Page 56 of The Sleepwalker (Joona Linna #10)

Hugo has sent six messages to Olga over the course of the day, telling her about the hypnosis session and life at the lab, that he is looking forward to spending more time with her over Christmas, but she hasn’t replied.

He has just helped himself to a plate of chickpea stew, and he exchanges a few words with the woman who works in the kitchen before heading into the dining room and sitting down opposite Bo, who is tucking into a hearty portion of meatballs, potatoes, lingonberry jam and sauce.

‘Haven’t seen you in a few days,’ says Bo.

‘No, I know, I had to go home .?.?.’

‘To chat to that journalist, yeah.’

‘Seems like everyone saw that, huh?’ Hugo sighs, spreading his paper napkin on his lap.

‘You looked good. The bags under your eyes were just dark enough, and—’

‘I was an idiot,’ Hugo cuts him off with a laugh.

‘Nah, man. Sleepwalking and sleepwalkers don’t get nearly enough press these days.’

‘We’re a bit slow, kind of dozy and have trouble communicating, but other than that .?.?.’

‘What’s not to love?’

A slim young woman approaches their table carrying a tray. She looks to be around twenty, her face covered in freckles, and she is wearing a clip with an enamel ladybird on it in her straight red hair.

‘When I told Bo my name was Svanhildur, he asked if that’s why I scream at night,’ she says with a smile, lowering her tray to the table.

‘It’s enough to make your blood run cold,’ Bo quips, using his foot to push a chair towards her.

‘Seriously .?.?. It does sound pretty creepy,’ says Hugo.

‘Sorry. I have night terrors,’ Svanhildur explains as she sits down.

She pulls a pill organiser from her pink corduroy bag, takes out three tablets and pops them in her mouth.

‘I’m Hugo,’ he says.

‘Ah, the famous Hugo.’ She smiles and pulls on her fingers, making the joints crack.

A thin young man with slicked-back hair comes into the dining room.

His tics are plain to see as he stands by the trays of hot food and the sliced bread.

He has incredibly pale skin and dark circles beneath his eyes, and is wearing a faded sailor’s uniform that seems much too small for him, plus a pair of strange shoes with separate big toes.

Bo jokingly crosses himself as the young man walks past their table and sits down at another with his back to them.

‘Kasper, come over here,’ Svanhildur shouts over.

The thin young man ignores her, sitting with a straight back as he slices his potatoes and meatballs into four even pieces.

Svanhildur gets up and goes over to his table.

‘Don’t you want to sit with us?’ she asks.

‘Whore,’ he replies without looking up at her.

‘Don’t say that.’

‘You don’t know a thing about me. You’re just a fucking whore,’ he says, meeting her eye.

‘All I wanted to say is that you’re welcome to sit with us.’

Kasper mutters to himself as she turns around and returns to her seat. He starts eating again, and Hugo notices that he turns his plate exactly ninety degrees after every bite.

‘Little rat,’ Bo mumbles in Danish.

‘He’s just scared of—’

‘A frightened little rat.’

The young man eats the last piece of potato, turns his empty plate ninety degrees, finishes the water in his glass, turns the plate another two full rotations and gets up and leaves the room.

‘What’s he scared of?’ Hugo asks quietly.

‘Ending up like his mum,’ Svanhildur replies, keeping her voice low. ‘She was here, at the sleepwalking clinic, when he was little, but she didn’t get any better .?.?. She refused to sleep, and in the end she was so tired that she fell off a ladder and died while she was picking apples.’

‘How do you know that?’ Hugo asks, biting his nails.

‘I met Kasper right after he arrived. He was totally out of it on benzos, and he said way too much .?.?. He told me his dad had forbidden him from coming to get help here, but he did it anyway the day he turned eighteen. For sleepwalking, too, just like his mum.’

Bo pushes back his chair and gets up.

‘I’ve gotta go talk to Grind. Seems like he wants to change my meds again,’ he says as he leaves the table.

Hugo lowers his cutlery and picks up his phone to check whether he has any messages, but there seems to be something wrong with the reception. He closes the app and reopens it, but nothing happens.

‘This fucking phone,’ he says with a sigh, restlessly bouncing one leg.

‘What’s the problem?’ Svanhildur asks as she spears a meatball on her fork.

‘I don’t actually know. I never get any messages while I’m in here,’ he replies, scratching the back of his hand.

‘Want me to fix it?’

She drags the meatball through the sauce on her plate and lifts it to her mouth.

‘Fix it?’ Hugo repeats with a note of scepticism. ‘How?’

Still chewing, she puts down her fork and holds out a hand. He passes her his phone and watches as she pushes a USB-C cable into the charging port and plugs the other end into a small plastic satellite phone.

‘Enter the code on the screen when you connect,’ she says, handing it back to him so that she can continue eating.

Hugo follows her instructions, and a moment later his phone pings with five new messages.

‘Thanks,’ he says, taken aback that it actually worked.

‘Just eject the device.’

‘OK,’ he says, passing back her things.

One of the messages is from the dentist, reminding him that he has an appointment coming up.

Two are from his father, the first asking how the hypnosis session went and the second telling him that he had a fall, but that he is OK.

Agneta has also sent a text to say that Bernard is in hospital following an accident, but that he is doing just fine.

An hour ago, Olga sent a brief response to all his multiple calls and flirty messages: You can’t keep calling and texting constantly, Hugo.

It’s really stressing me out, OK? Maybe it’s my fault for giving mixed signals, but I need some space, got a load of stuff to sort out. Speak after Xmas. O xoxo

His cheeks are burning as he locks his phone and stares down at it in his hand, trying to work out what just happened. He wants to call Olga and ask what he did wrong, but he knows he can’t.

Hugo chews on his thumbnail for a moment, then puts his phone screen-down on the table and looks up at Svanhildur.

She uses her hand to cover her mouth as she chews, smiling as she holds his gaze.

‘D’you want to watch a film or something?’ he asks.

‘I’ve got a bottle of tequila in my room,’ she whispers.

‘No way.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve got tequila?’

‘Shh,’ she tells him, pressing a finger to her lips.

Hugo reaches for the salt shaker and drops it into his pocket. He then gets up and carries his dirty plate and glass over to the washing tray before pausing in the kitchen doorway.

‘Thanks for dinner,’ he says as the woman turns to look at him.

‘No problem.’

‘I wanted to ask if you had any limes.’

‘Limes?’

‘Yeah, I’ve got a real craving for lime. Who knows, maybe I’ve got scurvy or something,’ he explains, tucking a lock of hair back behind his ear.

‘We’ve got lemons .?.?.’ she says.