The Sandman. Ларс Кеплер

rolls heavily onto his stomach and tries to crawl, but doesn’t have the energy. He lies there panting with his cheek against the concrete floor. He tries to say something, but has no voice left.

      His eyes close even though he’s trying to resist.

      Just as he is slipping into oblivion he hears the Sandman pad into the room, creeping on his dusty feet straight up the walls to the ceiling. He stops and reaches down with his arms, trying to catch Mikael with his porcelain fingertips.

      Everything is black.

      When Mikael wakes up his mouth is dry and his head aches. His eyes are grimy with old sand. He’s so tired that his brain tries to go back to sleep, but a little sliver of his consciousness registers that something is very different.

      Adrenalin hits him like a gust of hot air.

      He sits up in the darkness and can hear from the acoustics that he’s in a different room, a larger room.

      He’s no longer in the capsule.

      Loneliness makes him ice-cold.

      He creeps cautiously across the floor and reaches a wall. His mind is racing. He can’t remember how long it’s been since he gave up any thought of escape.

      His body is still heavy from its long sleep. He gets up on shaky legs and follows the wall to a corner, then carries on and reaches a sheet of metal. He quickly feels along its edges and realises that it’s a door, then runs his hands over its surface and finds a handle.

      His hands are shaking.

      The room is completely silent.

      Carefully he pushes the handle down, and is so prepared to meet resistance that he almost falls over when the door simply opens.

      He takes a long stride into the brighter room and has to shut his eyes for a while.

      It feels like a dream.

      Just let me get out, he thinks.

      His head is throbbing.

      He squints and sees that he is in a corridor, and moves forward on weak legs. His heart is beating so fast he can hardly breathe.

      He’s trying to be quiet, but is still whimpering to himself with fear.

      The Sandman will soon be back – he never forgets any children.

      Mikael can’t open his eyes properly, but nonetheless heads towards the fuzzy glow ahead of him.

      Maybe it’s a trap, he thinks. Maybe he’s being lured like an insect towards a burning light.

      But he keeps on walking, running his hand along the wall for support.

      He knocks into some big rolls of insulation and gasps with fear, lurches to the side and hits the other wall with his shoulder, but manages to keep his balance.

      He stops and coughs as quietly as he can.

      The glow in front of him is coming from a pane of glass in a door.

      He stumbles towards it and pushes the handle down, but the door is locked.

      No, no, no …

      He tugs at the handle, shoves the door, tries again. The door is definitely locked. He feels like slumping to the floor in despair. Suddenly he hears soft footsteps behind him, but daren’t turn round.

       8

      Reidar Frost drains his wine glass, puts it down on the dining table and closes his eyes for a while to calm himself. One of the guests is clapping. Veronica is standing in her blue dress, facing the corner with her hands over her face, and she starts to count.

      The guests vanish in different directions, and footsteps and laughter spread through the many rooms of the manor house.

      The rule is that they have to stick to the ground floor, but Reidar gets slowly to his feet, goes over to the hidden door and creeps into the service passageway. Carefully he climbs the narrow backstairs, opens the secret door in the wall and emerges into the private part of the house.

      He knows he shouldn’t be alone there, but carries on through the sequence of rooms.

      At every stage he closes the doors behind him, until he reaches the gallery at the far end.

      Along one wall stand the boxes containing the children’s clothes and toys. One box is open, revealing a pale-green space gun.

      He hears Veronica call out, muffled by the floor and walls:

      ‘One hundred! Coming, ready or not!’

      Through the windows he looks out over the fields and paddocks. In the distance he can see the birch avenue that leads to Råcksta Manor.

      Reidar pulls an armchair across the floor and hangs his jacket on it. He can feel how drunk he is as he climbs up onto the seat. The back of his white shirt is wet with sweat. With a forceful gesture he tosses the rope over the beam in the roof. The chair beneath him creaks from the movement. The heavy rope falls across the beam and the end is left swinging.

      Dust drifts through the air.

      The padded seat feels oddly soft beneath the thin soles of his shoes.

      Muted laughter and cries can be heard from the party below and for a few moments Reidar closes his eyes and thinks of the children, their little faces, wonderful faces, their shoulders and thin arms.

      He can hear their high-pitched voices and quick feet running across the floor whenever he listens – the memory is like a summer breeze in his soul, leaving him cold and desolate again.

      Happy birthday, Mikael, he thinks.

      His hands are shaking so much that he can’t tie a noose. He stands still, tries to breathe more calmly, then starts again, just as he hears a knock on one of the doors.

      He waits a few seconds, then lets go of the rope, climbs down onto the floor and picks up his jacket.

      ‘Reidar?’ a woman’s voice calls softly.

      It’s Veronica, she must have been peeking while she was counting and saw him disappear into the passageway. She’s opening the doors to the various rooms and her voice gets clearer the closer she comes.

      Reidar turns the lights off and leaves the nursery, opening the door to the next room and stopping there.

      Veronica comes towards him with a glass of champagne in her hand. There is a warm glow in her dark, intoxicated eyes.

      She’s tall and thin, and has had her black hair cut in a boyish style that suits her.

      ‘Did I say I wanted to sleep with you?’ he asks.

      She spins round slightly unsteadily.

      ‘Funny,’ she says with a sad look in her eyes.

      Veronica Klimt is Reidar’s literary agent. He may not have written a word in the past thirteen years, but the three books he wrote before that are still generating an income.

      Now they can hear music from the dining room below, the rapid bass-line transmitting itself through the fabric of the building. Reidar stops at the sofa and runs his hand through his silvery hair.

      ‘You’re saving some champagne for me, I hope?’ he asks, sitting down on the sofa.

      ‘No,’ Veronica says, passing him her half-full glass.

      ‘Your husband called me,’ Reidar says. ‘He thinks it’s time for you to go home.’

      ‘I don’t want to, I want to get divorced and—’

      ‘You mustn’t,’ he interrupts.

      ‘Why do you say things like that?’

      ‘Because