Don't Wake Me

by Martin Krüger

  ‘Yes, please. Can Bonnie . . .’

  ‘You can bring her inside as long as she doesn’t chase my cat.’

  ‘She won’t.’

  They followed Yrsen past a metal sculpture that was rusting away by the front door. The salty air had corroded it badly, but you could still see what it was meant to depict: a sailor gazing northwards, as if keeping an eternal lookout for things only he knew about. He had a telescope in his hand which he held up to his eye, and the perforated metal cylinder was specially designed to catch the wind, making an eerie howling noise.

  Yrsen noticed Jasmin’s look. ‘The sound makes your hair stand on end at first, but it grows more familiar over time.’

  Jasmin couldn’t imagine ever getting used to it.

  The house was more spacious than it looked from the outside and was filled from top to bottom with prints, sketches and paintings that covered the walls and lay in piles on the floor. The air held a mild odour of incense; by the windows, pale curtains drifted in the wind, while a fire burned in a small stove. Just as Yrsen offered her a seat on the sofa, a log broke apart with a loud crack that made Jasmin jump.

  Jesus, you’ve been so on edge the last few days.

  Paul sat beside her and Bonnie lay down at her feet on the carpet, not letting Jasmin out of her sight. She’d caught the scent of the cat but didn’t give chase, as if she knew she wasn’t at home here and therefore had to behave herself.

  ‘I hope you like my herbal blend,’ said Yrsen, placing a tray laden with cups and a teapot on the table before sitting down in a tall wingback chair. Jasmin noticed the sketchbook in front of her. The last thing Yrsen had worked on seemed to be an outdoor scene – a mother and son enjoying a picnic. It looked very familiar.

  Jasmin took a sip of her tea. ‘It’s good. Really good.’

  ‘So you came after all.’ Yrsen gave her a penetrating look. ‘You changed your mind.’

  ‘I’m mainly here to apologise. For what I said. It was inappropriate and hurtful.’

  ‘Apology accepted,’ Yrsen replied unhesitatingly. ‘Now stop skirting around the issue. Tell me why you really came.’

  This wasn’t a question she could avoid, Jasmin realised. If you really want her to help, you need to give her an answer.

  ‘Because I need your help.’ She struggled to get the words out, but as soon as Jasmin had said them aloud, she felt better. It was a relief, as if she’d shaken off a heavy burden. ‘Because I’m really worried. And because I feel certain we didn’t cross paths by coincidence.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can still do it.’ Yrsen reached out her hand and her sudden gesture took Jasmin by surprise. ‘But it’s worth a try.’

  ‘How does it work?’ Yrsen had got down to the real reason for her visit so quickly that Jasmin felt unprepared. ‘Can Paul be here?’

  ‘Maybe he’d like to go out and play with the dog.’ Yrsen locked eyes with Jasmin.

  What are you doing here? Are you really planning to . . . ? The warning voice in her head reminded her of Jørgen, and Jasmin chose to ignore it.

  ‘It’s all right, Mummy,’ said Paul. ‘Bonnie and I will be outside. Come on, Bonnie!’ He jumped to his feet, but Bonnie refused to stir at first. Yrsen opened a door leading out to a small, fenced-off garden beside the house with a birch tree whose branches rustled and swayed in the wind, and Jasmin led Paul and Bonnie outside.

  ‘Don’t go near the cliffs!’ she called after him.

  ‘I won’t!’

  ‘He’s a good boy,’ she said to Yrsen. ‘He has a good heart. Sometimes I wonder if I’m really the mother he needs. One who’s always there for him.’

  ‘You’re caught up in old memories,’ Yrsen declared. ‘I think it’s time you pushed them aside once and for all. It’ll liberate you, and you’ll feel better for it.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And I think there’s something you urgently need to acknowledge. A truth you’ve suppressed. One that you desperately need to make sense of.’

  Jasmin took a deep breath. ‘Something on this island isn’t right. It’s strange, but it feels like there’s been a cover-up of some horrible past event. And I can’t shake the feeling that it’s connected to the accident – to my accident.’ She looked down at her hands, at her fingers, which were drumming nervously against her teacup. ‘A dead body was found today, down on the beach. Not far from my house.’

