Authors: Johan Theorin
Books about murderers – a whole shelf full of them. Jan can’t see any books about Patricia or other saints, but he supposes nobody writes that kind of thing any more.
‘Are you coming?’ Hanna shouts.
‘On my way.’
She is making tea. The kitchen is small and just as clean as the living room, with neatly folded towels and tea towels next to the cooker. On the table there are four books that Jan recognizes:
The
Princess
with a Hundred Hands, The Animal Lady, The Witch Who Was Poorly
and
Viveca’s House of Stone
.
Hanna passes them over to Jan. ‘Thanks for the loan.’
‘Have you read them?’
‘Yes, but they’re pretty violent. Like when the princess gets the beggars’ hands to strangle the robbers … It’s not exactly the kind of thing you’d want to read to the kids, is it?’
Jan agrees, but says, ‘They’re no worse than your books though, are they?’
‘What books?’
‘The ones in there … all those books about murder.’
Hanna lowers her gaze. ‘I haven’t read them all. But I wanted to know more after … after I made contact with Ivan. There are tons of books about murderers.’
‘People are fascinated by evil,’ Jan says. He pauses for a moment, then goes on: ‘Rössel has other pen friends besides you. Did you know that?’
‘No.’ Hanna looks up at him with renewed interest. ‘How do you know?’
‘I’ve seen some of the letters he gets.’
‘Were they from women?’
‘Some of them, yes.’
‘Love letters?’
‘Maybe … I haven’t read them.’ Jan has no intention of telling anyone that he opens the letters and secretly reads them.
There is a pile of paper on the table in front of them, a computer printout. Hanna reaches out and brushes it with her fingertips. ‘I wanted to show you this … Ivan gave me the manuscript of his book.’
‘When he was down in the school?’
Hanna shakes her head. ‘That wasn’t Ivan … It wasn’t anyone from the hospital.’
‘So who was it, then?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’
Jan gives up. He looks at the manuscript and sees that the title is
My Truth
. There is no author’s name, but of course he knows who it is. ‘Rössel’s memoirs,’ he says.
‘Not memoirs,’ Hanna says with a quick glance at Jan. ‘I’m just reading it now and it’s a kind of hypothesis.’
‘A hypothesis? On how the murders happened?’
Hanna nods without saying anything. The tea is ready, and she pours them each a cup.
They sit down at the table, but Hanna carries on staring at the manuscript, and in the end he asks, ‘Are you in love with Ivan Rössel?’
She looks up and quickly shakes her head.
‘So what’s all this about, then?’
Hanna doesn’t reply, but she leans forward, gazing at him with those clear blue eyes for a long time, as if she is considering Jan’s appearance.
She wants me to kiss her
, Jan thinks.
Perhaps this is one of those occasions when people kiss each other. But when he thinks about kisses he remembers Rami’s mouth pressed against his own in the Unit, and everything feels wrong.
He must think about something else. About the pre-school. About the children. ‘I’m worried about Leo,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘Leo Lundberg … Leo at the Dell.’
‘I know who Leo is,’ Hanna says.
‘Yes, but … I’ve tried to talk to him, tried to care about him, but it’s difficult. He’s not happy … I don’t know how to help him.’
‘Help him with what?’
‘Help him to forget what he’s seen.’
‘And what has he seen?’
Jan shakes his head. The very thought of little Leo upsets him, but in the end he answers, ‘I think Leo saw his father kill his mother.’
Hanna gazes blankly at him. ‘Have you spoken to Marie-Louise about this?’
‘A bit, but she’s not really interested.’
‘There’s nothing you can do,’ Hanna says. ‘You can’t take away someone else’s wounds; they’re always going to be there.’
Jan sighs. ‘I just want him to be happy, like any other kid … I want him to know that there’s a lot of love in the world.’
Even he can hear that this sounds ridiculous.
There’s a lot of love in the world
. It sounds a bit over the top.
‘Perhaps you’re trying to compensate for that other boy,’ Hanna says.
‘What other boy?’
‘The one you lost in the forest.’
Jan gazes down at the table, then looks up at her. A confession is forcing its way out, like some kind of compulsion. ‘That’s not exactly what happened,’ he says eventually. ‘I didn’t lose him.’
‘No?’
‘No … I left him in the forest.’
Hanna is staring at him, and Jan quickly goes on: ‘It wasn’t for very long … and he was perfectly safe.’
‘Why did you do it?’
Jan sighs. ‘It was a kind of revenge … on his parents. On his mother. I wanted her to feel really bad. And I thought I knew what I was doing, but …’
‘And did you feel better afterwards?’ Hanna asks.
‘I don’t know, I don’t think so … I don’t give it much thought these days.’
‘Would you do it again?’
Jan looks at her and shakes his head, trying to look as honest as possible. ‘I would never harm a child.’
‘Good,’ Hanna says. ‘I believe you.’
Those blue eyes are still gazing at him. He can’t really work Hanna out. Perhaps he ought to stay, talk to her some more, try to find out how she really feels about him, and about Ivan Rössel.
