Page 62 of The Sleepwalker (Joona Linna #10)

Hugo woke that morning with a pounding headache and a mouth like sandpaper. He peeled off the wireless sensors, drank the glass of water on his bedside table and slumped back against the pillow.

The lingering clouds from last night’s nightmares faded and disappeared.

He thought back to his time in Svanhildur’s room, to her eyes and her freckled face, the bottle of tequila and their truth telling game, their innocent kiss – and then he remembered the camera.

He reached down and felt the little lens, prised it loose from his pyjamas and put it on the bedside table.

His head felt like a lead weight.

Hugo got out of bed and had just pushed his feet into his slippers when there was a knock at the door. He quickly shoved the camera into his pocket before Lars and Rakia came in with the medication trolley.

‘My head feels super heavy today,’ he said.

‘Did you get a good night’s sleep?’ asked Lars.

‘Yes.’

‘Then we might need to tweak your dosage a little.’

Once they had gone, Hugo went into the kitchen and ate two slices of toast with Nutella.

He tried to ring Olga, but his call went straight to voicemail, so he left a message to say that it would be good if they could talk, that he needed to know what was going on and if things were OK between them.

Hugo got up from the table and went through to the bathroom to brush his teeth and take a shower. He then returned to the bedroom and changed into a pair of baggy pink tracksuit bottoms and a yellow sweater with a faded logo from the book fair in Frankfurt.

After that, he went into the living room, slumped down on the sofa with his laptop, and started writing his big school assignment on the Abrahamic religions.

*?*?*

It is almost 11 a.m. when Hugo sends the first part of his essay to Bernard and asks him to give it a read.

He checks his phone, but Olga still hasn’t replied.

Hugo gets up and goes out into the hall. A strange sensation takes hold of him as he leaves his suite and heads along the corridor to Svanhildur’s room.

It feels as though he is walking down a trail he knows like the back of his hand, bathed in bright sunlight.

She answers the door almost immediately after he knocks, says good morning and flashes him a smile before stepping back to let him in.

‘Yesterday was fun,’ he says.

‘I think so too,’ she replies, lowering her gaze.

She leads him through to the pantry, closes the lid of her laptop on the table and fills a pan with water.

‘Did we finish the tequila?’

‘Pretty much,’ she tells him as she sets the pan down on the hob.

Svanhildur is wearing a blue Icelandic sweater, a short black skirt and thick black tights. Her strawberry blonde hair is pulled back in a plait, allowing her freckled face to shine like a shell under water, like Vermeer’s girl with the pearl earring.

The faux window in her room is displaying an archipelago landscape today, complete with red boathouses, bare rocks and choppy water.

‘Nice view,’ Hugo jokes.

‘Thanks.’

He takes a seat, pulls the little camera out of his pocket and puts it down beside her computer.

Once the water boils, Svanhildur lifts the pot from the stove, fills two big mugs and makes tea using the same teabag.

‘I know I said too much last night .?.?.’

‘Only the truth, though .?.?. I hope,’ she replies, blushing softly.

‘Yeah .?.?. Not that I remember everything.’

She laughs and brings the mugs over to the table.

‘Thanks.’

‘We both said plenty of stuff,’ she says, sitting down beside him.

‘Which is good, I reckon. I liked it, anyway. A lot .?.?. And I’m not going to be embarrassed.’

‘Me neither, in that case,’ she says, cracking her fingers.

‘You know you gave booze to an underage boy, right?’

‘Whoops,’ she says, sipping her tea.

‘It’s OK.’

The freckles on her pale skin are like a scattering of tiny crumbs. Her dry lips are naturally rosy, her eyebrows a soft shade of red and her lashes almost colourless.

‘Did you sleepwalk last night?’ she asks, picking up the small camera.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Shall we find out, then?’

‘I dunno, it feels a bit .?.?. wrong somehow .?.?. Even though I guess I have more right than anyone to know what I’ve been up to in my sleep,’ he replies.

‘There’s probably some clause covering this in all the paperwork we signed.’

‘But we’re rebels.’ Hugo grins.

‘Exactly.’

Svanhildur moves her chair a little closer to his and opens the lid of her laptop. The keyboard is dusty, and there are fingerprints along the top edge of the screen.

She takes the tiny memory card out of the camera and pushes it into a reader that she then connects to her computer.

‘Ready to spy on yourself?’ she asks, her face solemn.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Maybe you should be alone for this .?.?.?’

‘Nah, it’s OK .?.?. I hope,’ he replies with an anxious smile.

They shuffle closer together so that they can both see properly, and she starts the video. Hugo can feel the heat of her thigh against his leg, and he catches a subtle hint of her perfume as she angles the laptop towards him.

The mute footage from his dark bedroom is surprisingly sharp.

Hugo reaches out and tilts the screen slightly to block out the reflection from the faux window.

In the video, he is lying flat on his back. The camera on his chest is pointing up at the dark-grey ceiling, moving in time with his increasingly slow breaths.

He is asleep.

A green LED glows like the Northern Lights at the top left-hand corner of the feed.

Svanhildur waits a moment or two, then fast forwards through the recording and hits play again.

Hugo’s breathing is faster now. The dark ceiling sways forward and back, occasionally jumping slightly to one side.

‘I’m dreaming,’ he says.

‘Do you remember any of it?’

‘Just that I was at home. And .?.?. I don’t know, I think I had to run. That’s what usually happens, anyway.’

Without warning, Hugo sits up. The camera pans across the bedroom, taking in the curtain over the dark window, the chest of drawers and the armchair.

‘So you’re sleepwalking now?’

