“I don’t know, Simone. It’s possible that it aroused a deeply buried and dormant hatred of me, one held in check only by my promise never to practise again. Do you remember Eva Blau?” he goes on. “She swung in and out of a psychotic state. You know she threatened me, swore she would destroy my life.”
“I never understood why,” Simone says quietly.
“She was afraid of someone. I thought it was paranoia, but now I’m almost certain she was being threatened by Lydia.”
“Just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you,” says Simone. She smiles briefly.
Erik pulls into the blue, sprawling complex of Danderyd Hospital. “It might even have been Lydia who cut Eva’s face,” he says, almost to himself.
Simone gives a start. “Cut her face?”
“I thought she’d done it herself. Classic self-mutilation,” Erik says. “I thought she’d cut off the tip of her own nose in a desperate attempt to feel something else, to stop feeling whatever was really causing her pain- ”
“Wait a minute.” Simone bursts in. “Are you saying her nose had been cut off?”
“The tip of her nose.”
“Erik, Dad and I found a boy with the tip of his nose cut off. Did Dad tell you? Someone had threatened the boy, frightened him and hurt him because he’d been hassling Benjamin.”
“It’s Lydia.”
“Is she the one who’s kidnapped Benjamin?”
“Yes.”
“What does she want?”
Erik looks at her, his expression serious. “You already know some of this,” he says. “Lydia admitted under hypnosis that she kept her son Kasper locked in a cage in the cellar and forced him to eat rotten food.”
“Kasper?”
“When Kennet told me what Aida said, that this woman had told Benjamin his real name was Kasper, I knew it was Lydia.”
“But she didn’t really have any children.”
“I’m getting to that. I went to her house in Rotebro and broke in, but the place was deserted.”
He speeds along past the rows of parked cars but there are no spaces, so he heads back towards the entrance.
“There had been a fire in the basement,” Erik goes on. “I assumed someone had started it deliberately, but the remains of a large cage were still there.”
“But there was no cage,” Simone says. “They said she had no children.”
“Joona brought a dog in. He found the remains of a child buried in the garden. Ten years ago.”
“Oh my God,” Simone whispers.
“Yes.”
“That was when- ”
“I think she killed the child in the basement when she realized she’d been found out.”
“So you were right all along.”
“So it seems.”
“Does she want to kill Benjamin?”
“I don’t know. Presumably she thinks the whole thing was my fault. If I hadn’t hypnotized her, she would have been able to keep the child.”
Erik falls silent, thinking about Benjamin’s voice when he called. How he had tried not to sound afraid, and how he had talked about the haunted house. He must have meant Lydia’s haunted house. After all, that was where she had grown up, where she had carried out the abuse, and that was probably where she herself had been subjected to abuse. If she hadn’t taken Benjamin to the haunted house, she could have taken him absolutely anywhere.
Chapter 92
Erik leaves the car outside the main hospital entrance without bothering to lock it or buy a parking ticket. They hurry past the gloomy snow-filled fountain, past a few shivering smokers in robes, and dash inside and up in the lift to the ward where Sim Shulman is lying.
There’s a heavy scent in the room from all the flowers. Vases filled with large fragrant bouquets stand on the windowsill. On the table is a pile of cards and letters from distraught friends and colleagues.
Erik looks at the man in the hospital bed, the sunken cheeks, the nose, the eyelids. The all-too-regular movement of Shulman’s stomach follows the sucking rhythm of the respirator. He is in a permanent vegetative state, kept alive by the equipment in the room and unable to survive without it. A breathing tube has been inserted into his windpipe through an incision in his throat; he is being fed through a tube in his stomach.
“Simone, you need to speak to him when he comes round and- ”
“He’s not going to come round,” she breaks in, her voice shrill. “He’s in a coma, Erik, his brain has been damaged by the loss of blood, he’s never going to come round, he’s never going to speak again.” She wipes the tears from her cheeks.
“We have to find out what Benjamin said- ”
“Stop it!” she shouts, and begins to sob.
A nurse looks in, sees Erik with his arms around Simone’s shaking body, and leaves them in peace.
“I’m going to give him an injection of Zolpidem,” Erik whispers into her hair. “It’s a powerful drug that can bring people out of a comatose state.”
He can feel her shake her head. “What are you talking about?” she says, her words muffled by his jacket.
“It only works for a little while.”
“I don’t believe you,” she says suspiciously.
“The sedative slows down the overactive processes in the brain that are causing the coma.”
“He’ll wake up? Are you serious?”
“He’s never going to get better, Sixan, he’s suffered severe brain damage, but with this injection he might wake up for a few seconds.”
“What shall I do?”
“Sometimes patients who are given this drug can say a few words, sometimes they can only use their eyes.”
“You’re not allowed to do this, are you?”
“I have no intention of asking for permission, I’m just going to do it. But you have to talk to him when he comes around.”
“Hurry up,” she says.
Erik goes to get the equipment he needs. Simone stands by Shulman’s bed and takes his hand. She looks at him. His face is calm, the dark, strong features smoothed out by relaxation. His mouth, usually so ironic, so sensual, is insignificant. Even the serious furrow between the black eyebrows has disappeared. She slowly caresses his forehead. She thinks she will continue to exhibit his work; a really good artist can never die.
Erik returns and without a word goes over to the bed and, with his back to the door, calmly pushes up the sleeve of Shulman’s hospital gown. “Are you ready?” he asks.
“Yes,” she replies. “I’m ready.”
Erik takes the syringe, connects it to the intravenous catheter, and slowly injects a yellowish liquid. It gradually blends with the fluid in the drip, disappears down toward the needle in Shulman’s arm, and enters his bloodstream. Erik pushes the syringe into his pocket, unbuttons his jacket, and transfers the electrodes from Shulman’s chest to his own, takes the clamp from Shulman’s finger and fastens it to his own, and carefully watches Shulman’s face.
Absolutely nothing happens. Shulman’s stomach continues to rise and fall regularly and mechanically with the