  If Yrsen was surprised to hear that, she didn’t show it. ‘I didn’t know. What with my isolated existence, it takes a long time for news of that kind to reach me. Often I only hear it when I take one of my rare trips into the village.’

  ‘It scares me.’ Jasmin watched as Paul threw a stick and Bonnie fetched it for him. ‘It’s – I thought . . .’ She fumbled for words, but couldn’t find any that really expressed how she felt. The wide, ice-blue eyes of the corpse kept following her, haunting her deepest dreams.

  In her nightmares, the corpse would sit upright.

  In her very worst nightmares, it would speak to her. It was you, you murdered me. Can’t you hear my bones crunching under the wheels of your car? Can’t you still hear me screaming? Have you forgotten what you saw?

  ‘Ms Hansen,’ said Yrsen softly. ‘Would you give me your hand?’

  Jasmin didn’t move. ‘I found your diary. Or maybe it was more a sort of notebook.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Yrsen’s voice was now cool and distant, like a mountain stream washing over a bed of gravel. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘In the attic of my house – which my husband Jørgen and I haven’t set foot in for years – among all the boxes of junk we stored up there, I found a painting. It had your signature on it, and on the back, tucked under the frame, there was a small, thin notebook.’

  Yrsen nodded thoughtfully. ‘Do you have it with you?’

  ‘No, it’s back at the house. I’m sorry, I didn’t think to bring it.’

  ‘And you’re certain the painting was by me?’

  ‘I just told you it has your signature on it,’ Jasmin replied, more sharply than she’d intended. ‘It shows a fire, a huge building in flames, and people in front of it. A crowd of people jeering.’

  The artist gave a quiet sigh that sounded like old, painful memories. ‘I know what you mean now. Oh yes, I remember it very well.’

  ‘You remember?’ asked Jasmin, raising her eyebrows. ‘How did it get into the attic of our house?’

  ‘That painting was stolen, Ms Hansen. A long time ago. I didn’t know . . . Oh my God.’ Yrsen clearly didn’t want to say any more, and because she looked shocked – close to tears, even – Jasmin didn’t want to probe any further either.

  ‘I’m sorry. Whatever happened in the past, I didn’t mean to be rude,’ she answered cautiously. ‘I thought you might be happy that it’s turned up again. Though I found it really disturbing, personally.’

  ‘Happy? Most certainly not.’ Yrsen shook her head. ‘And yes, I understand your reaction. I’m probably the only person who truly understands it.’ Yrsen waved these thoughts aside, and as she did so, the sleeve of her cardigan rode up. Jasmin noticed there were burns not only on her face, but on her arms too. She recognised the signs of a skin graft.

  For a moment, she saw the harsh headlights of the Jeep from that dreadful night in front of her eyes, a flash of light, and there was a strange smell too – an odour of . . .

  ‘Maybe I should leave.’

  ‘You’re saying that out of politeness,’ Yrsen replied. ‘Deep down, you want something altogether different.’

  ‘I want the truth. That’s all.’ Jasmin looked out at Paul, who was still playing with Bonnie. ‘That night, when I had my accident . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’re similar, you and I,’ said Jasmin softly. ‘Maybe that was partly why I came back. Why I’m here.’

  ‘We’re survivors, you mean. The two of us.’

  ‘Exactly. I don’t know what your story is.’ Jasmin lowered her eyes. It felt good to say this out loud, despite ev
erything. ‘But with me – I haven’t only been unhappy since the night of the accident. Even before that, I’d been feeling like the whole world could go to hell and I wouldn’t care. What happened that night – it was just the final straw, the icing on the cake, so to speak. Except the cake was rotten.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Jørgen and I . . .’ Jasmin found it hard to continue. ‘We were expecting a child. Our second. That was two years ago – and I lost the baby. A miscarriage in the third month. After that – ever since that day – everything went downhill.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Ms Hansen.’

  Jasmin felt a tear trickle down her cheek. She’d tried to suppress the loss, to erase it, because she knew she had to be there for Paul – that she had a son who needed her strength and love and attention – and she’d succeeded, she felt sure of it.

