LITMIR.BIZ

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another kind of life. He remembers sitting there on the sofa in Sollentuna as an eighteen-year-old, staring at his top grades, then letting his gaze roam over his parents’ prototypically middle-class living room, the bookshelves empty of books but adorned with knick-knacks and souvenirs: silver-framed photographs of his parents’ confirmations, wedding, and fiftieth-birthday celebrations, followed by a dozen or more shots of Erik, from a chubby baby in a christening gown to a grinning teenager in stovepipe trousers.

      His mother came into the room that day and handed him the application forms for medical school. His mother often said the Swedes were spoiled, taking their welfare society for granted when it was most probably nothing more than a small historical parenthesis. She meant that the system of free health care and dental care, free child care and primary education, free secondary schools and free university education, could simply disappear at any time. But right now there was an opportunity for a perfectly ordinary boy or girl to study to become a doctor, or an architect, or a top economist, at any university in the country without the need for a private fortune, grants, or charity hand-outs. As soon as Erik set foot in the medical school at Karolinska Institute, it was as if he had found his true home.

      When he decided to specialise in psychiatry, he realised that the medical profession was going to suit him even better than he’d imagined. A trainee doctor has to perform eighteen months of general service before he is fully qualified to practise; Erik spent this period working for Médecins sans Frontières. He had wound up at a field hospital in Kismayo, south of Mogadisho, in Somalia. The equipment consisted of material discarded by Swedish hospitals: X-ray machines from the sixties, drugs well past their best-before date, and rusty, stained beds from old wards that had been closed down or rebuilt. In Somalia he encountered severely traumatised people for the first time: young people who would tonelessly relate how they had been forced to carry out horrific crimes; women who had been so severely abused they were no longer-able to speak. Working with them—with children who had become completely apathetic and had lost the desire to play; with women who were unable to look up and meet another’s eyes—Erik discovered that he wanted to devote himself to helping people who were held prisoner by the terrible things that had been done to them, who were still suffering despite the fact that the perpetrators were long gone.

      Upon returning home, Erik trained in psychotherapy in Stockholm. But it was not until he specialised in psychotraumatology and disaster psychiatry that he came into contact with the various theories regarding hypnosis. What he found most attractive about hypnosis was its speed, the fact that a psychiatrist could get to the root of trauma straight away. When it came to working with war victims and the victims of natural disasters, speed could prove immensely important.

      He pursued his training with the European Society of Clinical Hypnosis and soon became a member of the Society for Clinical and Experimental Hypnosis, the European Board of Medical Hypnosis, and the Swedish Society for Clinical Hypnosis; he became awed by the groundbreaking work of Karen Olness, the American paediatrician who turned to hypnosis to alleviate the suffering of those in chronic pain and chronically ill children, and he struck up a correspondence with her that lasted several years.

      Next, Erik was with the Red Cross in Uganda. In his five years there, the situations he encountered were acute, overwhelming. There was little time to try out and develop his experience of hypnosis; he used it perhaps fewer than a dozen times, and then only in the most straightforward contexts: to block the perception of pain or to ease phobic fixations. And then, one day in his final year, he came across a young girl who was locked in a room because she wouldn’t stop screaming. The Catholic nuns working as nurses explained that the girl had been found crawling along the road from the shanty town north of Mbale. They thought she was a Bagisu, because she spoke Lugisu. She hadn’t slept one single night and, instead, kept shouting that she was a terrible demon with fire in her eyes. Erik asked to see her. As soon as he did, he realised she was suffering from acute dehydration, but when he tried to get her to drink, she bellowed as if the mere sight of water burned her like flames. She rolled on the floor, screaming. He decided to try hypnosis to calm her down. A nun translated his words into Bukusu, which they suspected the girl could understand, and after a while, once she began to listen, it proved very easy to hypnotise her. In one hour the girl recounted her entire psychic trauma.

      A tanker truck from Jinja had run off the road just north of the shanty town on the Mbale-Soroti road. The heavy vehicle had overturned, gouging out a deep ditch along the side of the road and puncturing a hole in the huge tank. Gasoline gushed out onto the ground. The girl had raced home and told her uncle about the gasoline just disappearing into the earth. Her uncle had run to the spot with two empty plastic containers. By the time the girl caught up with him, a dozen or so people were already by the tanker, filling buckets with gasoline from the ditch. The smell was appalling, the sun was shining, and the air was hot. The girl’s uncle waved to her. She took the first container and started hauling it homewards. It was very heavy. She stopped to lift it onto her head, and saw a woman in a blue head scarf standing up to her knees in gasoline by the tanker, filling small glass bottles. Further down the road in the direction of the town, the girl caught sight of a man wearing a yellow camouflage shirt. He was walking along with a cigarette in his mouth, and when he inhaled, the tip of the cigarette glowed red.

      Erik vividly remembers how the girl had looked when she was speaking. The tears poured down her cheeks as she told him in a thick, dull voice that she had caught the fire from the cigarette with her eyes and carried it to the woman in the blue head scarf. Because when she turned back and looked at the woman, she caught fire. First the blue head scarf, then her entire body was enveloped in huge flames. The fire was in my eyes, she said. Suddenly it was like a fire storm around the tanker. The girl began to run, hearing nothing but screams behind her.

      Later, Erik and the nun talked to the girl at length about what she had revealed under hypnosis. They explained over and over again that it was the vapour from the gasoline, the fumes with the powerful smell, that had begun to burn. The man’s cigarette had set fire to the tanker through the air; it had had nothing to do with her.

      A month or so after this event, Erik returned to Stockholm and applied for research funding from the Swedish Medical Research Council in order to immerse himself seriously in the treatment of trauma with hypnosis at the Karolinska Institute. And not long after his return to Sweden he met Simone at a big party at the university. He had noticed her curly, strawberry-blonde hair first of all. Then he had seen her face, the curve of her pale forehead, her fair skin scattered with light brown freckles. She was excited, rosy-cheeked and sparkling, and looked like a bookmark angel, small and slender. He can still remember what she was wearing that evening: a green silk fitted blouse that set off her bright green eyes.

      Erik blinks hard, leans closer to the windscreen, and tries to see between the trees, but he can only sense movement inside the brown cabin. Most likely, Evelyn is not there. The curtains shift; the front door swings open; Joona Linna steps out on the porch, and three policemen come round the house and join him. They point to the road and the other cottages. One unfolds a map, and they gather around him to consult it. Then Joona seems to want to show them something inside the house. They all go in, the last one closing the door quietly.

      Suddenly Erik spots someone standing in the trees where the ground slopes down towards the bog. It’s a slender woman with a double-barrelled shotgun, which she drags along the ground, letting it bounce gently against the blueberry bushes and moss.

      The police have not spotted her, and she has had no opportunity to see them. Erik keys in the number of Joona’s mobile phone, which begins to ring in the car. It’s lying next to him on the driver’s seat.

      Without any urgency, the woman wanders between the trees, shotgun in hand. Erik realises a dangerous situation could arise if the woman and the police take each other by surprise. Despite his promise to Joona, he has no choice. He gets out of the car. “Hi, there,” he calls.

      The woman stops and turns to look at him.

      “Chilly today,” he says quietly.

      “What?”

      “It’s cold in the shade,” he says, a little louder this time.

      “Yes,” she replies.

      “Are

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