The Hypnotist (17 page)

Joona passes the lodge by the gate to the large cemetery, increases his speed, glances over at Alfred Nobel’s pale obelisk, and moves on past the enormous crypt.

In the quiet here, the wind rustles through the bare branches of the trees and his own footsteps echo faintly between gravestones and crosses. Some kind of heavy vehicle thunders along in the distance on the motorway. Something rustles among the dry leaves beneath a bush. Here and there, candles are burning by the graves in misty glass containers.

Joona makes for the eastern edge of the cemetery, the area facing the on-ramp for the motorway. Suddenly, he sees a pale form moving in the darkness among the tall gravestones, heading for the cemetery’s office, perhaps 400 yards away. He stops and tries to focus his eyes. The figure has an angular, stooping shape. Joona begins to run between monuments and plantings, flickering candle flames and carved angels. He sees the slender figure hurry across the frosty grass, his white clothes flapping around him.

“Josef!” Joona shouts. “Stop!”

The boy keeps going, disappearing behind a huge family plot with a wrought-iron fence and neatly raked gravel. Joona draws his gun, removes the safety catch, and runs laterally, catching sight of the boy. Taking aim at his right thigh, Joona shouts to him to stop. Suddenly an old woman is standing in his way, her face directly in the line of fire. She had been bending over a grave, and now she has straightened up. Joona feels a stab of fear in his stomach and lowers his gun.

“I just want to light a candle on Ingrid Bergman’s grave,” wails the woman.

Josef disappears behind a cypress hedge and Joona takes off after him. He gazes into the darkness, searching. Josef has disappeared among the trees and the gravestones. The few streetlamps illuminate only small areas, a green park bench or a few yards of gravel path. Joona takes out his mobile, calls Central Control, and demands immediate back-up, at least five teams and a helicopter. He hurries up the slope, jumps over a low fence, and stops. He can hear dogs barking in the distance and the crunch of gravel not far away; he begins to run in that direction. Sensing movement among the gravestones, he keeps his gaze fixed on the area, trying to get closer, to find a line of fire if he manages to spot the boy. There’s an uproar, and blackbirds rise into the air. A dustbin falls over, its lid rolling along the path before clattering to a stop.

Suddenly Joona sees Josef running behind a brown frost-covered hedge. He is bent as if with pain but moves quickly. Joona pivots to follow and slips, sliding down a knoll and crashing at the bottom into a stand of watering cans and vases. By the time he gets to his feet, he has lost sight of the boy. His pulse pounds in his temples. His lower back throbs where he fell on it, and his hands are cold and numb.

Joona sprints across the gravel path and looks around. The office building where Josef had seemed to be heading is some distance away. Behind it, Joona spots an official city car. It slowly swings around in a U-turn, red tail-lights fading and the harsh beam of the headlights flickering over the trees, suddenly illuminating Josef. He is standing on the narrow track, swaying. His head is drooping heavily, but he takes a couple of stumbling steps. The car stops, and a man with a beard climbs out.

Running as fast as he can, Joona yells, “Police!” But they don’t hear him.

He fires a shot into the air and, startled, the man with the beard jerks his head in Joona’s direction. Josef is undeterred and moves closer to the man; something— a scalpel— in his hand gleams in the headlights. It’s a matter of just a few seconds. Joona has no chance of reaching them. Kneeling, he uses a gravestone for support. The distance is over 300 yards, six times as far as the gallery in the precision shooting range. The sight wobbles in front of his eyes. It’s difficult to see; he blinks and fixes his gaze. The greyish-white figure narrows and darkens. The branch of a tree keeps moving in the wind across his line of fire.

The bearded man has turned to face Josef and takes a step backwards. Joona tries to hold his aim and squeezes the trigger. The shot is fired and the recoil travels through his elbow and shoulder. The powder sears his frozen hand, but the bullet merely disappears among the trees without a trace. As Joona takes aim once again, he sees Josef stab the bearded man in the stomach. The man drops to the ground. Joona fires, the bullet whips through Josef ’s clothes, he wobbles and drops the scalpel, fumbles at his back, then gets into the city car. Joona begins to run, heading for the track, but Josef has put the car in gear and drives straight over the bearded man’s legs and floors the accelerator.

Joona stops and aims at the front tyre; he fires and hits his target. The car swerves but keeps on going; it speeds up and disappears in the direction of the motorway. Joona holsters his gun, takes out his mobile, and reports on the situation to Central Control; he asks to speak to Omar, repeating that he needs a helicopter and adding that he needs an ambulance, too.

The bearded man is still alive; a stream of dark blood pours out of the wound in his stomach, welling between his fingers, and it looks as if both his legs are broken.

“But he was just a boy,” the man repeats in a shocked voice. “But he was just a boy.”

“The ambulance is on its way,” says Joona; at last he hears the sound of a helicopter above the cemetery, the clattering of its rotor blades.

It is very late when Joona picks up the phone in his office, dials Disa’s number, and waits for her to answer.

“Leave me alone,” she responds, slurring slightly.

“Did I wake you up?” asks Joona.

“What do you think?” There is a short silence.

“Was the food good?”

“Yes, it was.”

