The Sandman

71

Saga abandons any attempt to sleep at five o’clock. Ninety minutes left. Then they’re coming to get her. Her body feels heavy as she pulls on her jogging outfit and leaves the flat.

She jogs a couple of blocks, then speeds up down towards Söder Mälarstrand.

There’s no traffic this early.

She runs along the silent streets. The fresh snow is so airy she can barely feel it under her feet.

She knows she can still change her mind, but today’s the day she’s going to give up her freedom.

Södermalm is asleep. The sky is black above the glow of the streetlamps.

Saga runs quickly, thinking about the fact that she hasn’t been given an assumed identity, that she’s being admitted under her name and doesn’t have to remember anything but her medication. Intramuscular injections of Risperdal, she repeats silently to herself. Oxascand for the side effects, Stesolid and Heminevrin.

Pollock had explained that it didn’t matter what her diagnosis was: ‘You still know exactly what medication you’re on,’ he said. ‘It’s a matter of life or death; the medication is what helps you survive.’

An empty bus swings into the deserted, well-lit terminal for the Finland ferries.

‘Trilafon, eight milligrams three times a day,’ she whispers as she runs. ‘Cipramil thirty milligrams, Seroxat twenty milligrams...’

Just before she reaches the Photography Museum, Saga changes direction and carries on up the steep steps leading away from Stadsgårdsleden. She stops at the highest point of Katarinavägen and looks out across Stockholm as she goes through Joona’s rules once more.

I have to keep to myself, say little, and only in short sentences. I have to mean what I say and only tell the truth.

That’s all, she thinks, and keeps on running towards Hornsgatan.

Over the last kilometre she speeds up again and tries to sprint the last stretch along Tavastgatan to her building.

Saga runs up the stairs, kicks her shoes off on the hall mat and goes straight into the bathroom for a shower.

It feels strange to be able to dry herself so quickly afterwards without all that long hair. All she has to do is rub a towel over her head.

She pulls on the most basic underwear she owns. A white sport bra and a pair of pants she only wears when she’s got her period. A pair of jeans, a black T-shirt and a washed-out tracksuit top.

She doesn’t usually feel worried, but all of a sudden she has butterflies in her stomach.

It’s almost twenty past six. They’re picking her up in eleven minutes. She puts her watch back on the bedside table, next to her glass of water. Where she’s going, time is dead.

First she’ll be going to Kronoberg Prison, but she’ll only be there a couple of hours before she’s transported to Katrineholm. Then she’ll spend a day or so at Karsudden Hospital before the decision to transfer her to the secure psychiatric unit at Löwenströmska Hospital is put into action.

She walks slowly through the flat, switching off lights and pulling out a few plugs, before going into the hall and putting on her green parka.

It’s not such a difficult mission, she thinks once more.

Jurek Walter is an elderly man, probably heavily medicated and not really with it.

She knows he’s guilty of terrible things, but all she has to do is stay calm, wait for him to approach her, wait for him to say something that could be useful.

Either it will work, or it won’t.

It’s time to leave now.

Saga turns off the lamp in the hall and goes out into the stairwell.

She’s thrown out all the perishable goods from the fridge, but she hasn’t asked anyone to look after the flat, water the flowers and take care of the post.