Page 71 of The Sleepwalker
‘OK.’
‘Just sit comfortably, with both feet on the floor and your hands on the armrests,’ Erik continues in a warm voice. ‘Close your eyes and breathe calmly – in through your nose and out through your mouth .?.?. Steady, even .?.?. Feel the weight of your feet, completely relaxed, with your thighs resting on the cushion beneath you and your back against the chair .?.?.’
Hugo remembers having done something similar during PE class once, and he finds it interesting that he can shift his focus so easily between different parts of his body, really relaxing in the process.
He smirks slightly at the thought of how serious the threemen around him are, how much faith they seem to place in hypnosis.
‘Feel your eyelids growing heavier with each breath you take.’
There is no escaping how funny the situation is, the fact that he is sitting in an armchair with his eyes closed, trying to do exactly as Erik tells him.
Erik calmly works his way through Hugo’s body and gets him to relax his face. No smile, no gritted teeth or furrowed brow.
‘Just listen to my voice,’ he says softly. ‘You don’t need to worry about anything else right now .?.?. You are in a state of deep relaxation, and if you hear anything other than my voice then just let it pass you by. Become even more relaxed and focused on what I say.’
Hugo realises that Erik’s warm, low voice feels like an embrace, and he enjoys the slight dryness to it. Maybe he was a smoker, he thinks. Or maybe it’s just his age.
‘I’m going to count backwards from one hundred now, and all you need to do is listen carefully to every number. With each one you hear, I want you to breathe out and sink deeper into relaxation .?.?. Ninety-nine, ninety-eight .?.?.’
At first, Hugo thinks he might be doing it all wrong, but he decides he doesn’t care. He finds his own pace and notices that his breathing quickly falls into sync with the doctor’s countdown.
‘You’re comfortable now,’ Erik continues. ‘You’re focused on my voice, on the descending numbers, and I’d like you to imagine that you’re making your way down a long staircase .?.?. With every number you hear, you take another step, becoming increasingly relaxed and calm. Seventy-seven, seventy-six, seventy-five .?.?.’
Hugo tries to follow the instructions as best he can, imagining the stairs at home, various grand hotel staircases with red carpets, but before long he realises he has started to picture aspiral staircase he has never seen before.
It is made from pale-grey metal, and it leads straight down into the earth.
Moving in time with his breathing and the doctor’s words, he makes his way down. He takes cautious steps, but the entire structure shakes softly each time.
‘You’re continuing down the stairs, step by step. Sixty-four, sixty-three .?.?.’
Hugo puts a hand on the banister, trying to focus on the voice as he walks. He imagines that the spiral staircase has begun to turn, like some sort of drill to the underworld.
‘Fifty-eight, fifty-seven .?.?.’
He sees a dirty handprint on the rail and starts moving more quickly, though his breathing is getting calmer. It feels as though he is being sucked downwards. The metal steps clang with each step, reverberating into the deep.
‘You’re still going down, and with each step you take you’ll become a little more relaxed, a little more focused on my voice .?.?. Forty-three, forty-two .?.?.’
Hugo has started running, clinging onto the banister, and can feel the centrifugal force from the centre column. The brackets have begun to shake, and he can see sand trickling down the shaft, like the steady flow in an hourglass.
Erik’s counting has slowed, but Hugo is now hurtling downwards, and it feels as though the countdown will never end.
‘Fourteen .?.?. thirteen,’ the doctor’s monotone voice continues. ‘When I get to zero, you will be at home in your bed on the twenty-sixth of November .?.?. You’re relaxed and able to calmly observe everything you see. Nothing here is dangerous. Twelve, eleven .?.?.’
Hugo focuses on Erik’s voice and loses contact with his body as he throws himself down the stairs four at a time.
‘Three, two .?.?. one .?.?. zero. You are now lying in your bed onthe twenty-sixth of November.’
Hugo stops dead on the spiral staircase and closes his eyes.
‘It’s around one in the morning, and you are asleep, but something makes you open your eyes.’
He does as he is told and stares out into the darkness in his pale-blue room. The blind is closed, revealing its familiar pattern of a starry sky.
His heart is pounding.
Hugo has been lying perfectly still in bed with his hands clamped over his mouth, trying to remain hidden. But the gunfire has now stopped, and the screams have faded.