  You need to keep going, she’d told herself time and again.

  ‘It was a little birthday party. A few of my colleagues from the unit were there – our consultant Brecht was turning fifty. I didn’t have anything to drink, not a drop.’

  ‘And yet you had an accident.’

  ‘Because somebody ran me off the road. There was another driver, a big Jeep. My car didn’t stand a chance against it.’ Jasmin could hear her voice trembling and felt ashamed. Pull yourself together. Be strong, for Christ’s sake. ‘There was a man standing on the side of the road, a – a homeless man, I think. My car hit him, must have injured him badly, but beyond that I don’t remember anything. And then . . .’

  Yrsen held out her hand. ‘Have courage.’

  ‘How does it work?’

  ‘Nobody knows. Very few people possess the gift, and very few of those can truly see.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘There are no buts. No explanations. Either you believe in it, or you might as well leave, Ms Hansen. I’m afraid I can’t put it any other way.’

  Jasmin reached for Yrsen’s hand. As she did so, Yrsen gave a shriek that echoed through the whole house. She slumped backwards, staring into space. The teapot fell to the floor and shattered. Jasmin shrank back.

  ‘You’ve seen him again. You’ve . . . What have you done?’

  ‘I’ve done nothing!’ Jasmin replied. ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘You’ve killed a man and looked him in the eyes, Jasmin, you’re – you’re cursed! Can’t you see there’s a shadow lying over you? You brought it here with you. Darkness is never far away on this island and you’re drawing it in. It’s been dormant for so long, but you—’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Jasmin leapt to her feet. ‘I never should have come here.’

  ‘Ms Hansen!’

  Jasmin blinked. When she opened her eyes, she saw Yrsen standing in front of her, the sketchbook in her hand.

  ‘What happened?’ Jasmin murmured.

  ‘We talked for a while, and you apparently nodded off.’

  Jasmin shook her head. Something was clouding her thoughts, preventing her from thinking clearly. ‘Did you hear a scream just now?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Are we – are we done?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Yrsen looked unmoved as Jasmin called for Paul and Bonnie. ‘So should I paint it for you?’ She’d reverted to the same tone of voice as before. ‘The picture. The solution to your problem?’

  ‘Do whatever you want.’ Paul came inside and Bonnie followed him. ‘We’re going now.’

  Yrsen followed them to the door. A gust of wind buffeted against them, so strong that it almost knocked the car keys out of Jasmin’s hand.

  ‘I’ll do it. One last time. For you, Jasmin Hansen.’

  Jasmin reached for the car door handle and tried to put the key in the lock, but her hands were shaking so violently that it took her several attempts.

  ‘Four days. Then it’ll be ready. I hope when you see it, you’ll finally understand what happened. It’s meant for you, not for anybody else. And, Ms Hansen?’

  Jasmin stopped and turned around to look at the artist. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Let’s hope it will bring you peace.’

  Chapter 13

  Jasmin was far too agitated to drive straight back to her house on the coast, so she made another stop in the village instead. After their visit to Yrsen and all the fresh air he’d had, Paul was in high spirits and not a bit tired – in fact, he seemed hungry for new adventures.

  The ornate, bronze-coloured lettering on the sign over the front of the bookshop said Proprietor: Veikko Mattila – 1978. A little bell tinkled as she opened the door. Paul entered the shop ahead of her, but Jasmin left Bonnie in the car as she felt sure a dog with muddy paws wouldn’t be welcome here.

  The bookshop was very small, with a low ceiling and full-height shelves that were crammed with books and groaning under their weight. It was a place where every sound was muted and everything seemed tranquil, secretive and mysterious. Jasmin used to love places like this when she was a child, and Paul loved them too now.

  An odour of yellowing paper hung in the air. Jasmin could almost hear the quiet creak of leather book-bindings, the whisper of heavy pages being carefully turned.

  A figure appeared from behind one of the shelves – a short, grey-haired man in a brown blazer and yellow bow tie who wore a pair of round spectacles on his nose. He sized her up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Jasmin Hansen,’ she introduced herself. ‘We’re just having a look around.’

