Hunter. Ларс Кеплер

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       20

      His mobile phone rings, making Rex jump so hard that his arm jerks and he hits his hand against the back of the couch. He stands up and wipes his mouth. The sky outside the hospital window is as pale as parchment. He must have dozed off.

      He isn’t sure how many times they pumped Sammy’s stomach. Over and over again they poured water through a tube down his throat, and sucked it out again using a huge syringe. Sammy kept flailing his arms weakly in an attempt to remove the tube, and whimpered as the remains of the red wine and pills poured out of him.

      Rex’s mobile phone is still ringing, and when he picks the jacket up his phone slips out of the pocket and bounces onto the floor.

      He crawls after it and answers on all fours:

      ‘Hello?’ he whispers.

      ‘Please, Rex,’ the programme’s producer says, sounding stressed and angry. ‘Tell me you’re sitting in a taxi.’

      ‘It hasn’t arrived yet,’ Rex manages to say.

      It’s Sunday. He cooks live on TV4 every Sunday. He can’t possibly have missed it, but he has no idea what time it is.

      The lino floor and electric lights fade into darkness as Rex stands up. Leaning against the couch, he tries to explain that he wants a picture of the raw ingredients on the Barco wall, and a close-up when he stir-fries the shrimp.

      ‘You should be in make-up right now,’ the producer says.

      ‘I know,’ Rex agrees. ‘But what can I do if the taxi doesn’t show up?’

      ‘Call another taxi,’ she sighs, and hangs up.

      A nurse gives him an inscrutable look as she passes him in the hallway. Rex leans against the wall, looks at his phone to see what time it is, then calls a taxi.

      He thinks about the look on Sammy’s face when he drank the charcoal solution that breaks down toxic substances in the intestines. Rex sat with him, wiping his clammy forehead with a damp towel, telling him the whole time that everything would be OK. Around six o’clock in the morning they put Sammy on a drip, tucked him into bed, and assured Rex that he was out of danger. He went and sat down on a couch in the hallway so that he’d hear Sammy if he called for him.

      He woke up forty minutes later when his phone rang.

      Rex walks quickly to the door and looks in at his son, who’s still fast asleep. His make-up has washed off, and his face is very pale. The bandage over the cannula in his arm has folded over. The tube and the half-full infusion bag are glinting in the morning sun. His stomach is rising and falling with his breathing.

      Rex jogs to the lifts and presses the green button as the purchasing manager of the TV4 group calls.

      ‘I’m sitting in the taxi now,’ he replies, just as the lift machinery whirrs into action.

      ‘Should I be worried?’ Sylvia Lund says.

      ‘No need – they just got their bookings mixed up.’

      ‘You were due in make-up twenty minutes ago,’ she says warily.

      ‘I’m coming. I’m on my way now. We’re already on Valhallavägen.’

      He leans his forehead against the mirror and feels jagged exhaustion catch up with him.

      The taxi is waiting outside the entrance to the emergency department. Rex gets in the back seat and closes his eyes. He tries to have a quick nap during the short drive, but can’t stop thinking about what’s happened. He’s going to have to call Sammy’s mother, Veronica.

      As Rex understands it, Sammy will be referred to a psychologist, who will evaluate him for signs of substance abuse and suicidal tendencies.

      The car turns and pulls up in front of the TV4 building. Rex pays, not bothering to wait for a receipt. He hurries in through the glass door.

      Sylvia hurries over to him. Her face is neatly made-up, her hair blow-dried so that it curls in towards her neck and jawline.

      ‘You haven’t shaved,’ she says.

      ‘Haven’t I? I forgot,’ he lies, feeling his chin.

      ‘Let me look at you.’

      She studies his crumpled jacket, messy hair and bloodshot eyes.

      ‘You’re hungover,’ she says. ‘This can’t be happening.’

      ‘Leave it, I can handle this,’ Rex says tersely.

      ‘Breathe on me,’ she snaps.

      ‘No,’ he says with a smile.

      ‘You may be having a hard time, but that won’t make any difference … TV4 will walk away from their contract with you if you make a fool of yourself again.’

      ‘Yes, so you said.’

      ‘I’m not letting you into that studio unless you breathe on me.’

      Rex blushes as he breathes into his boss’s face, looks her in the eye and then walks away.

      A young woman comes running over to hold the door open for Rex and Sylvia.

      ‘We’ve still got time,’ she says breathlessly.

      Rex starts walking towards the dressing rooms, but feels sick on the steep metal steps. He has to stop and cling onto the handrail before moving on.

      He passes the green room where this week’s guests are waiting and quickly goes into his dressing room. He hurries over to the sink and rinses his face and mouth with cold water, spits and then wipes himself with a paper towel.

      His hands shake as he changes into his pressed suit, then the chef apron.

      The young woman is waiting in the hallway and follows him as he half-runs towards make-up.

      He sits down on the chair in front of the mirror and tries to get a grip on his stress by watching the news. One make-up assistant shaves him and a second blends two types of foundation on a palette.

      At regular intervals the presenters announce that ‘superstar chef Rex will be here soon to share some of his best hangover tips’.

      ‘I didn’t get any sleep last night,’ he manages to say.

      ‘That’s OK, we can fix that,’ one of the make-up assistants assures him, holding a damp sponge to his swollen eyes.

      He thinks about when Sammy was little and said his first words. It was a frosty autumn day, and his son was playing in the sandpit when he suddenly looked up, patted the ground beside him, and said ‘Daddy sit’.

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