Stalker (6 page)

Erik shuts the door behind him, unfolds the stand and attaches the camera to it. Björn watches him, rubbing his forehead hard with one hand.

‘Do you have to film it?’ he asks.

‘It’s just a case of documenting what I do,’ Erik replies. ‘And I’d rather not have to be taking notes the whole time.’

‘OK,’ Björn says, as though he hadn’t really listened to Erik’s reply.

‘You can start by lying down on the sofa,’ Erik says as he goes over to the window and draws the curtains.

The room fills with a pleasant semi-darkness, and Björn lies back and shuffles down a little, then closes his eyes. Erik sits down on a chair, moves closer to him, and sees how tense he is. Thoughts are still racing through his head, as different impulses tug at his body.

‘Breathe slowly through your nose,’ Erik says. ‘Relax your mouth, your chin and cheeks … feel the back of your head lying with all its weight on the pillow, feel your neck relax … you don’t need to hold your head up now, because your head is resting on the pillow … Your jaw muscles are relaxing, your forehead is smooth and untroubled, your eyelids are feeling heavier …’

Erik takes his time, and moves through the whole body, from Björn’s head to his toes, then back up to his weary eyelids and the weight of his head again.

With soporific monotony, Erik slips into the induction, speaking in a falling tone of voice as he tries to gather his strength in advance of what is coming.

Björn’s body gradually begins to exhibit an almost cataleptic relaxation. A mental trauma can lead to increased receptivity to hypnosis, as if the brain were longing for a fresh command, a way out of an unsustainable state.

‘The only thing you’re listening to is my voice … if you hear anything else, it only makes you feel more relaxed, and more focused on my words … I’m about to start counting backwards, and for each number you hear, you’ll relax a bit more.’

Erik thinks about what’s coming, what’s waiting inside the house, what Björn saw when he walked in through the door: the illuminated moment when the shock hit with full force.

‘Nine hundred and twelve,’ he says quietly. ‘Nine hundred and eleven …’

With each exhalation Erik says a number, slowly and monotonously. After a while he breaks the logical sequence, but still carries on the countdown. Björn is now down at a perfect depth. The sharp frown on his brow has relaxed and his mouth looks softer. Erik counts, and sinks into hypnotic resonance with a curious shiver in his stomach.

‘Now you’re deeply relaxed … you’re resting nice and calmly,’ Erik says slowly. ‘Soon you’re going to revisit your memories of Friday night … When I finish counting down to zero, you will be standing outside your house, but you’re completely calm, because there’s no danger … Four, three, two, one … Now you’re standing in the street outside your house, the taxi is driving away, the tyres are crunching on the grit covering the tarmac …’

Björn opens his eyes, his eyes gleaming, but his gaze is focused inward, into his memories, and his heavy eyelids close once more.

‘Are you looking at the house now?’

Björn is standing in the cool night air in front of his house. A strange glow is lighting up the sky in time with the slow rhythm of his heartbeat. It looks like the house is leaning forward as the light expands and the shadows withdraw.

‘It’s moving,’ he says almost inaudibly.

‘Now you’re walking up to the door,’ Erik says. ‘The night air is mild, there’s nothing unpleasant …’

Björn starts as some jackdaws fly up from a tree. They’re visible against the sky, their shadows move across the grass, and then they’re gone.

‘You’re perfectly safe,’ Erik says as he sees Björn’s hand move anxiously over the seat of the sofa.

Deep in his trance, Björn slowly approaches the door. He keeps to the stone path, but something about the black shimmer of the window catches his attention.

‘You’ve reached the door, you take your key out and put it in the lock,’ Erik says.

Björn carefully pushes the handle, but the door is stuck. He tries harder, and there’s a sticky sound when it eventually opens.

Erik sees that Björn’s brow is sweating, and repeats in a soothing voice that there’s nothing to be scared of.

Björn tries to open his eyes and whisper something. Erik leans forward, and feels his breath against his ear.