No. He gets to his feet. ‘Thanks for the tea, Hanna. See you at work.’
He heads out into the cold night air and goes straight home, with his rucksack full of Rami’s picture books.
The Unit
The concert that would end with a kiss and a fight was to be held in the TV room in the Unit.
Seven o’clock was the advertised time, but by then only three people had turned up. The first was the woman in black who had stuck her head around Rami’s door to remind her about an appointment – the one Rami had nicknamed the Psychobabbler. And Jörgen had brought in a little girl with timid blue eyes; Jan had never seen her speak to anyone. She was just as shy as he was.
Jan had set up his drums slightly to one side behind Rami’s microphone, so that he would be heard but not seen. He was already regretting this whole idea.
At five past seven more people began to turn up – the ghosts, as Rami called them. They ambled in and sat cross-legged on the floor. Jan didn’t know many names, but he was starting to recognize most of the Unit’s inmates by now. There were fourteen or fifteen of them, all in their early teens – mostly girls, but a few boys too – some with spiky black hair, others with neatly combed locks. Some sat motionless, some kept on shifting restlessly, looking around the whole time. Were they drug addicts? Were they bullies, or perhaps the victims of bullying?
Jan had no idea why anyone else had been admitted to the Unit. He didn’t know anyone except Rami. And when he saw a skinny young girl stare at her and then lean over to her friend and whisper
loudly,
‘Who’s
she
?’, he realized that Rami had kept even more of a low profile.
She waited silently at the microphone, her back straight and her face almost chalk-white as she clutched her guitar.
Jörgen went and stood beside her with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, gazing out across the room. ‘OK, people, time for some music. Our friends Alice and Jan are going to play us a couple of songs.’
This introduction was greeted with nervous giggles, and a disappointed question: ‘But what about the TV?’ It was a tall boy in a denim jacket. Jan couldn’t remember his name. ‘There’s ice hockey on tonight … Aren’t we allowed to watch TV?’
‘Of course – after the music,’ said Jörgen. ‘Quiet now.’
But the ghosts were not quiet; they nudged one another and giggled and whispered.
Rami was also suffering from stage fright. Not as badly as Jan, but he could see that she had closed her eyes and seemed to be trying to forget that there was anyone else in the room. And yet there was a clear connection between Rami and the audience – as soon as she opened her mouth, every single person sitting on the floor fell silent. They were all staring at her.
‘OK,’ she drawled into the microphone. ‘This is an American song I’ve translated …’
She began with ‘The House of the Rising Sun’, which suited Jan; this was the drum accompaniment he knew best. Then she went on to her version of Neil Young’s ‘Helpless’, followed by Joy Division’s ‘Ceremony’, both of which Jan had also rehearsed with her.
Rami had begun to relax while she was singing, and there was more colour in her face. When ‘Ceremony’ ended she suddenly turned around, walked over to Jan – and kissed him on the lips.
He stopped playing. The kiss lasted three seconds, but the world came to a standstill.
Rami smiled at him, then walked back to the microphone.
‘This last song is called “Jan and Me”,’ she said, nodding to Jan to signal a four-beat.
He had never heard of the song; he was off balance after the kiss, but eventually he managed to start playing, keeping time with her nods. Rami played a minor chord and began to sing:
I am lying in my bed
with Jan by my side
we know where we are
and we know where we’re bound
we’re bound for outer space
where it’s cold and it’s dark
but the darkness is so beautiful
we forget everything
She closed her eyes and went into the chorus:
Me and Jan, Jan and me
every night, every day …
Jan was so taken aback by the words that he almost lost the beat. It sounded as if he and Rami were
together
, but they weren’t. He had been aware of the scent of her, but she had never even touched him.
When the song ended Rami went straight into a different chord, keeping the same beat. She leaned towards the microphone and looked straight at the audience for the first time. Jan could see that she was smiling as she said, ‘This is a song about my psychologist.’
She played a loud riff on the guitar and nodded to Jan to join in.
Rami found the rhythm, closed her eyes again and began to intone the lyrics with a harsh, thrusting pulse:
You gave birth to a whip out of your mouth
you give birth to the blade of a saw from your back
you raised little leeches
in the depths of your brain
and hurled me down when I stood up to you
Then she took a deep breath before starting on the chorus, almost spitting out the words:
Psycho, psycho, psychobabble!
Stop talking, stop talking crap!
Leave me alo-one!
The chorus just went on and on. Rami stood there straight-backed; she wasn’t even singing notes any more, she was just chanting the words
Stop talking, stop talking crap!
over and over again. No music was coming from the guitar, but Jan kept up a steady rhythm, beating time to the words.
He could see everyone in the Unit, inmates and staff, simply sitting there as if someone had cast a spell on them; the teenagers were all listening intently.
