Lars Kepler - The Sandman

She’s the first one there, but the television is on behind the reinforced glass as if it’s never been switched off. She can hear angry shouting from Bernie Larsson’s room. It sounds like he’s trying to destroy his table. She hears his food tray hit the floor. He’s screaming as he throws the plastic chair at the wall.

Saga gets on to the running machine, switches it on, takes a few steps, then stops it and sits down on the edge, close to the palm, and pulls off one shoe, pretending there’s something wrong with the inner sole. Her fingers are cold and the numbness still hasn’t gone. She knows she has to hurry, but she mustn’t move too quickly. She blocks the camera’s view with her body and tugs the microphone from her trousers, trembling as she does so.

‘Fucking whores!’ Bernie shouts.

Saga removes the protective wrapping from the tiny microphone. The little object slips between her numb fingers. She catches it against her thigh and turns it the right way up in her hand. She can hear footsteps on the floor. Saga leans forward and presses the microphone to the underneath of one of the leaves. She holds it for a short while, then waits a few extra seconds before letting go.

Bernie pulls open his door and comes out into the dayroom. The palm-leaf is still swaying from her touch, but the microphone is finally in position.

‘Obrahiim,’ he whispers, and stops abruptly when he sees her.

Saga remains seated, tugs at her sock, smoothing out a crease, then pulls her shoe back on.

‘Fucking hell,’ he says, and coughs.

She doesn’t look at the artificial palm at all. Her legs are trembling beneath her and her heart is beating much harder than usual.

‘They took my pictures,’ Bernie says, panting as he sits down on the sofa. ‘I hate those fucking...’

Saga’s whole body feels oddly exhausted, sweat is trickling down her back, and her pulse is throbbing in her ears. It must be because of the medication. She slows the pace of the running machine, but still has trouble keeping up.

Bernie is sitting on the sofa with his eyes closed, one leg bouncing restlessly.

‘Shit!’ he suddenly exclaims loudly.

He gets up, sways, then goes over to the running machine and stands in front of Saga, very close to her.

‘I was top of the class,’ he says, spraying saliva in Saga’s face. ‘My teacher used to feed me raisins during breaks.’

‘Bernie Larsson, step back,’ a voice says over the loudspeaker.

He stumbles to the side and leans against the wall, coughs and takes a step back, straight into the palm with the microphone hanging from its bottom leaf.

Bernie almost falls, kicks the palm, walks round the running machine and approaches Saga again.

‘They’re so fucking terrified of me that they pump me full of Suprefact... Because I’m a real fucking machine, a big fucking stud...’

Saga looks at the camera and realises that she was right. Its view is blocked by the reinforced glass protruding in front of the television. There’s a narrow blind strip that the camera can’t reach, no more than a metre at most.

Bernie walks round the palm, almost toppling it, then carries on round the running machine and stops behind Saga. She ignores him, just goes on walking as she hears his breathing close behind her.

‘Snow White, you’re sweating between your buttocks,’ he says. ‘Your cunt’s probably pretty sweaty now. I can get you some tissues...’

On the television a man dressed as a chef is drawling something as he puts a load of little crabs on a barbeque.

The far door opens and Jurek comes into the dayroom. Saga catches a glimpse of his furrowed face and immediately stops the machine. She steps down onto the floor, panting from the exertion, and walks towards the sofa. Jurek shows no sign of having noticed. He just gets up onto the running machine, switches it on and begins walking with long strides.

His heavy steps echo around the dayroom once again.

Saga looks at the chef, who is frying red onion rings in a braising pan. Bernie comes closer, wiping sweat from his neck and walking round her, very close.

‘You can keep your cunt when you’re my skeleton slave,’ he says, moving behind her. ‘I’ll cut off all the rest of your flesh and—’

‘Quiet,’ Jurek says.

Bernie falls silent instantly and looks at her, forming the word ‘whore’ with his mouth, then licks his fingers and grabs her breast. She reacts immediately, seizing his hand and taking a step back, pulling him into the camera’s blind spot. She punches him hard on the nose. The cartilage cracks and his nose breaks. She spins round, gaining momentum from the movement and hitting Bernie over the ear with a lightning-fast right hook. He’s on the point of lurching into range of the camera, but she stops him with her left hand. He’s staring at her through his crooked glasses. A copious amount of blood is trickling through his moustache and over his mouth.

Saga is still consumed by rage, holding him in the blind spot and hitting him with another right hook. The blow is extremely hard. His head is knocked aside, his cheeks flap and his glasses fly off to his left.

Bernie sinks to his knees, his head hanging as blood drips onto the floor in front of him.

Saga pulls his head up, sees that he’s on the point of losing consciousness and punches him on the nose once more.

‘I warned you,’ she whispers, letting go of him.

Bernie falls forward, puts his arms out to stop himself, then stays like that, with blood dripping from his face, through his hands onto the vinyl floor.

Saga is breathing hard, and steps away. Jurek Walter has got down from the running machine and is standing there watching her with his pale eyes. His face is motionless and his body strangely relaxed.

Saga has time to think that she’s ruined everything as she walks past Jurek towards her own room.

The fan in the computer whirrs as Anders logs in. The second hand is moving jerkily on the clock with Bart Simpson’s weary face on it. Anders reminds himself that has to leave early today because he’s attending a class on Socratic conversations at the Autism Education Centre.

A post-it note next to the keyboard says it’s recycling week. He has no idea what that means.

Once the secure unit’s journal program opens up, he types in his user ID and password.

He checks the log, then taps in Saga Bauer’s ID number to make a note about her medication.

Twenty-five milligrams of Haldol depot, he writes. Two intramuscular injections in the outer top quadrant of the gluteal region.

It was the right decision, he thinks, and in his mind’s eye he can see her writhing slowly on the floor with her breasts exposed.

Her pale nipples had stiffened, her mouth had been afraid.

If that doesn’t help her, he can try Cisordinol, although that can sometimes have serious side effects. Possibly extrapyramidal symptoms, combined with problems with vision, balance, and orgasm.

Anders closes his eyes and thinks of how he pulled the patient’s underwear down in the cell.

‘I don’t want to,’ she had said, several times.

But he didn’t have to listen to her. He did what he had to do. Pia Madsen had supervised the intervention.

He gave her two injections in the buttock, and stared between her legs at her blonde pubic hair and pink, closed vagina.

Anders goes to the surveillance room. My is already sitting at the control desk. She gives him a friendly glance as he walks in.

‘They’re in the dayroom,’ she says.

Anders leans over her and looks at the screen. Jurek Walter is walking on the running machine with monotonously even paces. Saga is standing and watching television. She seems fairly unaffected by the new medication. Bernie goes over to her, says something and stands behind her.