Now she made herself look at the patients, one at a time.
The elderly man was awake and propped up against the pillows. He hurt somewhere inside, and was clutching his abdomen while he used the other hand to search on his bedside table for the bell-push. It should be somewhere near the food he hadnt touched.
The man in the next bed was much younger, more a boy actually, eighteen or nineteen years old, who for the last five years had been in and out of just about every department in the hospital. His body had been strong before he was suddenly taken ill, and ever since he had been hanging on for dear life, crying and swearing, refusing to die. His breathing was very slow and he had lost most of his body mass long ago, together with his hair and youthful looks, but he still lay in his bed, angrily staring at the wall until he was certain that he would wake up to see yet another morning.
The third man was a new admission.
Lisa sighed. He was the one who made her feel exhausted, the reason why she was standing still while a patients bell was ringing irritably in the corridor.
He had been admitted last night and put in a bed at the far end, opposite the older man. Strange and somehow unfair too, though she knew she shouldnt follow this thought to its conclusion, that he was the only one of these three patients who would leave this hospital with a beating heart.
And he was the only one of them who acted as if he was intending to end his life. She knew that she could not make him understand how completely he drained her energy and robbed her of time. It didnt matter that he had just been more dead than alive. He didnt understand, or perhaps he did and he would do the same thing over and over and over again. And every time, she or one of her colleagues would end up standing in the middle of the ward feeling apathetic and furious. Again.
She hated him for it.
She went over to his bedside. That was part of her job.
Are you awake now?
Fuck. What happened?
You overdosed. It was a struggle to bring you round this time.
He tugged with one hand at the bandage round his head and scratched the sore on his nostril with the other, probing and prodding it in the way she had tried to stop because it distressed her, back in the days when she still cared about him. She read through his journal.
His history was familiar she knew it by heart but she ran her finger down the list of dates, anyway.
Hilding Oldéus (28). Twelve acute admissions following an overdose of heroin.
He had needed hospitalisation twelve times. To begin with, she had feared for his life, been terrified, wept the first five or six times. Nowadays she was indifferent.
She had to share her strength, make sure that everyone got the same care.
But she couldnt help it.
She couldnt bring herself to care much for his future any more.
You were lucky. The guy who made the emergency call, one of your mates apparently, gave you mouth to mouth and heart massage on the spot. Inside a photo booth at Central Station. Or so Im told.
That was Olsson.
Your body wouldnt have coped on its own. Not this time.
He scratched the sore. She was on the verge of trying to stop him, as she usually did, but reminded herself that his hand would be back there straight away. Never mind, let him. Let him tear his whole face to bits.
I dont want to see you here again.
Hey, sis. Dont hassle me.
Never.
Hilding tried to sit up straight, but collapsed back on his pillows. He was dizzy, put his hand to his forehead.
You see what gives, dont you? I mean, you dont lend me any dosh and thats it. I take what gives, like pure powder. Get it?
Sorry?
Cant fucking trust nobody.
Lisa sighed.
Look, it wasnt me who dissolved the heroin in citric acid. It wasnt me who loaded the syringe. It wasnt me who injected it. You did all that, Hilding.
So? Whats all that in aid of?
I dont know. I truly dont know what anything is in aid of.
She couldnt take any more. Not today. He was alive, that was enough. She thought of how his addiction had slowly become hers. How she had somehow felt the effect of every injection, joined every treatment centre, stopped breathing when he ODd. She had attended therapy sessions for relatives, participated in self-help courses, taken on board that she was a co-dependent, and then, finally, grasped that her feelings had never been of any consequence. For long stretches of time she simply ceased to exist for Hilding. It had been his addiction, but it had ruled her and the rest of the family too.
She had scarcely stepped out into the corridor when he called her back. She had decided not to go back, to continue on her rounds, so he carried on screaming, louder and louder. She couldnt take it and ran back, tearful out of sheer anger.
What do you want?
Sis, for fucks sake.
Tell me what you want then!
Am I just supposed to lie here? Like, Ive ODd.
Lisa sensed the eyes of the others on her. The older man and the very young man who refused to die were watching
her and hoping she would support and encourage them, but she couldnt, didnt have the strength, not now.
Sis, I need something to help me come down.
Forget it. We wont give
you
any drugs here. Ask the doctor whos dealing with you, if you must. He will say the same.
Stesolid?
She swallowed, the tears running down her cheeks. As usual he had reduced her to this. Weve stood by you for years, Hilding. Mum and Ylva and I. Weve had to live with your paranoia. So stop whining.
Hilding didnt hear a word she said. He didnt like it when her voice sounded like that.
Or Rohypnol.
We were pleased every time they locked you up. Every time. Aspsĺs, wherever. Do you understand that? Because at least we knew where you were.
Valium, eh, sis?
Next time, just do it properly. Take a fatal overdose so youre put away for good and all.
Lisa was bending forward, clutching her stomach. The tears were coming faster and she turned away. He mustnt see her cry. She said nothing more, walked away from his bed to see the older man, the one who had pressed his bell. He was sitting up straight with one hand pressed to his chest. He needed pain relief, his malignant tumour demanded it. Lisa said good morning and took his hand, but addressed Hilding over her shoulder.
By the way.
Her brother didnt answer.
Theres a visitor for you. I promised to let him know when you were awake.
She had to get out, and disappeared down the bluish-green corridor.
Baffled, Hilding stared at her back. How could anyone know he was here? He hardly knew himself.