But the Psychobabbler had got to her feet over by the door. She didn’t look happy, and with every word that Rami chanted she took a step closer to the microphone. Eventually she was standing half a metre away from Rami, and about a metre from Jan. Rami hadn’t seen her; she had her eyes closed and was still singing, ‘Stop talking! Stop talking crap!’
The Psychobabbler grabbed hold of Rami’s shoulder; Rami opened her eyes, but ignored her and carried on singing. However, it sounded more like a battle cry now: ‘Stop! Stop! Stop!’
The Psychobabbler seized the microphone stand and moved it away, but Rami carried on yelling without the microphone. She opened her throat and let out a piercing scream that made those sitting on the floor recoil in shock. ‘Die! Die!’ Rami bellowed, then hurled herself at the Psychobabbler like a wild animal.
They crashed to the floor in the middle of the audience, rolling around as if they were locked together. Two wrestlers. Jan stared at them, but carried on drumming. He could hear Rami’s screams, he could see her scratching and tearing with her fingernails – not at the Psychobabbler, but at herself. She raked her arms until they bled, she smeared streaks of bright-red blood all over herself, over the floor, over the Psychobabbler’s face and her black clothes.
‘Calm down, Alice!’
Jan heard the sound of running footsteps as Jörgen and a colleague arrived and dragged Rami off. But still she carried on screaming, her arms flailing wildly.
‘Stop drumming!’ Jörgen bellowed at Jan.
He stopped at once, but still the noise continued. Rami screamed and screamed. The two men had her in a firm grip by now, and dragged her out of the room. Jan heard her cries disappearing down the corridor, and then there was near silence.
The only sound in the television room was of someone panting. The Psychobabbler. Slowly she got to her feet and adjusted her bloodstained jumper. A colleague passed her a handkerchief.
‘Now do you see?’ said the Psychobabbler. ‘Do you remember my diagnosis?’
The concert was over, but Jan stayed where he was for a little while before picking up his drum kit. His arms were trembling.
The boy in the denim jacket looked around with a nervous smile, then went over and switched on the TV.
Jan walked out alone. He went and put the drums back in the storeroom. He was intending to go back to his room and do some drawing, but when he saw Rami’s closed door he stopped, looked at it for a moment, then knocked.
There was no answer, so he knocked again.
No answer.
‘She’s not there,’ said a voice behind him.
Jan turned around and saw a girl in the corridor. One of the ghosts.
‘What?’
‘They took her down to the Black Hole.’
‘The Black Hole … What’s that?’
‘It’s where they lock you up if you kick off or something.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Down in the cellar,’ said the ghost. ‘It’s got a door with a whole load of locks.’
The Black Hole?
Jan crept down into the underworld, to the long, silent corridors. He found the right door and knocked. There was no answer this time either; the door was made of steel, and no doubt swallowed every sound. But there was a tiny gap at the bottom.
He went back up to his room and fetched pens and a piece of paper. He didn’t know what to write to Rami, but he had to cheer her up somehow, so he wrote: GOOD GIG! JAN
He slid the paper beneath the door, and managed to push a pen under as well. After a minute or so of absolute silence, the paper reappeared. Just one sentence had been added: I AM A SQUIRREL WITHOUT TREES OR AIR.
He looked at the piece of paper. Then he sat down and began to draw a picture of a girl with a guitar, standing on an enormous stage in front of a huge audience, all with their hands in the air. He made as good a job of Rami’s face as he possibly could, then he pushed the picture under the door and quickly crept away.
The following morning he heard noises out in the corridor. Heavy footsteps and loud voices, then the sound of Rami’s door slamming shut.
When everything had gone quiet he went and knocked on her door.
‘Who is it?’ she asked tonelessly through the door, her voice lacking any hint of curiosity.
‘Jan.’
There was a brief silence, then she said, ‘Come in.’
He opened the door very slowly and carefully, as if it might break. The room was in darkness, but he was used to that.
‘Thanks for the picture,’ she said.
‘You’re welcome.’
Rami was lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, with the guitar beside her like some kind of pet. Jan couldn’t see if she was restrained in any way.
He wasn’t afraid, but he stayed by the door. ‘It went well yesterday,’ he said. ‘Really well.’
Rami shook her head. ‘I’ve got to get away from this place, they’re going to break me in here … You want to get out too, don’t you?’
She had raised her head and was looking at him. Jan nodded slowly, even though it wasn’t true. He wanted to stay in the Unit until he was old enough to leave school; he wanted to eat, sleep, play table tennis with Jörgen and play the drums with Rami.
She looked up at the ceiling again. ‘But first I’m going to get my revenge on her.’
‘On who?’
‘The Psychobabbler. She’s the one who had me locked up.’
‘I know,’ Jan said.
‘But that’s not the worst thing,’ Rami said, nodding in the direction of her desk. ‘While I was locked up she came in here and took my diary. I just know she’s sitting there reading it now. From cover to cover.’
Jan looked over at the desk. What Rami said might well be true, because the book that had been lying on the desk was gone.
‘She’s going to regret that,’ Rami said. ‘She and her family.’