  ‘If you’re looking for something in particular, I can order it in for you. It takes a few days, but it’s always reliable.’ His voice was soft, like the rustle of paper. ‘My name is Veikko Mattila. I’m the proprietor.’

  ‘Actually, I’m new here – on Minsøy, I mean – and I’m looking for books on local history, about the village and the island as a whole. Do you have anything like that in stock?’

  His eyes lit up. ‘But of course. If you’re interested in history then you’re in the right place.’ Mattila started pulling books out from a high shelf, muttering to himself and pushing them back into place. He laid out a few titles on the counter before turning back to face her and adjusting his glasses.

  ‘I have here a comprehensive history of the island, written by an academic who still lives locally. Johann Larsen, a Danish man. You ought to find everything you’re looking for in there.’

  ‘He lives here on the island?’ Jasmin flicked through the book. It was a bulky tome, full of pictures and text in small print, and it weighed nearly as much as a brick.

  ‘That’s right. But he never accepts any visitors. History is something of a hobby for me too, you know, and I once tried to get in touch with Larsen myself. But he never replied to any of my letters.’

  ‘You aren’t Norwegian.’ Jasmin could tell from the man’s accent. ‘Are you from Finland?’

  ‘Well spotted, Ms Hansen. But I wouldn’t chalk his lack of response up to that. No, he just doesn’t like people.’

  ‘There must have been a major fire here at some point,’ said Jasmin. ‘I’ve heard about it in a few different places now, so I was looking for . . .’ She thought of the tears that had welled up in Gabriela Yrsen’s eyes, of how lost for words the artist had been. Whatever had happened, it must have been terrible.

  ‘A fire? You must mean the fire. The big one.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Mattila tapped his fingers on the book. Jasmin saw there were traces of nail polish on his index finger – or was it a bruise under the nail? Had he slipped while using a hammer? ‘It’s all in there,’ he explained, seeming not to notice Jasmin staring at his hand. ‘But if you want a summary: it was sixty years ago now. Sixty years to the day, in five weeks’ time. It happened on the last day of October. They’d built a sanatorium up in the north and it burned down to the ground.’

  Jasmin felt her throat go dry. ‘A sanatorium?’

  Mattila clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace back and forth like he was giving a lecture. ‘About seventy years ago, when t
he science of psychiatry was still in its infancy, the Norwegian government came up with a plan – admittedly a rather foolhardy one, by modern standards. Out here, in this remote spot, they decided to set up what we’d call a pilot project these days. An institution – a sanatorium. For traumatised people coming back from the world war. Victims of the occupation. Untreatable patients. The operation expanded; there were some early successes. Lessons were learned. And then it all burned down.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ Jasmin blinked. For a moment, she thought she could see the walls moving, the books rattling around on their shelves, as a rushing, hissing noise emanated from the back of the shop and the lights grew dimmer and redder.

  ‘Ms Hansen?’

  Jasmin blinked and shook her head. You’re overtired. Not enough sleep and too much bearing down on you in too short a time.

  Once again, she saw the ice-blue eyes of the dead vagrant in front of her. Saw him lying there on the beach, his lips eaten away. Saw him standing terrified on the edge of the road, frozen in her headlights.

  ‘I see,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Do you know anything else about it?’

  ‘About the fire in particular, you mean? No. That’s a point in the island’s history the tourist brochures tend to skip over, for obvious reasons, and the locals keep quiet about it too. As for Larsen – he might know more, and perhaps he could even share his knowledge with us, if he had any sympathy for the curious.’ Mattila gave a brief, forced laugh that sounded like a metallic snort. ‘I’d say it was a dark time on the island. But of course, we often get visitors who take an interest in it.’

  ‘Often?’ Jasmin pricked up her ears. ‘Do you mean other people have been asking about the sanatorium lately?’ Should you mention Yrsen to him now? Should you ask him about her?

  ‘But of course.’ Mattila seemed unmoved at her excitement. ‘Someone came along very recently, in fact.’

  ‘Who was it?’ Jasmin knew she was acting suspiciously and asking too many questions, but she couldn’t restrain herself.

  ‘Well, he didn’t introduce himself – not like you – and he also seemed rather short-tempered in general, so . . .’