‘The doorstep … something odd about it …’

‘Yes, this doorstep has always been odd,’ Erik replies calmly. ‘But once you’ve crossed it, everything will be just as it was on Friday.’

Erik notes that the whole of Björn’s face is covered with a sheen of sweat as his chin begins to tremble.

‘No, no,’ he whispers, shaking his head.

Erik realises that he needs to put him in deeper hypnosis if he’s to be able to enter the house.

‘All you have to do now is listen to my voice,’ Erik says. ‘Because soon you’ll be in an even more relaxed state, and there’s nothing to be worried about there … You’re sinking deeper as I count: four … you’re sinking, three … getting calmer, two … one, and now you’re completely relaxed, and can see that the doorstep isn’t any sort of barrier …’

Björn’s face is slack, his mouth is hanging open, one corner wet with saliva: he’s in a deeper state of hypnosis than Erik had intended.

‘If you feel ready, you can … cross the threshold now.’

Björn doesn’t want to, he’s thinking that he doesn’t want to, but he still takes a step into the hall. His looks along the corridor towards the kitchen. Everything is the same as usual, there’s an advertisement from Bauhaus on the doormat, too many shoes piled up on the shoe-rack, the umbrella that always falls over does so again, and his keys jangle as he puts them on the chest of drawers.

‘Everything is the same as usual,’ he whispers. ‘The same as …’

He falls silent when he notices a strange, rolling movement from the corner of his eye. He daren’t turn to look in that direction, and stares straight ahead while something moves at the edge of his field of vision.

‘There’s something strange … off to the side … I …’

‘What did you say?’ Erik asks.

‘It’s moving, off to the side …’

‘OK, just let it go,’ Erik replies. ‘Look straight ahead and keep going.’

Björn walks through the hall, but his eyes keep getting drawn to the side, towards the clothes hanging in the porch. They’re moving slowly in the gloom, as if a wind were blowing through the house. The sleeves of Susanna’s trenchcoat lift in a gust, then fall back.

‘Look ahead of you,’ Erik says.

Someone suffering mental trauma experiences a chaotic jumble of memories that press in on them from all sides: they lose all coherence, fade away and lurch into view, all mixed up.

All Erik can do is try to lead Björn through the rooms, towards the fundamental insight that he couldn’t have prevented his wife’s death.

‘I’m in the kitchen now,’ he whispers.

‘Keep going,’ Erik says.

There’s a bag of newspapers for recycling in the passageway leading to the door of the cellar. Björn takes a cautious step forward, looking straight ahead, but he still sees a kitchen drawer slide open, and it rattles when it comes to a halt.

‘One drawer is open,’ he mutters.

‘Which one?’

Björn knows it’s the drawer containing the knives, and he knows that he’s the one opening it, seeing as he washed a large knife several hours earlier.

‘Oh, God … I can’t … I …’

‘There’s nothing to be afraid of, you’re safe, and I’ll be with you as you go further in.’

‘I’m walking past the door to the cellar, towards the living room … Susanna must have gone to bed already …’

It’s quiet, the television is switched off, but something’s different, the furniture seems to be in the wrong places, as if a giant had picked the house up and given it a gentle shake.

‘Sanna?’ Björn whispers.

He reaches out his hand towards the light switch. The room doesn’t light up, but the glow fills the windows that look out onto the garden. He can’t help thinking he’s being watched, and feels an urge to close the curtains.

‘God, oh God, oh God,’ he suddenly whimpers, his face trembling.

Erik realises that Björn is there now, in the midst of his memory of the traumatic event, but he’s barely describing anything, he’s keeping it to himself.

Björn is getting closer, sees himself in the black window, sees the bushes outside move in the wind, far beyond the reflections.

He’s gasping even though he’s under deep hypnosis, his body tenses and his back arches.

‘What’s happening?’ Erik asks.