* * *
Jochum Lang got out of the car when it pulled up outside the hospital entrance. It was good to escape the smell of leather upholstery. In just a couple of hours he had learnt to detest it as much as that of the cell where he had been locked up for the past two years and four months. Both smells meant being under someone elses power and control. He had been around for long enough to know that it didnt actually matter who you had to take orders from, a screw in prison or Mio outside it.
He walked past the patients who hung out near the hospital doors, longing for home, along the corridor with a constant traffic of people on their way somewhere else, and stepped into one of the big shiny lifts where a recorded voice informed you sweetly which floor you were on.
Hes only got himself to blame. Its his own fault.
Jochum had his own mantra. He used the same ritual every time, knew it would work.
Hes only got himself to blame
.
He knew where to find him. General Medicine. Floor 6. Ward 2.
He moved quickly now. It was a job and he wanted to be done with it.
The room was much too quiet. The others were practically asleep, just two of them, an old boy in the bed opposite and a lad who looked more dead than alive. Hilding didnt like silence, never had. He looked around nervously, stared at the door, waited.
He saw his visitor the moment the door opened. His clothes were soaked. It must be raining outside.
Jochum?
His heart was pounding. He clawed at the sore on his nose and tried to ignore the fear that tore at his insides.
What the fuck are you doing here?
Jochum Lang looked exactly the same as before. Just as fucking big and bald. Hilding felt all sorts of things. He
didnt want to feel them, but couldnt help himself. No way. All he wanted was some Stesolid. Or Rohypnol.
Sit up.
Jochum was impatient, his voice low but clear.
Sit up.
Jochum grabbed the wheelchair by the older mans bed, released the brake and pushed it across to Hilding, waiting until he was sitting on the edge of the bed.
He pointed from the bed to the wheelchair.
I want you to sit in this.
What do you want?
Cant say here. Got to get you to the lifts.
What do you want?
Fucking sit here!
Jochum pointed at the wheelchair again, his hand close to Hildings face.
Hes only got himself to blame.
Hildings eyes had closed. His thin body was weak; only a few hours earlier he had collapsed in a photo booth.
Its his own fault
. He was obeying now, slowly, stopping to scratch at the sore, the blood running down his chin.
I didnt. Didnt say a word.
Jochum stood behind him, then started to wheel him out, past the man and the boy, both asleep by now.
I mean. Listen, Jochum, for fucks sake. I didnt talk. Do you hear me? The pigs asked, sure, had me in for an interview and wanted to know about you, but I didnt say a thing.
The corridor was empty. Blue-green floor, white walls. And cold.
I believe you. You wouldnt have the guts.
They met two nurses, who nodded a kind of greeting to the patient in the wheelchair. Hilding wept like he hadnt done since he was a child, since before the heroin.
But youve been dealing in cut speed. And flogged it to the wrong punters.
They had left the wards now and entered the lift area.
The corridor was wider here and the colours had changed; it had a grey floor and yellow walls. Hildings body trembled violently. He had no idea fear could hurt like this.
The wrong punters?
Mirja.
Mirja? That slag?
Shes Mios niece. And youre so fucking stupid that you sold her half-half Yugo whizz and washing powder.
Hilding tried to stop crying. The tears seemed weird, nothing to do with him.
I dont get it.
They stopped in front of the lifts. Four lifts, two on their way up.
I dont get it.
You will. You and me. Were going to have a little chat.
Jochum! Fucks sake!
The lift doors. He could reach them, grab hold of them and maybe hang on.
He couldnt tell.
Couldnt tell why the fucking tears kept coming.
Alena Sljusareva ran along the quay at Värta Harbour.
She stared down into the dark water. It was raining, had been raining all morning; what could have been a sunlit blue sea was black. The waves crashed against the cement walls of the quay. It was more like autumn than summer.
She was crying and had been for nearly twenty-four hours, from fear at first, then from rage and now from a frail sense of longing mixed with hopelessness.
During the past twenty-four hours she had relived the three years since she and Lydia had boarded the Lithuanian ferry. Two men had escorted them, their hands politely opening doors and their mouths smiling and telling the two young women how lovely they looked. One of the men had been a Swede, who spoke good Russian and had false passports ready and waiting, the key to their new life. Their cabin was really big, larger than the Klaipeda bedroom she had shared with three others. Alena had been laughing and happy then. She and her new friend were leaving the past behind.
She had been a virgin.
The ship had barely left the harbour.
She could still feel the sensation of the blood running down the inside of her thighs.
Three years. Stockholm, Gothenburg, Oslo, Copenhagen, then back to Stockholm. Never fewer than twelve men. Every day. She tried to recall just a few of them, see their faces in her minds eye, any of them, the ones who liked hitting or humping you or simply looking at you.
She couldnt remember a single one.
All faceless.
Like Lydia felt about her body, but the other way round. Lydia said her body wasnt there, something that Alena had never understood. She was aware of her body all the time, knew it was being violated, counted the number of times; shed lie there naked and calculate the total of twelve times a day for three years.
She had a body, no matter how hard they tried to take it away from her.
For her, they didnt have faces, that was how she coped.
She had tried to warn Lydia, calm her down. Nothing worked. It was as if she changed the moment she had seen the newspaper article. Her reaction had been so strong, her eyes glowing with hatred. Alena had seen Lydia humiliated, resentful, but never like this, so full of hate. She regretted having shown Lydia the newspaper, should have hidden it instead, or thrown it away, as she had thought at first.
