Page 176 of The Sleepwalker

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 blackskirt 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.’