Read Online The Room by Jonas Karlsson - Free Book Online

don’t want anything. The company sent me here.”
    “Don’t you work for an Authority?”
    “I prefer to see it as a company. It makes my abilities sharper.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes.”
    He looked at the computer and I wondered if he was really looking at anything or just trying to buy himself some time. I decided to try to answer his questions quickly, in order to throw the ball back into his court as soon as possible, so to speak. Clearly he was clutching at straws. Presumably he lacked the skill demanded for matters of this sort.
    “Have you mentioned this to your colleagues?”
    “My boss was the one who made me come here.”
    “Why?”
    “He said I had to see you.”
    “Me?”
    “Someone. He said I had to come here.”
    He nodded and spoke slowly, as if he were trying to slow the tempo. But I wasn’t about to let myself be sunk.
    “So that you could go on sick leave?”
    “I don’t want to go on sick leave.”
    “Because you went into that room?”
    “Exactly.”
    “Why?”
    “He says it doesn’t exist.”
    “What?”
    “The room.”
    “Your boss says the room doesn’t exist?”
    I was very pleased that I managed to say “yes” before he’d even finished his sentence, which I felt reinforced the impression that I was one step ahead of him. He nodded slowly.
    “So does it?” he said after a pause.
    “It does to me.”
    “Does it for anyone else?”
    “They pretend it doesn’t.”
    “Has anyone else been inside the room?”
    “I don’t know. They don’t seem keen to go in.”
    “Why don’t they want to go in?”
    “I don’t know. They say it doesn’t exist.”
    “But you know that it exists.”
    “It exists.”
    “And it’s an office?”
    “Yes.”
    “A perfectly ordinary office?”
    “Yes.”
    He fell silent for a while, clicking his pen.
    “Is there anything else in there?”
    “Anything else?”
    “Yes. Are there things in there?”
    “Of course there are things.”
    “What sort of things?”
    “Do you want me to…?”
    “Yes, please.”
    “Well, there’s a desk…”
    “Yes?”
    “And a lamp. Computer, folders, a filing cabinet, and so on.”
    “Yes?”
    “Pens, paper, a hole puncher, a stapler, Wite-Out, tape, cables, a calculator, a desk mat, all sorts of things.”
    “Yes?”
    “Yes.”
    A nurse knocked on the door.
    “Are you nearly done?” she whispered.
    I wondered what it was we were supposed to be done with, but the doctor just nodded at her, looked at the large clock on the wall, and went on.
    “Have you ever had any psychiatric treatment in the past?”
    “Of course not,” I said.
    “Any counseling when you were in your teens?”
    “Hardly.”
    “You’re not on any medication?”
    I shook my head.
    “What about alcohol?”
    “What do you think?”
    “I’m asking you. Drugs?”
    “No more than you,” I said.
    He shut his eyes and blew the air out of his mouth. He rubbed his eyes with one hand, and I carried on looking at him so that I could look him in the eye as soon as he decided to open them again.
    “Do you feel unwell in any way?” he went on, still rubbing his eyes.
    “Do you?” I said.
    He shook his head and sighed.
    “I honestly don’t know what to do with you,” he said after a brief pause.
    “That doesn’t surprise me,” I said.
    “You don’t have to be unpleasant,” he said.
    “Nor do you,” I said, as quickly as I could.
    We looked at each other for a while. I was fairly pleased with the way this was going. I could tell he felt a degree of respect for me. You could see in his eyes that he wasn’t used to getting this sort of response.
    “Why are you here?” he said.
    “Because I was sent here.”
    “Okay, you know what? I think you should contact us again if you feel worse. It’s difficult for me to do anything about any other problems you may have at work.”
    He got up and went back to the computer.
    “I was told I’d be seeing a psychiatrist,” I said.
    He shook his head gently.
    “I don’t