Page 60 of The Sleepwalker

His coat is hanging in the wardrobe, and he pulls it on, goes through to the porch, pushes his feet into his boots and opens the yellow double doors to the veranda.

The air outside is wonderfully cold.

He makes his way down the steps to the frosty lawn.

Tiny snowflakes swirl through the air.

The light from his room spills out onto the green garden furniture, and he takes a step back and turns around. From where he is standing, he has a clear view of the bed, the pillows, the messy sheets and the damp mattress. The minute the drugs took effect, he forgot all about drawing the curtains.

Pontus pulls his coat tighter, ties the belt around his waist and starts walking north along the narrow road.

The darkness between the trees is impenetrable.

Clouds of white breath hang in the air around his mouth.

He feels invigorated and full of energy, as though he could walk the eighty or so kilometres back to Uppsala and continue having sex with his wife once her meeting is over.

Pontus makes his way out onto a narrow wooden bridge and sees the full river surging around the bend with silent intensity.

The snowflakes dancing in the wind vanish as they hit the dark surface.

He becomes conscious of his own heavy footsteps, and his mind drifts back to the story of the Three Billy Goats Gruff his father used to read to him.

‘I’ve got two big spears, and I’ll poke your eyeballs out!’

He reaches the other side and continues towards a large, dark wooden building.

Pontus realises that he forgot to check whether anyone had actually drawn a sad face in the frost on their window.

Pausing beneath a streetlamp, he notices that his fingertips have turned grey in the cold air. He shoves his hands into his pockets and decides that it probably isn’t the best idea to walk to Uppsala after all.

The snow has started coming down more heavily now, and he has to blink frequently to clear the flakes from his eyes.

Pontus turns right onto Brobacken, and the roar from the main channel of the river grows louder the closer he gets.

As he makes his way out across Karl XIII’s bridge, the water is almost deafening.

The streetlamps in front of him look like snowy orbs of light, hovering silently in the darkness.

On the other bank, the old power station looms so tall that it merges with the black sky and the falling snow.

The river is unusually high, frothing as it hits the breakwater. The inky backwater swirls in anxious circles below the turbines.

Pontus can no longer hear his own footsteps, and he flinches as a car passes close by.

As the glow of the rear-view lights disappears between the trees, he thinks he catches a glimpse of someone standing at the far end of the bridge.

At first, he decides it is probably just the swirling snow thrown up by the car, but it really is a person.

I must still be dreaming, Pontus thinks, pausing in the middle of the river. He uses his hand to shield his eyes, but the figure is now nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps he was mistaken.

He lowers his eyes and sees the snowflakes settling on the yellow lichen growing on the wooden railing. He sees his dirty black boots and the gaps between the planks, the water surging down below.

Going out in this state was a bad idea, he thinks. He should head back to the villa and wait for the comedown.

Snow blows across the bridge at a right angle to the churning water, as though he is standing at the centre of a swirling white cross