Björn stops when he sees someone with a dark grey face looking back at him in the window. Right next to the glass. He takes a step back and feels his heart pounding hard in his chest. A branch of the rosebush sways and scrapes the window ledge. He realises that the grey face isn’t outside. There’s someone sitting on the floor in front of the window. He can see their reflection.

A calm voice repeats that there’s nothing to be scared of.

He moves to the side and realises that it’s Susanna. She’s sitting on the floor in front of the window.

‘Sanna?’ he says quietly, so as not to startle her.

He can see her shoulder, some of her hair. She’s leaning back against an armchair, looking out. He approaches cautiously and feels that the floor is wet beneath his feet.

‘She’s sitting down,’ he mutters.

‘She’s sitting?’

Björn goes closer to the armchair by the window, and then the light in the ceiling comes on and the room is bathed in light. He knows he switched it on, but is still frightened when the bright light fills the room.

There’s blood everywhere.

He’s trodden in blood, it’s splashed across the television and sofa, and up the walls, there are smears of blood on the floor, trickling into the gaps between the wood.

She’s sitting on the floor in a dark-red pool. A dead woman wearing Sanna’s kimono. Dust has settled on the pool of blood around her.

Erik sees Björn’s face tense, and his lips and the tip of his nose turn white. As soon as Björn has realised that the dead woman is his wife, Erik is planning to bring him out of the hypnosis.

‘Who can you see?’ he asks.

‘No … no,’ he whispers.

‘You know who it is,’ Erik says.

‘Susanna,’ he says slowly, and opens his eyes.

‘You can move back now,’ Erik says. ‘I’m going to wake you up in a moment, and—’

‘There’s so much blood, God, I don’t want to … Her face, it’s been destroyed, and she’s sitting perfectly still, with—’

‘Björn, listen to my voice, I’m going to count from—’

‘She’s sitting with her hand over her ear, and there’s blood dripping from her elbow,’ he says, panting for breath.

Erik feels an icy chill as adrenalin fills his veins for a few seconds, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand up. With his heart pounding he glances towards the closed door of the treatment room and hears a trolley rattle as it moves away.

‘Look at your own hands,’ he says, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘You’re looking at your own hands and you’re breathing slowly. With each breath you’re feeling calmer—’

‘I don’t want to,’ Björn whispers.

Erik can feel that he’s forcing him, but he has to know the position Björn’s wife was sitting in when he found her.

‘Before I wake you up, we need to go deeper,’ he says, swallowing hard. ‘Beneath the house that you’re in is another house, identical to the other one … but down there is the only place you can see Susanna clearly. Three, two, one, and now you’re there … She’s sitting on the floor in the pool of blood, and you can look at her without feeling frightened.’

‘Her face is almost gone, it’s just blood,’ Björn says sluggishly. ‘And her hand is stuck to her ear …’

‘Keep going,’ Erik says, glancing at the door again.

‘Her hand is tangled up in … in the cord of her kimono.’

‘Björn, I’m going to bring you up now … to the house above, and the only thing you know there is that Susanna is dead and that there was nothing you could have done to save her … That’s the only thing you’re going to take with you when I wake you up, you’re going to leave everything else behind.’

Erik closes his office door and goes over to his desk. He feels that his back is wet with sweat when he sits down.

‘It’s nothing,’ he whispers anxiously to himself.

He moves the mouse to wake his computer up, then logs in. With his hand trembling he pulls open the top drawer, presses a Mogadon out of a blister-pack and swallows it without water.

He quickly signs into the database of patients, and notices how cold his fingers are as he waits to be able to perform a search.

He jumps when Superintendent Margot Silverman opens the door without knocking. She walks in and stops in front of him with her hands clasped round her stomach.

‘Björn Kern says he can’t remember what you talked about.’

‘That’s natural,’ Erik replies, minimising the document.

‘How did you get on with the hypnosis, then?’ she asks, running her hand over the wooden elephant from Malaysia.

