Page 120 of The Sleepwalker
‘Man, what the hell .?.?.’
Her blonde hair is loose, the soft waves resting on hershoulders.
‘I wanted to ask if I could sleep over,’ he says with a rising sense of unease.
‘Sleep over? God, just go back to the clinic,’ she slurs, trying to close the door.
‘I can’t.’ Hugo flashes her an involuntary smile as he reaches for the handle.
‘It’s not going to work this time, though,’ she mumbles.
‘Just one night.’
She sighs and turns away from him, reaching behind her back to scratch between her shoulder blades as she walks through to her bedroom. She has goosebumps on her slim legs, he notices, and her muscular arms are dotted with dark bruises.
Hugo closes the door and follows her in.
The pink lampshade on the ceiling casts a circle of light onto the smooth bedspread.
On the floor by the mirror, a thin young man in loose black clothing is doing his makeup. He has a shaved head and an old scar stretching from his left temple to beneath his ear.
‘We were just heading out,’ Olga says, pulling on a purple blouse with a fitted waist.
‘Hi,’ says Hugo.
The young man glances up with a pair of big, dark eyes, then turns to Olga with a blank look on his face. His rose gold signet ring flashes as he rubs his pale lips.
‘Hachim is from Morocco. He doesn’t speak much Swedish,’ she explains before saying something to him in French.
‘I could wait here,’ Hugo offers.
‘No, it .?.?. You can’t. It’d be better if you just came with us, but .?.?. God, I said I’d help him with a job and—’
‘I get it.’
‘Do you? Because I don’t think you do.’
‘Are you high?’
Her thin bracelets clink softly as she buttons her blouse.
‘On y va, Hachim. The car’ll be here in three minutes,’ she says as she hurries out of the bedroom.
Hugo dumps his bag on the floor by the bed and follows them out into the hall. Olga laces up her shabby boots and reaches for her black leather jacket from the hanger. Hachim pulls on a thin white jacket and a pair of trainers.
They leave the apartment and make their way down the stairs.
A small, dirty Uber is waiting outside the pizzeria. Snowflakes swirl through the air in the light from the streetlamps.
‘It’d be better if you just went home,’ says Olga.
‘I can’t,’ Hugo replies, fiddling with the silver coin around his neck.
They squeeze into the backseat with Olga in the middle, and as they leave Hägersten, Hugo tries to find his belt in the sandy cracks between the seats.
‘Where are we going?’ he asks.
‘Just some place.’
