Юхан Теорин: The Asylum

‘Yes?’

‘You will need to bring some form of photo ID — your driving licence or passport, just so that we can be sure of who you are.’

‘Of course, that’s fine.’

‘And one last thing, Jan... don’t bring any sharp objects with you. If you do, you won’t be allowed in.’

‘Sharp objects?’

‘Any sharp objects made of metal... No knives.’

Jan arrived in Valla by train — without any sharp objects about his person — half an hour before his interview. He was keeping a close eye on the time, but still felt quite calm. He wasn’t about to climb a mountain; it was just a meeting about a job.

It was a sunny Tuesday in mid September; the streets near the station were bright and dry, but there were very few people around. This was his first visit to Valla, and as he walked out into the square he realized that no one knew where he was. No one. The senior consultant at St Patricia’s was expecting him, of course, but to Dr Högsmed he was just a name and a CV.

Was he ready? Absolutely. He tugged down the sleeves of his jacket and tidied his blond fringe before heading over to the taxi rank. There was just one cab waiting.

‘Can you take me to St Patricia’s Hospital?’

‘No problem.’

The driver might have borne a certain resemblance to Father Christmas, but he didn’t appear to share his jovial nature; he simply folded up his newspaper and started the engine. But as Jan settled down in the back seat their eyes met for a second in the rear-view mirror, as if Father Christmas just wanted to check that his passenger was sane.

Jan thought of asking whether the driver knew what kind of hospital St Patricia’s was, but it was obvious that he did.

They drove out of the square and into the street running alongside the railway line, and eventually turned into a short tunnel leading under the tracks. On the other side was a collection of large brick buildings that looked like some kind of hospital, with façades of steel and glass. Jan could see two yellow ambulances parked in front of the main entrance.

‘Is this St Patricia’s?’

But Father Christmas shook his head. ‘No, the people in here are sick in the body, not in the head. This is the local hospital.’

The sun was still shining; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. They turned off to the left once they got past the hospital, drove up a steep hill and came to the residential area where that sign warned drivers about children.

Caution! Children playing...

Jan thinks about all the children he has cared for over the years. None of them were his own; he was employed to look after them. But they grew to be his, in a way, and it was always difficult to say goodbye to them when the job came to an end. They often cried. Sometimes he cried too.

Suddenly he catches sight of some children: four boys aged about twelve are playing hockey by one of the garages.

Or is a twelve-year-old actually a child? When do children stop being children?

Jan leans back in his seat and pushes aside such deep questions. He needs to concentrate on coming up with clear answers. Job interviews are hard work if you have something to hide — and who hasn’t? We all have little secrets that we would prefer not to talk about. So has Jan. But today they absolutely must not come out.

Don’t forget Högsmed is a psychiatrist .

The taxi leaves the upmarket residential area and drives past several blocks of low terraced houses. Then there are no more buildings, and the landscape opens out into an extensive grassy area. And beyond it Jan can see a huge concrete wall, at least five metres high and painted green. Thin strands of taut barbed wire run along the top. The only thing missing is a series of watchtowers with armed guards.

An immense grey building looms behind the wall, almost like a fortress. Jan can see only the uppermost section, with rows of narrow windows below a long tiled roof. Many of the windows are covered with bars.

That’s where they are, behind those bars , he thinks — the most dangerous individuals. Those who cannot be permitted to walk the streets. And that’s where you’re going .

He feels his heart begin to pound as he thinks about Alice Rami, and the possibility that she might be sitting behind the bars at one of those windows, watching him at this very moment.

Calm, keep calm .

Jan is a confident person, cheerful and pleasant, and he really loves children. Dr Högsmed is bound to understand this.

There is a wide steel gate set in the wall, but there is a no-waiting zone directly in front of it, so the taxi stops in the turning area. Jan has arrived. The meter is showing ninety-six kronor. Jan hands over a hundred-kronor note. ‘Keep the change.’

‘Thanks.’ Father Christmas seems disappointed by his tip; four kronor won’t buy any presents for the children. He doesn’t get out of the car to open the passenger door.

Jan can fend for himself.

‘Good luck with the job,’ the driver says as he passes Jan a receipt through the half-open window.

Jan nods and straightens his jacket. ‘Do you know anyone who works here?’

‘I don’t think so,’ says Father Christmas. ‘But most people keep quiet about the fact that they work up here... it means they don’t have to deal with a load of questions about the inmates.’

Jan notices that a smaller door next to the wide gate has opened. Someone is now standing there waiting for him: a man in his forties with thick brown hair and round, gold-framed glasses. From a distance he looks a little bit like John Lennon.

Lennon was shot by Mark Chapman , Jan thinks. Why does he remember that? Because the murder brought Chapman worldwide notoriety overnight.

If Alice Rami is in St Patricia’s, what other celebrities might be locked up in there?

Forget about it , says a voice inside his head. And forget about Lynx too. Concentrate on the interview .

The man waiting in the doorway is not wearing a white coat, just black trousers and a brown jacket, but it is perfectly obvious who he is. Dr Högsmed adjusts his glasses and gazes over at Jan. The assessment has already begun.

Jan looks at the taxi driver one last time. ‘Will you tell me the name now?’

‘What name?’

Jan nods in the direction of the concrete wall. ‘The name of the hospital... What do people call it?’

Father Christmas doesn’t answer immediately; he merely smiles with satisfaction at Jan’s curiosity. ‘St Psycho’s,’ he says eventually.

‘What?’

The driver gestures towards the wall. ‘Say hello to Ivan Rössel for me... He’s supposed to be in there.’

The window is wound up and the taxi pulls away.

As he walks over to Dr Högsmed and shakes his hand, Jan works out that it is no ordinary barbed wire that surrounds St Patricia’s psychiatric hospital — it is electrified. The strands of wire form an electric fence a metre high right on top of the wall, with glowing red diodes flashing on each post.

‘Welcome.’ Högsmed looks at him through his spectacles, without a trace of a smile. ‘Did you have any trouble finding your way here?’

‘No, not at all.’

The concrete wall and the electric fence remind Jan of some kind of old-fashioned zoo, a tiger enclosure perhaps, but on the gravel to the right of the gate he spots a little bit of everyday life: a bicycle rack, with ladies’ and men’s bicycles in a row, kitted out with baskets and reflectors. One of them even has a plastic child seat on the back.

The steel door clicks and is slid to one side by invisible hands.

‘After you, Jan.’

‘Thank you.’

Walking in through a prison gate is like taking the first steps into the mouth of a pitch-black cave. An alien, isolated world.