‘See this,’ he says, pointing to the lightbox. ‘That’s the tooth in need of root-canal work. Your old dentist mentioned it, I believe? We dentists call root-canal science endodontics.’

The bad smell behind my head intensifies. Like an old garbage can left out in the sun.

‘Let me go now,’ I say. ‘You can’t keep me here against my will.’

He looks sympathetic and says, ‘This is a common attitude towards root-canal procedures. It can be daunting, I know. Traditional dentistry, the kind still taught in the schools arrogant enough to deny me entry, is well behind the times. Don’t worry. Medical science, especially in the experimental sector, has come a long way since the old days. With the kind of new techniques not yet adopted by Sven Edlund and his generation, we can make this procedure almost painless.’

‘You’re not a fucking dentist.’

He frowns at me and points to the stitched badge on his uniform.

‘Maybe this will assuage your doubts.’

It has the word Doctor before his name.

‘Or this?’ he says, pointing to a framed certificate next to his laptop. Like something you’d get for swimming twenty-five metres.

‘I won’t open my mouth,’ I say.

He chuckles.

‘In fact, I’ve already had all the root-canal work done,’ I lie. ‘Had it done in Karlstad.’

‘Well, we can check that, can’t we. Now, just put your mind at ease and relax.’

He walks over to washing-up bowl and washes his hands with water from an Evian bottle. Then he steps to a box on the wall and takes out a pair of latex surgical gloves. He puts them on. Then he washes his gloved hands, the latex squeaking as he works the soap through his gloved fingers. He comes closer and moves the microscope on his head over one eye. The eye looms huge right in front of me.

‘Open wide, Tuva.’

54

I keep my jaws clamped shut.

I bite down so hard that my teeth start to ache in their sockets. The blood pumps inside my temples and my body goes cold.

Get the fuck away from me.

‘Open wide for me, if you would.’

He stares at me. One normal eye and one giant one. He has a metal stick in his hand, with a small round mirror on the end.

‘Don’t be concerned, Tuva. I just need to have a look around.’

He’s patient. He pushes with his feet and his wheelie-stool slides over the dark-green tarp to his laptop. The tarp rucks under the wheels. If I strain, I can just about see him in my peripheral vision.

Tobias glides back to me.

‘Let me talk you through the procedure to ease your nerves. Would that help?’