Ларс Кеплер - Stalker

The footsteps stop and everything goes silent. Perhaps he’s putting flowers on a dog’s grave? Perhaps he’s listening for sounds inside the shed.

Erik sits in the corner thinking about the dog that Nestor was forced to drown. In his mind’s eye he sees the flailing legs, the animal’s attempts to swim as the sack filled with water.

The man outside spits noisily and carries on walking. Erik hears him come closer, walking through the dead bushes, their thin branches snapping under his shoes.

He’s right outside the shed now, Erik thinks, looking around for a weapon, glancing at the spade, then the axe with the short handle and blunt blade.

Something starts trickling down the wall of the shed, splashing the tall grass. The man outside is urinating, slurring to himself as he does so.

‘You do your best,’ a deep voice mutters. ‘You come home, nice and quiet, but... nothing’s good enough any more...’

The man lurches over to the window and peers in. The grass scrapes and his shadow falls across the wall with the spades and shovels. Erik presses himself against the wall next to the window, clearly hearing the man’s breathing, first with his mouth open, then through tight nostrils.

‘Honest work,’ he mutters, and carries on through the low-growing blueberry bushes.

Erik thinks that he’s going to have to wait for the drunk to disappear before going to the church and handing himself in.

He tries again to imagine that Nestor is the killer, but he can’t honestly believe that Nestor is driven by a compulsion to turn himself into the arbiter of life or death.

The sun goes behind a cloud and the grey curtain loses its transparency again.

On a shelf stands a dusty thermos flask, with a plastic bag tucked between it and the wall, a little grey urn and a painted plaster bulldog.

Erik just has time to see Nestor’s shaving mirror quiver on the wall, sending a glint of a reflection across the floor, before the door of the shed swings open.

Erik scrambles backwards and a green folding chair clatters over onto the floor. The opening door hits the wall then bounces back and hits a very large shoulder. Dust is swirling round the bulky figure, who’s panting as he makes his way into the shed. Rocky Kyrklund coughs and hits his head on the dangling light bulb. He’s dressed in prison-issue clothing, his face is sweaty and his hair is hanging pale and grey around his big head.

Joona comes in right behind him, shuts the door and stops the swaying bulb with his hand.

‘ Viihtyisä ,’ Joona says.

Erik tries to say something, but he can barely breathe. When the door flew open he got so scared that his cheeks felt like they were burning.

Rocky mutters something to himself, picks up the folding chair and sits down. He’s out of breath as he glances round the little room.

‘You came,’ Erik says in a weak voice.

‘We made our way through the forest from Nacka gård,’ Joona says, taking three cheese and salad baguettes out of a bag.

They eat in silence. Rocky is sweating from withdrawal, and breathing hard between mouthfuls. When he’s finished he goes over and drinks some water from the tap.

‘It’s more expensive to bury people,’ he says, gesturing towards the price list.

Drops of water glisten in his beard. Shadows dance behind the curtain.

‘I think we’re fairly safe here,’ Joona says, removing the last of the duct tape from his hands. ‘The operation has already been downgraded. Externally they’re claiming that they received inaccurate information, because Nestor wanted to commit suicide.’

‘But he is still alive, isn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ Joona replies, meeting Erik’s gaze.

His blond hair is sticking up, and his eyes have regained the chilly blue of an October sky.

Erik chews the last of the bread.

‘If this doesn’t work, I thought I’d hand myself over inside the church,’ he says, trying to keep his voice steady.

‘Good,’ Joona replies quietly.

‘They can’t shoot me inside a church,’ he adds.

‘No, they can’t,’ Joona replies, even though they both know it isn’t true.

Rocky is standing by the price list smoking, muttering to himself and picking the little plastic caps off the tops of the drawing pins.

‘I’m ready to start,’ Erik tells him, crumpling the wrapper of his sandwich into a ball.

‘Sure,’ Rocky nods, and sits down on the chair.

Erik looks at him, his dilated pupils, the colour of his face, listens to his breathing.

‘You’ve marched through the woods, your body is still working hard,’ he says.

‘Maybe it won’t work, then?’ Rocky asks, stubbing his cigarette out with his foot.

‘I’d like to start with some relaxation... the fact that the brain is active is no problem, you’re not supposed to be asleep, after all... all we want to do is gather all that activity and focus...’

‘OK,’ Rocky says, leaning back.

‘Sit comfortably,’ Erik goes on. ‘You can change position as much as you like during the hypnosis, you don’t need to worry about that, but each time you move you’ll sink deeper into a state of relaxation.’

Joona and Erik know that this is their chance, the opportunity they’ve been waiting for.

They don’t need much, just a name, a location, or some other definite detail.

If they can only come up with one defined parameter, the pattern that’s already emerged will refine itself to an arrow pointing straight at the preacher.

Erik can’t force the process, and needs to take his time leading Rocky into a very deep trance in order to reach the most inaccessible memories.

‘Rest your hands on your lap,’ Erik goes on in a quiet voice. ‘Clench them tight, then relax, feel how heavy they are, feel them sink, they’re being pulled down towards your thighs, your wrists are feeling soft...’

Erik concentrates on not letting his need for a result show in his voice, as he slowly works his way through the whole of Rocky’s body, watching as his shoulders gradually relax. He talks for a while about his neck, about how heavy his head feels, and taking deep breaths, as he almost imperceptibly approaches the moment of induction.

In a monotone voice he describes a wide, sandy beach, with gentle waves rolling in and out of the shore, as the white sand shimmers like porcelain.

‘You’re walking along the edge of the water, towards a headland,’ Erik says. ‘The wet sand feels solid under your feet, it’s easy to walk on, warm waves lap around your legs, grains of sand swirl round...’

He describes the tiny, ridged seashells and the coral rolling in the bubbling surf of the waves.

Rocky is slumped on the creaking folding chair, his jaw has relaxed and his eyelids look heavy.

‘All you’re doing is listening to my voice and you feel fine, everything is nice and safe...’

Joona is standing next to the window looking out at the pet cemetery. His jacket is open and the butt of his pistol shimmers red against his chest.

‘In a little while I’m going to count backwards from two hundred, and with each number you’re going to sink deeper and deeper into relaxation. And when I tell you to open your eyes, you’re going to open your eyes and remember every detail from the first time you met the man you call the preacher,’ Erik says.

Rocky remains still, with his lower lip drooping slightly and his huge hands on his thighs. He looks like he’s asleep, dreaming.

Erik counts down in a deep, soporific voice, his eyes monitoring Rocky’s breathing, the movement of his bulging stomach.

Parallel to the actual hypnosis process, Erik sees himself sink through murky water. It’s so dark with mud that he can barely see Rocky in front of him, as air bubbles rise from his beard and his hair sways in the current.