‘Yeah,’ he replies, his voice barely a whisper.

‘This is creepy,’ she says quietly.

The camera moves slowly towards the door, where it pauses.

The sleeping Hugo seems to be staring straight at the smooth panel as the world of the nightmare takes over him.

His pale hand appears in the lower right of the screen, and he calmly turns the handle, opens the door, looks around and moves forward into the dark hallway.

When he reaches the main door to the suite, he stops again. His movements become frantic, tugging at the handle and fumbling along the walls beside it with increasing desperation.

‘You’re trying to get out,’ Svanhildur whispers.

The sleepwalking Hugo looks around, takes a step back and presses the lock button on the wall. He then moves forward and opens the door, hurrying out of the suite and straight into the wall opposite.

‘Ay,’ he mumbles as he watches himself stagger to one side on the screen.

The camera is still for a moment, then starts drifting down the corridor as though it were floating on a dark river, past patient rooms and offices. The row of pale-blue nightlights on the right-hand wall flicker by.

From time to time, Hugo glances back, as though he thinks he is being followed. The camera sways slightly with each step he takes.

In Svanhildur’s pantry, Hugo leans into the computer. He runs a hand through his hair and realises he is shaking.

On the screen, a lumpy, dark-grey shadow is visible by the wall at the very end of the corridor. It looks like a heap of sacks full of potatoes and onions.

The vinyl flooring shines in the soft light.

Closed doors with gleaming hardware rush by.

The sleeping Hugo holds out a hand, as though to push back a low-hanging branch.

‘What are you doing?’ Svanhildur whispers.

‘Dunno.’

He sees himself stop and look down at his pale bare feet. There is a dried wad of snus on the floor by the metal skirting board.

Hugo looks up and then slowly starts walking again, past the door to Svanhildur’s room.

At the far end of the corridor, the lumpy shadow moves suddenly, and a thin arm becomes visible.

‘There’s someone there! Did you see that?’ Hugo asks, pointing at the screen.

‘God .?.?.’

The camera continues past more dim nightlights, floating ever closer to the shadowy figure.

The sleeping Hugo turns towards a red cabinet containing a fire extinguisher, and his frightened face is reflected in the glass.

After a moment, his wide eyes turn back to the corridor.

He holds back something invisible with his left hand, ducks slightly and keeps moving.

Svanhildur reaches for Hugo’s hand and grips it tightly.

The dark figure sways and takes a step forward. In the green glow of the emergency exit sign, his face suddenly becomes visible.

It is Lars Grind.

The doctor is staring at Hugo, grinning like some sort of crazed wizard as the camera continues straight towards him.

Hugo doesn’t seem to have noticed his presence at all.

The reflections of the nightlights in the locks and hinges flow by like debris in a current.

Hugo anxiously glances back over his shoulder, then keeps hurrying towards Dr Grind, who is waiting for him at the end of the corridor.

‘‘What’s that ? Did you see?’ Svanhildur asks, pointing to the screen. ‘There, do you see?’

‘I’ve got goosebumps.’

On the floor by the wall a few metres behind Lars, something moves jerkily in the soft underwater glow.

Like a frightened dog, a spider crab.

Hugo holds his breath as he watches himself approach Lars.

The doctor’s bald head flashes in the green light, sweat pouring down his cheeks. His eyes are focused and intense, his teeth bright between his lips.

Lars Grind catches Hugo’s upper arm, forcing him to stop and pulling him down to the floor. Hugo lands on his side and starts to struggle.

The camera shakes as it films the floor.

There is another patient huddled in the corner up ahead: Kasper. He starts crawling towards Grind and Hugo with nervous movements.

From the other direction, Rakia appears with a syringe. The grubby plaster on her index finger fills the screen as she pulls the protective cover from the needle.

Hugo is still struggling, but Grind has him pinned down on the floor.

A bare foot lashes out.

Kasper crawls over to them, and Grind holds him back with one hand as Rakia gives Hugo an injection.

The camera trembles and turns briefly towards the floor before rolling back the other way.

Kasper seems to have hurt his mouth somehow, because his teeth are covered in blood. He tries to reach Hugo, but Grind is still holding him back.

‘This is insane,’ Hugo whispers.

Grind and Rakia drag Hugo to his feet, guide him back to his room and put him into bed.

Svanhildur reaches out and closes the lid of her laptop. She and Hugo sit quietly for a moment.

‘Did they tell you about the injection?’ she asks.

‘Nope, not yet.’

‘Because they can’t just .?.?. I mean, you’re here voluntarily. You should request your full records.’

*?*?*

Svanhildur accompanies Hugo to Lars Grind’s office. They have decided not to mention the camera unless necessary, but feel they need to confront him if they are going to be able to stay at the lab.

Lars answers his door with a surprised smile, says something about special guests and asks if they would like a hot chocolate as he welcomes them in.

‘No, thanks,’ Hugo replies, noticing that someone has blotted red lipstick on a piece of tissue and thrown it into the bin.

‘Please, sit,’ says the doctor.

‘We need to talk,’ Hugo tells him.

‘Crikey, that sounds ominous.’ Lars smiles.

‘Yeah .?.?. I was medicated against my will last night.’

‘What makes you—’

‘I told you this morning that my head felt heavy.’

‘Did you?’

‘You have no right to hide whatever’s going on from me,’ says Hugo. ‘I want to see my records, right now.’

‘And I want to see mine,’ says Svanhildur.

‘I understand,’ Lars mumbles, rubbing his bald head.

‘I’m going to talk to Dad,’ Hugo continues. ‘This really doesn’t feel good, but we need to know what’s going on here.’