The Sandman

97

Saga is woken the next morning when the light in the ceiling comes on. Her head feels heavy and she can’t focus properly. She’s still lying under the blanket, and feels with her numb fingertips to make sure the microphone is safe in her trousers.

The woman with the pierced cheeks is standing outside the door shouting that it’s time for breakfast.

Saga gets up, takes the narrow tray through the hatch and sits down on the bed. Slowly she forces herself to eat the sandwiches while she thinks to herself that the situation is becoming intolerable.

She won’t be able to handle this much longer.

Cautiously she touches the microphone and wonders about asking to break off the mission.

After lunch she goes over to the sink on unsteady legs, brushes her teeth and washes her face with ice-cold water.

I can’t abandon Felicia, she thinks.

Saga sits back down on the bed and stares at the door until the lock starts to whirr between her cell and the dayroom. It clicks and opens. She counts to five, stands up and goes and gets a drink of water from the tap so she doesn’t look too eager. With a weary gesture she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then walks straight out into the dayroom.

She’s the first one there, but the television is on behind the reinforced glass as if it’s never been switched off. She can hear angry shouting from Bernie Larsson’s room. It sounds like he’s trying to destroy his table. She hears his food tray hit the floor. He’s screaming as he throws the plastic chair at the wall.

Saga gets on to the running machine, switches it on, takes a few steps, then stops it and sits down on the edge, close to the palm, and pulls off one shoe, pretending there’s something wrong with the inner sole. Her fingers are cold and the numbness still hasn’t gone. She knows she has to hurry, but she mustn’t move too quickly. She blocks the camera’s view with her body and tugs the microphone from her trousers, trembling as she does so.

‘Fucking whores!’ Bernie shouts.

Saga removes the protective wrapping from the tiny microphone. The little object slips between her numb fingers. She catches it against her thigh and turns it the right way up in her hand. She can hear footsteps on the floor. Saga leans forward and presses the microphone to the underneath of one of the leaves. She holds it for a short while, then waits a few extra seconds before letting go.

Bernie pulls open his door and comes out into the dayroom. The palm-leaf is still swaying from her touch, but the microphone is finally in position.

‘Obrahiim,’ he whispers, and stops abruptly when he sees her.

Saga remains seated, tugs at her sock, smoothing out a crease, then pulls her shoe back on.

‘Fucking hell,’ he says, and coughs.

She doesn’t look at the artificial palm at all. Her legs are trembling beneath her and her heart is beating much harder than usual.

‘They took my pictures,’ Bernie says, panting as he sits down on the sofa. ‘I hate those fucking...’

Saga’s whole body feels oddly exhausted, sweat is trickling down her back, and her pulse is throbbing in her ears. It must be because of the medication. She slows the pace of the running machine, but still has trouble keeping up.

Bernie is sitting on the sofa with his eyes closed, one leg bouncing restlessly.

‘Shit!’ he suddenly exclaims loudly.

He gets up, sways, then goes over to the running machine and stands in front of Saga, very close to her.

‘I was top of the class,’ he says, spraying saliva in Saga’s face. ‘My teacher used to feed me raisins during breaks.’

‘Bernie Larsson, step back,’ a voice says over the loudspeaker.

He stumbles to the side and leans against the wall, coughs and takes a step back, straight into the palm with the microphone hanging from its bottom leaf.