Sarah Pearse - The Sanatorium
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- Year:2021
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VIKING
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Simultaneously published in hardcover in Great Britain by Bantam Press, an imprint of Transworld, a division of Penguin Random House Ltd., London, in 2021.
First American edition published by Viking in 2021.
Copyright 2021 by Sarah Pearse Ltd.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
A Pamela Dorman Book/Viking
library of congress cataloging-in-publication data
Names: Pearse, Sarah, author.
Title: The sanatorium: a novel / Sarah Pearse.
Description: [New York]: Pamela Dorman Books; Viking, [2021]
Identifiers: LCCN 2020016188 (print) | LCCN 2020016189 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593296677 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593296684 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PR6116.E169 S26 2021 (print) | LCC PR6116.E169
(ebook) | DDC 823/.92dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020016188
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020016189
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design: Ervin Serrano
Cover images: (building) David Clapp / Getty Images; (snowy mountains) Buena Vista Images / Getty Images; (frost) Shutterstock
pid_prh_5.6.1_c0_r0
For James, Rosie, and Molly,
Its a long way to the top (if you wanna rock n roll . . . )
ac/dc
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
On nous apprend vivre quand la vie est passe.
They teach us to live when life has passed.
Michel de Montaigne
I have loved constraints. They give me comfort.
Joseph Dirand
prologue
January 2015
Discarded medical equipment litters the floor; surgical tools blistered with rust, broken bottles, jars, the scratched spine of an old invalid chair. A torn mattress sits slumped against the wall, bile-yellow stains pocking the surface.
Hand clamped tight around his briefcase, Daniel Lemaitre feels a sharp wave of revulsion: its as if time has taken over the buildings soul, left something rotten and diseased in its place.
He moves quickly down the corridor, footsteps echoing on the tiled floor.
Keep your eyes on the door. Dont look back.
But the decaying objects pull at his gaze, each one telling stories. It doesnt take much to imagine the people whod stayed here, coughing up their lungs.
Sometimes he thinks he can even smell it, what this place used to bethe sharp, acrid scent of chemicals still lingering in the air from the old operating wards.
Daniel is halfway down the corridor when he stops.
A movement in the room oppositea dark, distorted blur.
His stomach drops. Motionless, he stares, his gaze slowly picking over the shadowy contents of the rooma slew of papers scattered across the floor, the contorted tubes of a breathing apparatus, a broken bed frame, frayed restraints hanging loose.
Hes silent, his skin prickling with tension, but nothing happens.
The building is quiet, still.
He exhales heavily, starts walking again.
Dont be stupid, he tells himself. Youre tired. Too many late nights, early mornings.
Reaching the front door, he pulls it open. The wind howls angrily, jerking it back on its hinges. As he steps forward, hes blinded by an icy gust of snowflakes, but its a relief to be outside.
The sanatorium unnerves him. Though he knows what it will becomehas sketched every door, window, and light switch of the new hotelat the moment, he cant help but react to its past, what it used to be.
The exterior isnt much better, he thinks, glancing up. The stark, rectangular structure is mottled with snow. Its decaying, neglectedthe balconies and balustrades, the long veranda, crumbled and rotting. A few windows are still intact, but most are boarded up, ugly squares of chipboard scarring the faade like diseased, unseeing eyes.
Daniel thinks about the contrast with his own home in Vevey, overlooking the lake. The contemporary, blockish design is constructed mostly of glass to take in panoramic views of the water. It has a rooftop terrace, a small mooring.
He designed it all.
With the image comes Jo, his wife. Shell have just gotten back from work, her mind still churning over advertising budgets, briefs, already corralling the kids into doing their homework.
Daniel imagines her in the kitchen, preparing dinner, auburn hair falling across her face as she efficiently chops and slices. Itll be something easypasta, fish, stir-fry. Neither of them are good at the domestics.
The thought buoys him, but only momentarily. As he crosses the car park, Daniel feels the first flickers of trepidation about the drive home.
The sanatorium wasnt easy to get to in the best of weather, its position isolated, high among the mountains. This was a deliberate choice, engineered to keep the tuberculosis patients away from the smog of the towns and cities, and keep the rest of the population away from them.
But the remote location meant the road leading to it was nightmarish, a series of hairpin bends cutting through a dense forest of firs. On the drive up this morning, the road itself was barely visiblesnowflakes hurling themselves at the windscreen like icy, white darts, making it impossible to see more than a few yards ahead.
Daniels nearly at the car when his foot catches on something, the tattered remains of a placard, half covered by snow. The letters are crude, daubed in red.
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