The Hypnotist. Ларс Кеплер

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      “I don’t even have permission to practise hypnosis at Karolinska.”

      “I can arrange that.”

      “Daniella,” Erik says, “I’ve promised never to hypnotise anyone again.”

      “Can’t you just come in?”

      There is silence for a little while; then Erik asks, “Is he conscious?”

      “He soon will be.”

      He can hear the rushing sound of his own breathing through the telephone.

      “If you won’t hypnotise the boy, I’m going to let the police see him.” She ends the call.

      Erik stands there holding the receiver in his trembling hand. The weight behind his eyes is rolling in towards his brain. He opens the drawer of the bedside table. The wooden box with the parrot and the native on it isn’t there. He must have left it in the car.

      The apartment is flooded with sunlight as he walks through to wake Benjamin.

      The boy is sleeping with his mouth open. His face is pale and he looks exhausted, despite a full night’s sleep.

      “Benni?”

      Benjamin opens his sleep-drenched eyes and looks at him as if he were a complete stranger, before he smiles the smile that has remained the same ever since he was born.

      “It’s Tuesday. Time to wake up.”

      Benjamin sits up yawning, scratches his head, then looks at the mobile phone hanging round his neck. It’s the first thing he does every morning: he checks whether he’s missed any messages during the night. Erik takes out the yellow bag with a puma on it, which contains the factor concentrate desmopressin, acetyl spirit, sterile cannulas, compresses, surgical tape, painkillers.

      “Now or at breakfast?”

      Benjamin shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

      Erik quickly swabs his son’s skinny arm, turns it towards the light coming through the window, feels the softness of the muscle, taps the syringe, and carefully pushes the cannula beneath the skin. As the syringe slowly empties, Benjamin taps away at his cell phone with his free hand.

      “Shit, my battery’s almost gone,” he says, then lies back as his father holds a compress to his arm to stop any bleeding.

      Gently Erik bends his son’s legs backwards and forwards; then he exercises the slender knee joints and massages the feet and toes. “How does it feel?” he asks, keeping his eyes fixed on his son’s face.

      Benjamin grimaces. “Same as usual.”

      “Do you want a painkiller?”

      Benjamin shakes his head, and Erik suddenly remembers the unconscious witness, the boy with all those knife wounds. Perhaps the murderer is looking for the older daughter right now.

      “Dad? What is it?”

      Erik meets Benjamin’s gaze. “I’ll drive you to school if you like,” he says.

      “What for?”

       13

       tuesday, december 8: morning

      The rush-hour traffic rumbles slowly along. Benjamin is sitting next to his father, the stop-and-go progress of the car making him feel drowsy. He gives a big yawn and feels a soft warmth still lingering in his body after the night’s sleep. He thinks about the fact that his father is in a hurry but that he still takes the time to drive him to school. Benjamin smiles to himself. It’s always been this way, he thinks: when Dad’s involved in something awful at the hospital, he gets worried that something’s going to happen to me.

      “Oh, no!” Erik says suddenly. “We forgot the ice skates.”

      “Right.”

      “We’ll go back.”

      “Doesn’t matter,” says Benjamin.

      Erik tries switching lanes, but another car stops him from cutting in. Forced back, he almost collides with a dustbin lorry.

      “We’ve got time to turn around and—”

      “Just, like, forget the skates. I couldn’t care less,” says Benjamin, his voice rising.

      Erik glances at him in surprise. “I thought you liked skating.”

      Benjamin doesn’t know what to say. He can’t stand being interrogated, doesn’t want to lie. He turns away to look out of the window.

      “Don’t you?” asks Erik.

      “What?”

      “Like skating?”

      “Why would I?” Benjamin mutters. “It’s boring.”

      “We bought you brand new—”

      Benjamin’s only reply is a sigh.

      “Fine,” says Erik. “Forget the skates.” He concentrates on the traffic for a moment. “So skating is boring. Playing chess is boring. Watching TV is boring. What do you actually enjoy?”

      “Don’t know,” Benjamin says.

      “Nothing?”

      “No.”

      “Movies?”

      “Sometimes.”

      “Sometimes?” Erik smiles.

      “Yes,” replies Benjamin.

      “I’ve seen you watch three or four movies in a night,” says Erik cheerily.

      “So what?”

      Erik goes on, still smiling. “I wonder how many movies you could get through if you really liked watching them. If you loved movies.”

      “Give me a break.” Despite himself, Benjamin smiles.

      “Maybe you’d need two TVs, zipping through them all on fast forward.” Erik laughs and places his hand on his son’s knee. Benjamin allows it to remain there.

      Suddenly they hear a muffled bang, and in the sky a pale blue star appears, with descending smoke-coloured points.

      “Funny time for fireworks,” says Benjamin.

      “What?” asks his father.

      “Look,” says Benjamin, pointing.

      A star of smoke hangs in the sky. For some reason, Benjamin can see Aida in front of him, and his stomach contracts СКАЧАТЬ