The Sandman

99

The fan in the computer whirrs as Anders logs in. The second hand is moving jerkily on the clock with Bart Simpson’s weary face on it. Anders reminds himself that has to leave early today because he’s attending a class on Socratic conversations at the Autism Education Centre.

A post-it note next to the keyboard says it’s recycling week. He has no idea what that means.

Once the secure unit’s journal program opens up, he types in his user ID and password.

He checks the log, then taps in Saga Bauer’s ID number to make a note about her medication.

Twenty-five milligrams of Haldol depot, he writes. Two intramuscular injections in the outer top quadrant of the gluteal region.

It was the right decision, he thinks, and in his mind’s eye he can see her writhing slowly on the floor with her breasts exposed.

Her pale nipples had stiffened, her mouth had been afraid.

If that doesn’t help her, he can try Cisordinol, although that can sometimes have serious side effects. Possibly extrapyramidal symptoms, combined with problems with vision, balance, and orgasm.

Anders closes his eyes and thinks of how he pulled the patient’s underwear down in the cell.

‘I don’t want to,’ she had said, several times.

But he didn’t have to listen to her. He did what he had to do. Pia Madsen had supervised the intervention.

He gave her two injections in the buttock, and stared between her legs at her blonde pubic hair and pink, closed vagina.

Anders goes to the surveillance room. My is already sitting at the control desk. She gives him a friendly glance as he walks in.

‘They’re in the dayroom,’ she says.

Anders leans over her and looks at the screen. Jurek Walter is walking on the running machine with monotonously even paces. Saga is standing and watching television. She seems fairly unaffected by the new medication. Bernie goes over to her, says something and stands behind her.

‘What’s he doing now?’ Anders asks in a light tone of voice.

‘Bernie seems unsettled,’ My says, frowning.

‘I would really have liked to have increased his dosage yesterday, maybe I should have...’

‘He keeps following the new patient, chattering manically—’

‘Bloody hell,’ Anders says, sounding stressed.

‘Leif and I are ready to go in,’ My reassures him.

‘But you shouldn’t have to,’ he says. ‘That means the medication is wrong. I’m raising his fortnightly dose this evening from two hundred to four hundred milligrams...’

Anders falls silent and watches as Bernie circles Saga Bauer in front of the television.

The other cameras are showing rooms, security doors, corridors and the empty patients’ rooms. In one square Sven Hoffman has a mug of coffee in his hand outside the airlock leading to the dayroom. He’s standing with his legs apart, talking to two of the guards.

‘Bloody hell,’ My suddenly yells, and sets off the emergency alarm.