Юхан Теорин - The Asylum

Viveca waited. Waited and slept. Every morning when she woke up, she felt a little brighter. She felt stronger, and when she caught her reflection in the mirror, she looked younger. And the hands of the clock kept on moving backwards, and in the end Viveca began to suspect what was happening in this house of stone:

Time was moving backwards!

Viveca suddenly realized that she would just keep getting younger and younger, and if she waited long enough, her parents would come back to life, and so would Blanker, her dog. She wouldn’t be lonely any more.

But of course the same thing would happen to the big bones down in the cellar. Whatever it was, it would also come back to life.

Tock, tick, tock. The clock kept on going backwards.

One beautiful day Viveca woke up and looked at her hands, and saw that they were small and smooth. She was full of energy, and leapt out of bed. She had become a little girl again! She heard the sound of barking, and suddenly a golden-coloured retriever jumped up on to the bed and started licking her face. Blanker had woken up.

Her beloved Blanker!

Viveca was SO happy! She was no longer alone in the house of stone, and she hugged Blanker as tightly as she could.

But eventually she raised her head and listened. She could hear noises coming from the cellar. The clicking of bones.

Blanker growled. He ran over to the door and started barking. That wasn’t good! Because Viveca could hear the sound of something big and heavy that had started to move down there...

At that point Jan’s doorbell suddenly rings with a loud, cheerful tone. He gives a start and glances towards the hallway. Who’s there? Jan has spent eight hours with pre-school children, and he wants his peace and quiet.

The bell keeps on ringing. He quickly hides the picture book in one of the kitchen drawers, then answers the door.

‘Evening, Jan!’ A blond man is standing there smiling. It is Lars Rettig from Bill’s Bar, wearing his leather jacket. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

Jan feels as if he has been caught out somehow, but shakes his head. ‘No... no, it’s fine.’

‘Can I come in?’

‘Sure. For a while.’

The evening chill from the street still clings to Rettig’s jacket, and spreads through the hallway as he takes off his shoes and carries on into the living room. He has a carrier bag in one hand.

‘Sorry to push in... I didn’t want to stand out there drawing attention to myself.’ He looks at all the furniture and boxes piled up along the walls. ‘Wow, you’ve got plenty of rubbish.’

‘That’s not mine,’ Jan says quickly. ‘It’s a sublet.’

‘Right.’ Rettig sits down on the sofa, still looking around. ‘And you’ve got drums... Do you play?’

‘A bit.’

‘Cool.’ Rettig’s eyes flash: he has had an idea. ‘You could come and do some jamming with us if you want. Our drummer in the Bohemos has just become a dad, so he can’t always make the rehearsals.’

‘OK,’ says Jan, without even thinking. He feels a shiver of anticipation, but keeps the impassive mask in place: ‘Perhaps I could come along and help out if you like... but I’m not all that good.’

Rettig laughs. ‘Or else you’re just being modest. But we can give it a try, can’t we?’ He takes something out of the bag. It’s a steaming-hot kebab with bread, wrapped in foil. He looks at it hungrily, then glances at Jan. ‘Want some?’

‘No thanks — you carry on.’

Jan closes the outside door and stands in the doorway of the lounge. ‘How did you know where I live?’

‘I checked the hospital computer... Every employee’s address is on there.’ Rettig takes a bite of his kebab. ‘How are you getting on at the nursery?’

‘Fine... but it’s a pre-school.’

‘OK, pre-school .’

Jan doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, then he asks, ‘So you really do work at St Patricia’s?’

‘Indeed I do. Four nights a week, with lots of free time in between. That’s when I play with the Bohemos.’

‘And you’re a security guard there?’

Rettig shakes his head. ‘We prefer the term care worker . I work with the patients, not against them. Most of them are no trouble at all.’

‘And do you see them often?’

‘Every day,’ says Rettig. ‘Or every night, I should say.’

‘Do you know their names?’

‘Most of them,’ says Rettig, taking another bite. ‘But new faces come along at regular intervals. Some are allowed to go home, others are admitted.’

‘But you know the names of the ones... the ones who’ve been in there a long time?’

Rettig holds up a hand. ‘One thing at a time... We can chat about our guests, but first of all I want to know if you’ve decided.’

‘Decided what?’

‘Whether you want to help them.’

Jan takes a couple of steps into the room. ‘I’d be happy to hear more... At Bill’s Bar you said something about there being too many things you’re not allowed to do.’

Rettig nods. ‘That’s what it’s all about. There’s too much bureaucracy at St Patricia’s, too many rules... particularly when it comes to the closed wards. The daytime security team rules the roost up there.’ He sighs gloomily at the thought of his colleagues on the day shift, and looks up at the ceiling. ‘The patients are not allowed to write letters to whoever they like, and their post is checked. They’re hardly ever allowed to watch TV or listen to the radio, they get searched all the time...’

Jan nods, remembering how he had to open his bag when he first went inside the hospital.

‘You just get tired of all the supervision, that’s all,’ Rettig says. ‘Some of us have been talking about this, and we think well-behaved patients ought to have a little more contact with the outside world.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Through letters, for example. People write to the patients. Their parents, their friends, their brothers and sisters write to them... But the daytime security team stop the letters. Or they open them and have a good snoop... So we want to try and smuggle the letters in.’

Jan looks at him. ‘And how would that work? Nobody from the pre-school is allowed into the hospital.’

‘Oh yes they are,’ Rettig says quickly. ‘You are, Jan. You and your children.’

Jan doesn’t say anything, so Rettig goes on: ‘You’re allowed to go up to the visitors’ room, unsupervised. There are no cameras in there, no checks. And at night that room is completely empty. Anyone could go up and leave a bundle of letters in there... letters that could then be collected by me and taken into the hospital.’

Jan glances around sharply, as if Dr Högsmed is standing behind him in the apartment. ‘And these letters,’ he says. ‘Where do they come from?’

Rettig shrugs his shoulders. ‘From the people who write them. People send all kinds of stuff to the hospital, but most of it gets stopped. So I’ve got to know this guy in the sorting office in town, and he’s started putting aside all handwritten letters addressed to St Patricia’s. Then he gives them to me.’

Rettig looks pleased with himself, but Jan isn’t smiling.

‘So you don’t know anything about these letters? You don’t know what’s in them?’

‘Yes, we do,’ says Rettig. ‘Paper, paper with words on it... They’re just ordinary letters.’

Jan’s expression is doubtful. ‘I’m not smuggling drugs.’

‘It’s not drugs. Nothing illegal.’

‘But you are breaking the rules.’

‘We are.’ Rettig nods. ‘But so did Mahatma Gandhi. For a good cause.’

Silence falls.