The Hypnotist. Ларс Кеплер

… ten—”

      “I’m sorry, I can’t make out what you’re saying.”

      “Ten … sta.”

      “Tensta? Aida’s in Tensta?”

      “Yes. That bloody … tattoo.”

      Simone thinks she can hear an oxygen machine working slowly, a rhythmic hissing noise in the background.

      “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Tattoo?” she pleads.

      The woman snaps something and ends the call. Simone sits there staring at the telephone, decides to ring the woman back, then suddenly understands what she meant. She quickly calls information and gets the address of a tattoo parlour in the shopping centre in Tensta. Simone’s entire body shudders as she pictures Benjamin at this very moment succumbing to temptation, allowing his skin to be pierced for a tattoo; the blood begins to flow and cannot coagulate.

       20

       tuesday, december 8: lunchtime

      Simone stares out the window of the underground train. She is still sweating after leaving the empty flat and running to the station.

      She ought to have taken a cab, but she tells herself that nothing has happened; she always worries unnecessarily.

      A man opposite her fusses with a newspaper. From the reflection in the window she can see that he glances at her from time to time.

      “Hey,” says the man. His voice is irritatingly insistent.

      She ignores him, looking out the window.

      “Hello-o?” says the man.

      She realises he has no intention of giving up until he has her attention.

      “Hey, don’t you hear me? I’m talking to you!” the man persists.

      Simone turns to him. “I can hear you perfectly well,” she says calmly.

      “Why don’t you answer me, then?” he asks.

      “I’m answering you now.”

      He blinks a couple of times, and here it comes. “You’re a woman, aren’t you?”

      “Is that all you want to know?” she asks, turning back to the window.

      He moves across to sit beside her. “Wait, listen to this. I had a woman, and my woman, my woman—”

      Simone feels a few drops of spittle spatter her cheek.

      “She was like Elizabeth Taylor,” he goes on. “You know who she was?” He lays two fingers on her arm, confidentially. “Do you know who Elizabeth Taylor was?”

      “Yes,” says Simone impatiently. “Of course I do.”

      He leans back, satisfied with her answer. “She was always finding some new man,” he whines. “Wanting better and better all the time, diamond rings and presents and necklaces.”

      The train slows down and Simone sees that they’ve arrived in Tensta.

      “This is my stop. I need to get off,” she says. She stands up.

      “I bet you do,” the man says, placing himself in her way. “Come on, give me a little hug. I just want a little hug.”

      Stiffly, through clenched teeth, she excuses herself and moves his arm away. She feels his hand on her butt, but at the same moment the train stops and the man loses his balance and falls back against the seat.

      “Whore,” he says calmly, as she moves away.

      She steps off the train, runs out of the station, over a Plexiglas-covered bridge, and down the steps. In the middle of the square, inside the shopping centre, there’s a huge board, a directory, and a floor plan that lists all the different shops. Breathing heavily, Simone goes through it until she finds Tensta Tattoos. It’s at the far end of the mall. Simone heads in the direction of the escalator.

      In her mind’s eye, she imagines a circle of kids surrounding a boy lying on the ground. She pushes her way through the crowd and realises that it’s Benjamin, bleeding endlessly from some tacky unfinished tattoo.

      She takes the escalator two steps at a time, reaching the top quickly. Stepping off, she catches sight of an odd movement at the other end of the centre, in a deserted area where the shops are all vacant. It looks as if someone is hanging over the barrier.

      She sets off in that direction, and as she gets closer she can see clearly what is happening: two boys are holding another child, a little girl, over the second-floor barrier. It’s a fall to the lower level of at least thirty feet. A tall figure is walking nearby, flapping his arms as if he were warming himself at a grill.

      The girl is clearly terrified, but the other children appear calm as they dangle her over the edge.

      “What are you doing?” Simone yells as she walks towards them. She wants to break into a run, but she’s afraid if she startles them they will lose their grip.

      The boys have spotted Simone and pretend to let the girl go. Both the girl and Simone scream, but the boys hold on and pull her up slowly. One of them gives Simone a strange smile before they run away. Only the taller boy remains behind. The girl curls up into a ball next to the barrier, sobbing. Simone stops, her heart racing, and crouches beside her.

      “Are you all right?”

      The girl just shakes her head.

      “We need to go and find a security guard,” Simone says.

      The girl shakes her head again. Her whole body is trembling. The tall, plump boy is just standing there watching them. He is dressed in a dark padded jacket and black sunglasses.

      “Who are you?” Simone asks him.

      Instead of replying, he takes a pack of cards out of his pocket and begins to flick through them, cutting and shuffling.

      “Who are you?” Simone repeats, more loudly this time. “Are those boys your friends?”

      His expression doesn’t change.

      “Why didn’t you do something? They could have killed her.”

      Simone can feel the adrenaline still surging through her system, the rapid pulse at her temples, the pounding in her chest. “I asked you a question. Why didn’t you do something?” She stares hard at him.

      He still doesn’t reply.

      “Idiot!” she screams.

      The boy begins to move away slowly, but when she takes a step towards him as if to prevent his escape he stumbles, dropping his cards on the floor. He mutters something to himself and slinks toward the escalator.

      Simone turns to take care of the little girl, but she has disappeared. Simone runs back along the upper walkway, past the dark and empty shops, but she doesn’t spot the girl or either of the boys. Suddenly she realises she’s come to a stop outside the tattoo shop; the windows are covered in an opaque laminated film, with a picture of Fenrir the wolf, applied so sloppily it is creased and buckled.

      She pushes open the door and enters, but the place seems to be empty. The walls are covered with pictures of tattoos. She looks around and is just about to leave when she hears a high, anxious voice. “Nicky? Where are you? Say something.”

      A black curtain opens and a girl comes out with a cell phone pressed to her ear. Her upper body is naked. A few small drops of blood are trickling down her throat. Her expression is concentrated, worried.

      “Nicky,” the girl says into the phone. “What’s happened?”

      Her breasts are covered in goose bumps, but she doesn’t seem aware that she’s half naked.

      “Can I ask you something?” Simone says.