“I’m sorry to hear that, Vicky,” he heard himself say while Assad nodded along. It really was very sad.
“Is there anything we can do? Do you think we could visit her?” Assad nodded again, but slower this time and with sharp, reproachful eyes.
Carl got the message. It was true. He should have allowed Gordon and Assad to drive over to Rose’s apartment yesterday.
“Visit? No, unfortunately not. The doctors have created a treatment plan for her and would rather she wasn’t disturbed.”
“She hasn’t been committed, has she?”
“No, but she’s not likely to want to leave the institution as long as she is in this state, they say. She’s ready to receive treatment.”
“Okay. Let us know if anything changes.”
There was a pause at the other end as if she were picking up the courage to say something else. Probably not anything that would soften the blow of the already sad news.
“Actually, I’m not only calling to tell you this,” she finally said. “My sisters and I would appreciate it if you’d come over to Rose’s apartment. I’m calling from there. And remember she moved one floor up.”
“Do you mean now?”
“Yes, please, that would be good. We thought we’d just get some clothes for Rose and hadn’t at all expected the sight that met us. We’ve spoken about whether you or someone from your team might be able to come and help us understand what’s going on with Rose.”
—
Rose’s bright red Vespa was parked in the parking lot at Sandalsparken, next to the bicycle stands under a couple of budding trees, conveying nothing but peacefulness and normality. Rose had lived for more than ten years in this yellow block cocooned in open-air walkways without ever having expressed any dissatisfaction. That fact in particular was difficult to understand given the sight that met Carl and Assad when Vicky, who wasn’t at all unlike the woman Rose had pretended to be the day before, opened the door.
“Why did Rose move up here? Isn’t this apartment similar to the old one?” asked Carl, scanning the surroundings.
“Yes. But she can see the church from here, which she couldn’t really from the ground floor. Not because she’s religious or anything; she just thought it was nicer,” answered Vicky before showing them into the sitting room. “What do you make of this?”
Carl swallowed hard. What a miserable chaos and indescribable mess. Now he understood better why Rose’s perfume was sometimes quite strong, even though it still couldn’t overpower the stuffy smell. In fact, the apartment looked like it was home to a hoarder who had been robbed by someone who had ransacked everything. Cardboard packaging everywhere. Moving boxes half-packed with the contents of drawers. Dirty dishes piled up on the coffee table. Dining table covered in leftovers and takeaway boxes. Books thrown down from the bookcase, blankets and duvets ripped to shreds, and sofas and chairs with torn upholstery. Not a surface had been spared.
It was a very different sight from the apartment Carl and Assad had visited a few years ago.
Vicky pointed at the walls. “That’s what shocked us the most.”
Carl heard Assad behind him mumbling a few words in Arabic. If Carl had been able to, he would probably have done the same, because he couldn’t find words to express his shock. Rose had ferociously written the same sentence over and over in varying sizes on every inch of every wall.
YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE
He understood exactly why Rose’s sister had called.
“Have you informed the psychiatrists about this?” asked Assad.
Vicky nodded. “We’ve e-mailed them photos of most of the apartment. Lise-Marie is in the bedroom photographing the rest just now.”
“Is it the same in there?”
“Everywhere. The bathroom, the kitchen. Even on the inside of the fridge.”
“Do you have any idea how long it’s been like this?” asked Carl. He simply couldn’t associate this chaos with the otherwise extremely structured person who ordered everyone around in Department Q on a daily basis.
“I don’t know. We haven’t been up in the apartment since our mom came home from Spain.”
“I seem to recall Rose mentioning that. It was at Christmastime, right? So almost five months ago.”
Vicky nodded with a forlorn expression. It obviously plagued her that she and her sisters hadn’t been there for Rose. They weren’t the only ones.
“Come in here a minute!” shouted Lise-Marie from the bedroom. She sounded somewhat desperate.
They were met by a similarly graffiti-covered room, where Lise-Marie was sitting cross-legged and crying on the bed, the camera on the duvet in front of her. In her lap she had a small cardboard box full of grey notebooks with dark spines.
“Oh, Vicky, it’s terrible,” exclaimed Lise-Marie. “Look! Rose just kept on and on. Even after Dad’s death.”
Vicky sat on the edge of the bed, picked up one of the notebooks, and opened it.
A moment later, her expression changed as if she had been slapped.
“It can’t be true,” she said, while her younger sister hid her face in her hands as the tears streamed from her eyes.
Vicky picked up a few more notebooks and turned to Carl. “She always did this when we were children. We just thought it’d stopped when our dad died. Here’s the first one she wrote.”
She passed a notebook to Carl: “1990” was written on the front with a permanent marker.
Assad looked over Carl’s shoulder as he opened it.
Had it been graphic design, it would have been interesting. But as it was, it could only be sad and shocking.
He leafed through the notebook. Just the same thing again and again. Every page was covered with the same sentence, written with the characteristic capital letters of a ten-year-old. Close together and uneven.
“SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP,” written page after page.
Assad reached out to take another notebook, which had “1995” written on the front in black.
He opened it, holding it out so that Carl could also see.
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU I CAN’T HEAR YOU I CAN’T HEAR YOU,” was written on page after page.
Carl and Assad looked at each other.
“Rose and our dad didn’t get along,” said Vicky.
“That’s a hell of an understatement,” said Lise-Marie. Apparently the younger sister had gained enough composure to join the conversation.
“I know.” Vicky looked exhausted. “Our dad was killed in a work-related accident at the steel plant in 1999. After that, we never saw Rose with her notebooks. And yet here they are.”
She threw one of them over to Carl, who caught it in midair.
On the front was written “2010,” and like the others it was completely covered with a single sentence, only now in a more adult hand.
LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE.
“I wonder if this might be her way of communicating with your dad, dead or alive,” said Assad.
The others all nodded.