‘He was definitely receptive …’

‘So you were able to hypnotise him?’ she smiles.

‘I’m afraid I forgot to start the camera,’ Erik lies. ‘Otherwise I could have shown you, he went into a trance almost instantly.’

‘You forgot to start the camera?’

‘You know that this wasn’t an official interview,’ he says, a touch impatiently. ‘This was a first step towards what we call affective stabilisation, so that—’

‘I don’t give a damn about that,’ she cuts him off.

‘So that you can have a functional witness later on,’ he concludes.

‘How much later? Will he be able to say anything later today?’

‘I think he’s going to realise what happened fairly quickly, but talking about it is another matter.’

‘So what happened? What did he say? He must have said something, surely?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘No fucking oath of confidentiality bollocks now,’ she interrupts. ‘I have to know, otherwise people will die.’

Erik goes over to the window and leans on the sill. Far below a patient is standing smoking, thin and bent-backed in his hospital gown.

‘I took him back,’ Erik says slowly. ‘Into the house … it was rather complicated, because it was very recent, and full of fragments of terrible memories.’

‘But he saw everything … could he see everything?’

‘It was only to make him understand that he couldn’t have saved her.’

‘But he saw the murder scene, and his wife? Did he?’

‘Yes, he did,’ Erik replies.

‘So what did he say?’

‘Not much … he talked about blood … and the wounds to her face.’

‘Was she in a particular position? A posture with sexual implications?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘Was she sitting up or lying down? How did her mouth look, where were her hands? Was she naked? Violated?’

‘He said very little,’ Erik replies. ‘It can take a long time to reach details of that sort …’

‘I swear, if he doesn’t start talking I’ll take him into custody,’ she says in a loud voice. ‘I’ll drag him off to headquarters and watch him like a hawk until—’

‘Margot,’ Erik interrupts in a friendly voice.

She looks at him with a subdued expression, nods and breathes through her mouth, then pulls out a business card and puts it down on his desk.

‘We don’t know who his next victim’s going to be. It could be your wife. Think about that,’ she says, and leaves the room.

Erik feels his face relax. He walks slowly back to his desk. The floor is starting to feel soft beneath his feet. As he sits down in front of his computer there’s a knock on the door.

‘Yes?’

‘That charming superintendent has left the building,’ Nelly says, peering round the door.

‘She’s only trying to do her job.’

‘I know, she doesn’t really seem too bad …’

‘Stop it,’ he says, but can’t help smiling.

‘No, but she was pretty funny,’ Nelly says and laughs.

Erik rests his head on his hand and she turns serious and walks in, closes the door behind her and looks at him.

‘What is it?’ she asks. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Nothing,’ he replies.

‘Tell me,’ she insists, sitting down on the corner of his desk.

Her red woollen dress crackles with static electricity against her nylon tights as she crosses her legs.

‘I don’t know,’ Erik sighs.

‘What’s up with you?’ she laughs.

Erik stands up, takes a deep breath and looks at her.

‘Nelly,’ he says, and she can hear how empty his voice sounds. ‘I need to ask you about a patient … Before you started working here, Nina Blom put together a team for a complicated research project.’

‘Go on,’ she says, looking at him with obvious curiosity.

‘I know I outlined my cases to you, but this may not have been included, I mean …’

‘What’s the patient’s name?’ she asks calmly.

‘Rocky Kyrklund – do you remember him?’

‘Yes, hang on,’ she says tentatively.

‘He was a priest.’

‘Exactly, I remember, you talked about him quite a lot,’ she says as she thinks. ‘You had a file of pictures from the crime scene, and—’

‘You don’t remember where he ended up?’ he interrupts.

‘That was years ago,’ she replies.

‘He’s still inside, though, isn’t he?’

‘We’d better hope so,’ she replied. ‘He’d killed people, after all, hadn’t he?’

‘A woman.’ Erik nods.

‘That’s right, now I remember. Her whole face was destroyed.’