Page 121 of The Sleepwalker

Olga leans her head against Hachim’s shoulder and whispers to him in French, trying to get him to relax, to smile.

The car takes them along Södertäljevägen, heading towards central Stockholm. There is still a lot of traffic on the roads, and the streetlamps and headlights illuminate the car at regular intervals.

‘Man, you have no idea what I’ve been through these past few days,’ Hugo begins.

‘I guess I would’ve asked if I cared .?.?. No, sorry. I do,’ she says. ‘But I don’t have time to play mum right now .?.?. I’ve got something important to do, and you can’t ruin this for me, that’s all.’

‘Ruin what?’

‘I mean, just the fact that the police want to talk to me all of asudden isn’t exactly what I need right now.’

‘Sorry, but .?.?.’

Hugo trails off and stares out through the side window with burning cheeks.

After twenty minutes, the Uber drops them off in an area of old factory buildings in Hjorthagen.

The air is freezing, and Hugo can hear music coming from several directions.

Above the road, a pair of trainers are hanging from a cable, swinging in the breeze.

The windows of one of the buildings in front of them have all been boarded up, and there are construction fences and concrete pillars blocking it off from the road. The saw-tooth roof and tall chimneys almost seem to be straining up towards the low sky.

The people queuing outside are penned in between riot barriers. A woman flicks a cigarette in Hugo’s direction, and sparks fly from the glowing tip as it hits the ground by his feet.

Olga waves to one of the doormen and they bypass the line, joining a throng of people in the dark entranceway. Hachim blows on his fingers in an attempt to warm them up.

They pass the cloakroom and head through to a club with black walls and loud music.

Red lights flash above the half-empty dancefloor.

On the stage, a heavily made-up woman in a blue wig and silver bikini is laughing and vogue-dancing.

A new track begins, and Hugo feels the bass pulsing through his chest as he watches the woman drop into the splits and roll over onto her stomach to writhe around in some sort of stylised mock intercourse.

‘Hugo, hang back,’ Olga snaps.

A stocky man in a black vest barges through a group of people and comes over to them. He has hairy shoulders and enormous biceps. He grips Olga’s face with one hand, squeezing her cheeksso hard that he forces her mouth open, then stares aggressively at her, shouts something into her ear, shoves her back and walks away.

‘What was all that about?’ asks Hugo.

‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

They push their way over to a black rubber door and walk along a row of toilet cubicles, eventually coming out in a gloomy courtyard. Despite the snow, three men in dark coats are smoking beside a couple of old industrial ovens.

The ground is littered with rubbish, old plastic drums, car tyres, a broken umbrella and empty egg cartons.

On an oil drum, a man with scarred cheeks and a silver sequin shirt is busy shooting up.

By the door of the building opposite, a huge man in black combat gear is holding an automatic rifle.

‘Olga,’ he says joylessly as they approach.

‘VIP guests,’ she replies with a smile.

He doesn’t reciprocate the gesture, just stares at her with a neutral expression. Hachim seems uncomfortable and says something in French. Hugo pulls his coat tighter and notices a piece of silver tape with the wordREDRUMwritten in red ink on the top of the doorframe.

The burly bouncer allows them to pass without another word.