Page 27 of The Sleepwalker (Joona Linna #10)

Joona can hear the fear in Hugo’s voice, and he follows the movements of his eyes beneath his closed lids, sees his slack mouth and the cold sweat running down his cheeks.

It is as though the teenager doesn’t realise that he is taking them through the nightmare that drove him out of the house on the night of the murder.

The rings in his lip and nose reflect the soft glow of the floor lamp, shimmering like droplets of water.

Erik has a focused look on his face, breathing in and out in time with the boy, and he gives him a few seconds before he tries again.

‘You’re breathing calmly, and you’re concentrating on my voice,’ he says. ‘None of this is dangerous. You are perfectly relaxed .?.?.’

Joona has asked Erik to encourage Hugo to describe everyone he sees, regardless of whether they belong in his dream or reality, because the brain doesn’t distinguish between the two when it comes to memories.

‘You’re looking straight at the man who is walking towards you, and you aren’t afraid,’ Erik tells him. ‘And as soon as you feel ready, I’d like you to describe him for me.’

Joona notices the hidden imperative, the direct orders Erik uses whenever he wants to guide a particularly powerful memory.

But Hugo remains quiet, his breathing quickening, and one of his feet lifts up off the floor.

Joona glances over to Lars Grind and sees that he is attempting to maintain some sense of professional calm, despite the unsettling dream Hugo is gradually revealing to them.

‘Hugo, listen to my voice,’ Erik tries again. ‘I’m telling you that you’re safe here, that you can .?.?. Tell me what you see!’

‘The barrier across the road. Damp leaves, butterflies,’ he mumbles.

‘You’re already out.’

‘I’m taking the shortcut through the woods, walking as fast as I can. I can see Mum over by the old open-air theatre.’

‘You’ve escaped the house and—’

‘I’m running, but he still catches up with me,’ Hugo says with rising intensity. ‘I don’t know how. He’s so slow, but he still manages to catch up with me, and—’

‘Wait, Hugo. You can stop and—’

‘He’s killing me,’ Hugo cuts him off, his voice raised.

Joona watches as the boy’s chest strains. His thin silver chain pulls tight around his neck, and dark patches of sweat have begun to appear beneath his arms.

One of his hands starts to shake, almost spasmodically, and Erik puts his own hand on top of it until it calms down, then he continues in a soothing voice.

‘Listen to me, Hugo. This is just a dream; nothing bad is going to happen to you. You’ve stopped, and you’re now standing still. You can hear his footsteps behind you, and you turn around.’

‘It’s dark. I don’t understand, it’s—’

‘Look at the man.’

‘I don’t know if it is a man. It’s just a pile of skulls. Bits of bone moving like a person.’

‘It’s good that you’re looking at him, because we know now that he’s part of your nightmare and that you don’t need to worry about him anymore .?.?. You can keep going to the campsite, and—’

‘He’s dragging the spade behind him, I can hear the blade on the gravel,’ Hugo continues in a panicked voice. ‘He’s getting closer. I don’t understand .?.?. His back is weird, like a porcupine .?.?. The bones sticking out of him are rattling, a load of broken ribs that—’

‘Hugo, listen to my voice. You can trust me. He isn’t real .?.?. Relax your body and focus on the weight of your eyelids.’

‘I need to find Mum,’ he whispers.

‘Your breathing is calm and steady, and you are relaxed. I want you to keep walking now, just like you did that night. You’re passing the sports field .?.?. Three, two, one, and you’ve reached the entrance to Bred?ng Campsite.’

*?*?*

The flags of the Scandinavian countries are flapping on the poles by the gates, and there are people dressed for hot weather milling around the reception building and on the patio outside the restaurant.

Hugo tries to mask the fear on his face. He can’t afford to start running, can’t stop to talk to anyone, can’t call the police; he just needs to find his mum and hide with her.

He keeps walking down the road, past the crowded tent pitches.

A young girl in a sunhat is fast asleep in a pushchair. Her orange water pistol has leaked, leaving a dark patch on her flowery dress.

Hugo’s heart is racing.

No one realises the skeleton man is getting closer to the campsite.

‘Are you there now?’

‘Yeah, it .?.?. it’s full of people, all over the place.’

‘That’s just part of the dream,’ says Erik.

‘What?’

Hugo looks out across the muddle of tents and caravans, at the seagulls, folding chairs, cool bags, women in swimsuits, men in shorts and sunglasses, children kicking footballs, and empty bags of crisps.

‘You know that it’s the middle of the night,’ Erik continues. ‘It’s dark, and it has started snowing. It’s cold. The campsite is closed for the winter.’

A boy is sitting inside a small goal, eating an ice lolly. A dog snaps at the water flowing from a hosepipe, and a bare-chested man takes a picture of himself on his phone.

‘I don’t want to die,’ Hugo whispers. ‘I need to find Mum and hide .?.?.’

‘Just pause for a moment. Look at the campsite and try to see it as it really is,’ Erik tells him. ‘It’s quiet, it’s dark, and it has started to snow.’

White flakes slowly drift down onto an elderly couple sunning themselves in front of a caravan. They have a pale-blue thermos and a pack of biscuits in the basket between them.

‘No,’ he replies, his voice wavering.

‘What do you see?’

‘I don’t know,’ Hugo replies, continuing along the path. ‘There’s a woman in a red bikini .?.?. Her shoulders are sunburned, and she’s got a tattoo of a spider at the base of her spine .?.?. I have to step onto the grass to get past this huge guy who—’

‘Feel free to stop and look at anyone you like,’ says Erik. ‘Look at the man on the path, describe him to me.’

‘He’s standing with his back to me, in a pair of white shorts and a stripy short-sleeved shirt .?.?. He’s balancing a massive inflatable flamingo on his head, holding it with both hands .?.?.’

‘Really look at him now, take your time. You’ll notice that he’s transparent, that you can see reality through him.’

The sunlight filtering through the flamingo has cast a pinkish shadow onto the man’s forearms. His hair looks like it has recently been cut, and he has a pale tan line at the top of his neck.

Hugo studies the man’s shirt, straining over his back, and realises he can see the empty tent pitches between the dark-blue stripes.

Snow has started falling on the deserted campsite, settling on the litter on the yellowed grass, on the electricity poles, the bare trees, the dark branches and the rows of static caravans in the distance.

‘It’s dark .?.?. and deserted,’ says Hugo.