“You do understand, I really had to leave.” He stops speaking; he can hear her yawning and sitting up in bed.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

Joona looks at his hands. Despite the fact that he has washed them carefully, he thinks there is a faint smell of blood on his fingers. He had knelt beside the man whose car Josef Ek had stolen, holding together the wound in the man’s stomach. The man had been fully conscious the whole time, talking excitedly and almost eagerly about his son, who had just passed his final school exams and was about to go travelling alone for the first time, visiting his grandparents in northern Turkey. The man had looked at Joona, seen his hands on his stomach, and commented with amazement that it didn’t hurt at all.

“Isn’t that strange,” he had said, gazing at Joona with the clear, shining eyes of a child.

Joona had tried to speak calmly; he explained to the man that the endorphins meant he was free of pain for the time being. His body was in deep shock and had chosen to spare the nervous system any further stress.

The man had fallen silent, then asked quietly, “Is this what it feels like to die?” He had almost tried to smile at Joona. “Doesn’t it hurt at all?”

Joona opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment the ambulance arrived, and Joona felt someone gently remove his hands from the man’s stomach and lead him to one side while the paramedics lifted the man onto a stretcher.

“Joona?” Disa asks again. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he says. He hears her moving; it sounds as if she’s drinking water.

“Would you like another chance?” she asks eventually.

“Of course I would.”

“Despite the fact that you don’t give a toss about me.”

“You know that’s not true,” he replies, suddenly aware of how unutterably weary his voice sounds.

“Sorry,” says Disa. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

They end the call.

Joona remains seated for a moment, listening to the murmuring silence in the police station; then he stands up, removes his gun from its holster, takes it apart, and slowly begins to clean and oil each part. He reassembles the pistol, goes over to the gun cupboard, and locks it away. The smell of blood has gone. Instead, his hands smell strongly of gun oil. He sits down to write a report to Petter Näslund, his immediate supervisor, explaining why he found it necessary and justified to fire his service weapon.

Erik watches as the three pizzas are baked and asks for more pepperoni for Simone. His mobile rings and he checks the display. When he doesn’t recognize the number, he slips the phone back in his pocket: probably another reporter. He can’t cope with any more questions right now. As he walks home with the large, warm boxes, he tries to plan the conversation he wants to have with Simone, explaining that he got angry because he was innocent, that he hasn’t done what she thinks he’s done, that he hasn’t let her down again, that he loves her. He stops outside the florist’s, hesitates, then goes in. There is a heavy sweetness in the air inside the shop, and the window is covered in condensation. He has just decided to buy a bunch of roses when his phone rings again. It’s Simone.

“Hello?”

“Where the hell are you?” she asks.

“On my way.”

“We’re starving.”

“Good.”

He hurries home, enters the building, and waits for the lift. Through the yellow polished window set in the door, the world outside looks magical and enchanted. He puts the boxes down on the floor, opens the door of the rubbish chute, and throws away the roses.

In the lift he has second thoughts. It’s possible she would have been pleased. It’s possible she wouldn’t have interpreted it as an attempt to bribe her, to avoid a confrontation.

He rings the bell. Benjamin opens the door and takes the pizzas from him. Erik hangs up his coat, goes to the bathroom, and washes his hands. He takes out a box containing small lemon-coloured tablets, quickly removes three of them from their blister pack, swallows them without water, and returns to the kitchen.

“We went ahead and started,” says Simone.

Erik shrugs and looks at the water glasses on the table.

“When did we become a family of teetotallers?” He goes to the cabinet and gets out two wineglasses.

“Good move,” says Simone, as he opens a bottle of wine.

Erik’s phone rings. They look at each other.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” asks Simone.

“I’m not talking to any more journalists tonight,” Erik says firmly.

“So let it ring.” She cuts a slice of pizza, takes a bite, and waits expectantly. Erik pours them both a glass of wine. Simone nods and smiles.

“Oh, I forgot,” she says suddenly. “It’s almost gone now, but I could smell cigarette smoke when I got home.”

“Do any of your friends smoke?” Erik asks, turning to Benjamin.

“No,” Benjamin replies automatically.

“What about Aida?”

Benjamin doesn’t respond. He just keeps eating. Suddenly he stops, puts down his knife and fork, and stares at the table.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” Erik asks tentatively. “Something on your mind?”

“Nothing’s on my mind, Dad.”

“You know you can tell us anything.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Don’t you think— ”

“You don’t get it.”

“All right. Explain it to me, then,” Erik ventures.

“No.”

They eat in silence. Benjamin stares at the wall.

“The pepperoni’s delicious,” says Simone quietly. She wipes a lipstick mark off her glass. “It’s a pity we’ve stopped cooking together,” she says to Erik.

“When would we find the time to do that?”

“Stop arguing!” yells Benjamin.

He drinks his water and gazes out the window at the dark city. Erik eats almost nothing but refills his glass twice.

“Did you have your injection on Tuesday?” Simone asks Benjamin.

“Has Dad ever missed one?” He gets up and puts his plate in the sink. “Thanks.”

“I went and had a look at that leather jacket you’re saving up for,” says Simone. “I was thinking I could pay the rest.”

