Ларс Кеплер - Stalker

‘You saved m-my life,’ Nestor replies quietly.

Erik recalls how Nestor’s psychotic breakdown happened when his seriously ill dog had to be put down three years ago.

When he was allocated to Erik as a patient, Erik had read the notes from the secure psychiatric unit where Nestor had been admitted. He used to talk to dead people: a grey lady who brushed dandruff from her hair, and a mean old man who twisted his arms in different directions.

During Erik’s conversations with him, it emerged that Nestor was fixated upon his dog’s death. He talked a lot about the syringe being stuck in his right front paw, and how the fluid was injected. The dog shook and urine spread across the bench as its muscles relaxed. He felt he had been tricked by the vet and the vet’s wife.

Nestor responded well to treatment, but when he tried to cut down his daily dose of Risperdal, he began hearing strange voices again.

Erik was never sure if had actually managed to hypnotise Nestor, he may have belonged to the small group who weren’t receptive, but during those relaxed sessions in the dimly lit treatment room they did at least begin to get to grips with things.

Nestor had grown up with his mother, younger brother, and a black Labrador. When he was seven, his five-year-old brother became seriously ill with a lung infection, which exacerbated his already bad asthma. The boys’ mother told Nestor that his brother would die unless they had the dog put down. Nestor took the dog to Söderbysjön and drowned it in a trunk full of stones.

But his brother died anyway.

In Nestor’s mind, the two events became intertwined. He had always suffered from the belief that he had drowned his brother in a trunk, and had no memory of the dog.

They worked on his anger with his mother’s damaging manipulation, and after a month he finally let go of the idea of his own guilt, and the notion that his mother could sometimes control his actions from beyond the grave.

Nestor was living normally again now, didn’t need to take any medication, and was incredibly grateful to Erik.

They pass St Mark’s Church in Björkhagen and pull up outside Axvallsvägen 53.

Nestor unbuckles his seat belt and Erik helps him carry his food to the door of his ground-floor flat.

‘Thanks for everything,’ the former patient says in a tremulous voice. ‘I’ve got ice cream, and time to—’

‘I need to get going,’ Erik says.

‘But I have to offer you s-something,’ Nestor says, opening the door.

‘Nestor, I’ve got an appointment.’

‘Walk across the dead without a s-sound. Walk across the dead and hear their murmuring resound.’

‘I haven’t got time for riddles now,’ Erik says, and walks out of the door of the building.

‘Promise!’ Nestor calls after him.

Jackie and Madeleine are sitting together on the sofa eating popcorn while Erik tries to play his étude.

Madeleine says he’s very good every time he makes a mistake. She’s tired and her yawns are getting bigger and bigger.

Jackie tries to explain the quaver rests and the rhythmic pattern, and gets up and puts her right hand on top of his.

She asks him to start from the twenty-second bar with his left hand, then she suddenly falls silent, goes back to her daughter, and listens to her breathing.

‘Could you manage to carry her to bed?’ she asks. ‘My elbow isn’t up to it.’

Erik gets up from the piano and picks the child up. Jackie walks ahead of them, opens the door to the girl’s room, turns the light out and pulls the covers back for Erik.

Erik carefully lays Madeleine down on her bed, and brushes the hair from her face.

Jackie tucks her daughter in and kisses her on the cheek, whispers something in her ear, and turns on the little pink nightlight on the bedside table.

Only now does Erik see that the walls of the child’s bedroom are covered in rude words, curses and obscenities.

Some of the words are written in childish scribble in chalk, misspelled, whereas others are written in more confident handwriting. Erik presumes Madeleine must have been doing this for several years. Her mother is the only person unable to see what she’s done.

‘What is it?’ Jackie says, noticing his silence.

‘Nothing,’ he says, closing the door gently behind him.

As they walk through the hall, Erik wonders if he should tell Jackie about what he saw, or just let it go.

‘Should I leave?’ Erik asks.

‘I don’t know,’ Jackie replies.

She holds out her hands and feels his face, stroking his cheeks and chin.

‘I’m just going to get some water,’ she says hoarsely, then goes into the kitchen and opens a cupboard.

He helps her, standing close to her, filling the glass and passing it to her. She drinks, and then he kisses her cool mouth before she has time to wipe her chin.

They embrace, she stands on tiptoe and they kiss each other deeply, foreheads bumping together.

Erik’s hands slide over her back and hips. The fabric of her skirt has a peculiar texture, and rustles like thin paper.

She pulls away slightly, turns her face and puts one hand on his chest.

‘We don’t have to,’ he says to her.

She shakes her head and puts her hand behind his neck again, pulls him to her, kisses his neck, fumbles with the buttons of his trousers, then stops herself.

‘Are the curtains closed?’ she whispers.

‘Yes.’

She goes to the door and listens for any sound in the corridor, then closes it carefully.

‘Maybe we shouldn’t do this here, not now.’

‘OK,’ he says.

She stands with her back to the draining board, one hand on the counter, her mouth half-open.

‘Can you see me?’ she asks, taking her dark glasses off.

‘Yes,’ Erik replies.

Her clothes are disordered, her blouse hanging outside her skirt, and her short hair is rather messed up.

‘Sorry, I’m being difficult.’

‘There’s no rush,’ Erik mumbles, and walks up to her, takes hold of her shoulders and kisses her again.

‘Let’s take our clothes off. Shall we?’ she whispers.

They get undressed in the kitchen, and Jackie starts talking slowly about a radio report she heard about the persecution of Christians in Iraq.

‘Now France is offering asylum to all of them,’ she smiles.

He unbuttons his trousers and looks at her as she lays item after item on the chair, and undoes her bra.

Completely naked, Erik goes and stands beside her, thinking that he feels oddly natural. He doesn’t even try to hold his stomach in.

Jackie’s teeth glisten in the faint light as she pulls her underpants down, wriggles her legs and lets them fall.

‘I’m not a shy person,’ she says quietly.

Her nipples are pale brown, and in the darkness she looks luminous. A marbled tracery of veins is faintly visible beneath her pale skin. Her dark pubic hair makes her inner thighs look fragile.

Erik takes her outstretched hand and kisses her. She backs into the chair and sits down. He leans forward, kisses her on the lips again, then kneels down and kisses her breasts and stomach. He pulls her carefully to the edge of the chair and parts her legs. Her folded clothes fall to the floor.

She’s already wet, and tastes of warm sugar to Erik. Her thighs quiver against his cheeks and her breathing grows heavier.

The salt cellar topples over on the table and rolls in a semi-circle.

She holds his head between her legs, gasping faster, the chair slides backwards and she slips gently on to the floor with a smile.

‘I’m not sure I’m any good at relationships,’ she says, resting the back of her head uncomfortably against the seat of the chair.

‘I’m just a pupil,’ he whispers.