furnished? Jan has never seen so much furniture in one flat. Chairs, cupboards and chests of drawers are piled up along the walls. It looks more like a storage facility than a home, and in a way that’s exactly what it is. The furniture and the boxes belong to the woman’s son, who is living in Sundsvall at the moment.
Jan opens a kitchen cupboard and sees rows and rows of bottles on the shelves — rum, vodka, brandy and various liqueurs. All empty.
‘Those aren’t mine,’ the old lady says quickly. ‘The last tenant left them behind.’
Jan closes the door.
‘Is there a loft?’
‘The grandchildren’s bikes are up there. So, are you interested?’
‘Yes. Maybe.’
He has already checked with the housing department in Valla; there are no empty apartments this month, and the waiting time for a rental contract that isn’t a sublet would be at least six months. Under TO RENT in the local paper there was nothing but this furnished three-room flat.
‘I’ll take it,’ he says.
After a late lunch that same day he catches the train back to Gothenburg, picks up his old Volvo from the garage and buys a few cardboard packing cases. Over the weekend he loads his own furniture on to a trailer and drives it to the local tip. Jan is almost thirty, but he owns very little, and feels an attachment to even less. There is a kind of freedom in not having too many possessions.
He moves into the three-room apartment and stows away as many of the old lady’s boxes as possible; he tries to hide all the rubbish in the wardrobes and behind the sofa. Now he has a home of sorts.
He has brought with him his drawing board and the comic strip he calls The Secret Avenger, which is almost two hundred pages long. He has been working on it for fifteen years, but promises himself that he will finish it here in Valla. The finale will of course be a major apocalyptic battle between the Secret Avenger and his enemies, the Gang of Four.
Monday 19 September is a beautiful autumn day; the sun is shining on the trees and streets, and on the big concrete wall surrounding St Patricia’s. At quarter past eight Jan passes through the gate for the second time and meets Dr Högsmed by the security guard’s office in reception.
They shake hands. The doctor’s eyes are clear now. Sharp. ‘Congratulations, Jan.’
‘Thank you, doct— Patrik. Thank you for having confidence in me.’
‘It’s not a question of confidence. You were the best candidate.’
They walk through all the locked doors, meet the head of human resources, and Jan signs his name on various documents. He is a part of the hospital now.
‘Right, that’s it,’ says Högsmed. ‘Shall we head over to your new place of work, then?’