Suddenly, Benjamin’s whole face breaks into a smile, and he goes over and hugs her. She holds him tight but lets him go the instant she senses him begin to pull away. He goes to his room.

Erik breaks off a piece of crust and pushes it in his mouth. His phone rings again. It moves across the table, vibrating, but he looks at the display and once more shakes his head. “No friend of mine,” he says.

“Have you gotten tired of being a celebrity?” Simone asks gently.

“I’ve only talked to two journalists today,” he says, with a wan smile, “but that was enough for me.”

“What did they want?”

“It was that magazine called
Café
, or something like that.”

“The one that has tits on the cover?”

“Usually some girl who looks amazed at being photographed in nothing but a pair of panties with a Union Jack on them.”

She smiles at him. “What did they want?”

Erik clears his throat and says dryly, “They asked me if it was possible to hypnotize women to make them horny.”

“Seriously? How professional.”

“Totally.”

“And the second conversation,” she asks. “Was that a journalist from
Ritz
or
Slitz
?”

“
Radio News
,” he replies. “They wondered what my views were on being reported to the Parliamentary Ombudsman.”

“I’m sorry for your sake.”

Erik rubs his eyes and sighs. To Simone it looks as if he’s grown smaller, shrunk by several inches.

“Without the hypnosis,” he says slowly, “Josef Ek might have murdered his sister as soon as he was discharged from the hospital.”

“You still shouldn’t have done it,” says Simone softly.

“No, I know,” he replies, running his finger around his glass. “I wish . . .”

He falls silent, and Simone is overcome by a sudden desire to touch him, to put her arms around him. But instead she stays where she is and just asks, “What are we going to do?”

“Do?”

“About us. We’ve said things, said we were going to separate. I don’t know where I am with you anymore, Erik.”

He rubs his hand over his eyes. “I realize you don’t trust me,” he says, then falls silent.

She meets his eyes, sees the worn face, the straggling hair, and thinks that there was a time when they almost always had fun together.

“I’m not the person you want,” he goes on.

“Stop it,” she says.

“Stop what?”

“You say I’m not happy with you, but you’re the one who’s deceiving me; you’re the one who thinks I’m not enough.”

“Simone, I— ”

He touches her hand, but she moves it away. His eyes are dark; she can see that he has taken pills.

“I need to sleep,” says Simone, getting up.

Erik follows her, his face grey and his eyes glazed. On the way to the bathroom, she checks the front door carefully to make sure it’s locked.

“You can sleep in the spare room,” she says.

He nods indifferently, seeming almost anaesthetized. She watches as he enters their bedroom, emerging a moment later with his duvet and pillow.

In the middle of the night, Simone is woken by a sudden jab in her upper arm. She is lying on her stomach; she rolls over onto her side and feels at her arm. The muscle is tense and itchy. The bedroom is in darkness.

“Erik?” she whispers, but remembers he’s sleeping in the spare room.

She turns to face the door and sees a shadow slip out. The parquet floor creaks. She thinks that perhaps Erik has got up for some reason but realizes he should be in a deep sleep, thanks to his pills. Suddenly, she’s frightened. She switches on the bedside lamp, turns her arm toward the light, and sees a bead of blood coming from a small pink dot on the skin.

She can hear soft thuds coming from the hallway. Turning off the light, she slips out of bed, her legs weak. She rubs her sore arm as she eases past the threshold. Her mouth is dry, her legs warm but numb. Someone is whispering and laughing in the hallway, a muted, cooing laugh. It doesn’t sound anything like Erik. Then Simone shudders: once again, the front door is wide open. The stairwell is in darkness. Cold air is pouring in. She can hear something from Benjamin’s room, a faint whimpering.

“Mum?” Benjamin seems scared. “Ouch!” she hears him say. He begins to cry.

In the mirror in the corridor, Simone can see someone bending over Benjamin’s bed holding a syringe. Thoughts whirl around in her head. She tries to comprehend what is happening, what she is seeing.

“Benjamin?” she says, her voice high with anxiety. “What’s going on?”

She clears her throat and takes a step closer, but suddenly her legs give way; her hands grope for support, but she is unable to hold herself up. She collapses on the floor, bangs her head against the wall, and feels the pain searing her skull.

She tries again to get up, but she can no longer move; it’s as if she has no connection with her legs, no sensation at all in her lower body. There is a strange fluttering sensation in her chest, and she feels short of breath. Her vision disappears for a few seconds, and when it returns it is cloudy.

Someone is dragging Benjamin along the floor by his legs. His pyjama top has worked its way up, and his arms are windmilling slowly, in confusion. He tries to hold on to the doorframe but is too weak. His head bangs against the threshold. He looks Simone in the eye. He is terrified; his mouth is moving but no words come out. She reaches sluggishly for his hand but misses it. She tries to crawl after him but hasn’t the strength; her eyes roll back in her head; she can see nothing and blinks and perceives only brief fragments as Benjamin is dragged through the hallway and out onto the landing. The door is closed carefully. Simone tries to call for help, but no sound comes; her eyes close, she is breathing slowly, heavily, she can’t get enough air.

Everything goes black.