He appreciated her efforts. She was just as capable as rumor had led him to believe. But this time, no, it wouldn’t work—in district court the judge, the only lawyer, had expressed her reservations. This time, in the court of appeal, there were more lawyers than laymen, and lawyers based their reality on the written word, on clauses and precedent. He had given up. He said that to her, and she got upset, explained that if you gave up, you were already doomed. They can feel that in the courtroom, and it was like pleading guilty. She gave him example after example. Several of the verdicts he knew from before. She had defended people who’d committed the most idiotic crimes, and they’d been acquitted because they were confident they would be, and they carried that feeling with them into the courtroom.
The guard knocked on the door. A tray with some juice and a piece of meat and some potatoes. He shook his head. He wasn’t interested. It probably tasted good. But he wasn’t hungry. It was as if eating meant acting like nothing had happened. If he didn’t eat, he wasn’t participating. This wasn’t his life. He hadn’t chosen this.
Once the trial began, he was transported every morning to a courtroom, a newer one, on Bergs Street—the hearing had to be moved after they received threats. The appeals hearing was shorter, some witness statements had been replaced by tape recordings, and some questions had been tightened. It took three days. He sat in the same chair as before and answered the same questions. A play, a repeat of the last time, now they were having their premiere, and the show would be reviewed. He tried to keep his back straight, appear calm and confident of a new acquittal, but it was tough. He didn’t really care, wasn’t even sure he wanted to go home. They could probably sense that, see it on him.
————
He no longer wanted anything. That was over. He lay on his bed in the evenings after the day’s trial, staring at the ceiling, trying to find something of his old life in that piss yellow.
One hour.
He didn’t have many friends, never did, and those he did have lived far away, one in Gothenburg and one in Kristianstad, and they weren’t really a part of his daily life, a prison sentence wouldn’t really change their relationship.
One hour.
He had no siblings, no parents.
One hour.
He had Micaela and he felt like he loved her, but she was still young, she couldn’t live with him inside his grief for his child, it wasn’t right.
One hour.
She said that was what she wanted, and he believed her, but that was now. One day they would have to move on, and she shouldn’t have to cope with having a little girl who was raped and murdered stuck in her every breath.
One hour.
The piss-yellow ceiling.
One hour.
It was strange.
One hour.
His whole life he’d been running, filling up every moment, afraid that it might suddenly be empty, might suddenly cease to exist.
One hour.
He’d held on tight to it, entrenched himself in each day, trying to conquer the restlessness and avoid the loneliness.
One hour.
Back then, he was surrounded by people he depended on, and he tried to be in the present in order to see them.
One hour.
Then, suddenly, they were no longer there, and when he really didn’t need to be in the fucking moment, that was all he had, piss-yellow ceiling, time, thoughts, none of it mattered anymore. He couldn’t change or alter anything, and that made him calm, calmer than he’d ever been before, calm as death.
————
It took them almost a week to decide the verdict. It was postponed twice. Every document was essential, every word loaded. It was a verdict that would be dissected by the media, printed in full in the big newspapers, legal experts would appear on television to analyze it on newscasts, the father who shot and killed his five-year-old daughter’s murderer was followed
by the people who shared his grief for his vanished daughter
by the people who believed that a murder was a murder no matter the reason
by the people who celebrated his courage and the protection he’d given them by getting rid of something that society couldn’t
by people who said the father’s revenge was indefensible and demanded a long prison term to set an example
by people who abused and killed other sex offenders with the support of the district court’s self-defense argument.
————
It came on a Saturday. At precisely ten o’clock in the morning. It could be collected in its entirety from an usher outside the Stockholm Court House. Journalists stood in line, mobile phones in hand, ready to reach their editors as quickly as possible with the new text, their photographers next to them, ready to document the bundles of paper from every direction, the prosecutor Ågestam was there, Kristina Björnsson, and a few curious onlookers. Fredrik Steffansson was told through the door he hated. The guard who’d given him extra coffee and extra break time mumbled behind the door. He said he was sorry, that it was terrible, that there’d be a hell of an uproar.
Ten years.
The court of appeal had sentenced him to ten years in prison.
Tinyboy regretted it. He shouldn’t have done it. He shouldn’t have beaten poor Hilding to a pulp. Goddammit, Hilding! Fucking idiot! Why the hell did he have to steal all that Turkish Glass? Why the hell did he have to sit with that fucking hitman and empty out their fire extinguisher? Mash up his fucking ass! He’d been forced to fuck him up. How the hell would it have looked if he’d let Hilding pull that kind of shit without any consequences? There was no way. No way! But he shouldn’t have been quite so hard on him. He looked awful. They’ll sew him up, they do that, but he won’t be coming back. Not here. They’ll send him to Tidaholm. Or Hall. That’s how they do it. Never coming back.
Not many left now.
Hilding in the infirmary. The fucking pedophile, Axelsson, got his warning and ran off to hide in isolation. Bekir had been released.
Skåne. And Dragan. Damn. Not many to get high with. Then there was that fucking hitman. And the Russian. And those other fools.
He regretted it. He shouldn’t have beaten him for so long. He should have stopped when he passed out.
It was still raining outside. Had been a few weeks now. Fucking weird. First, heat, week after week, so hot your cock refused to stand. Then, so wet no bastard could even go out for air. Make up your damn mind. Fucking idiots.
He looked out the window. The rain ran down the wall. The football goals were about to blow apart. Two people were out walking the track. He couldn’t see who it was. They were both wearing raincoats, hoods pulled down over their foreheads.
He turned. Four guys stood around the pool table. The Russian circled it, grunting, chalking his cue, he sank a few balls, gave the stick to Janoz, who grunted too, louder when he sank the black and lost. Tinyboy had never liked pool, a bitch game, long sticks on a green table. He played cards. Casino, sometimes poker. But not today. Not for a while. He had no desire to. Now Jochum sat there, with Skåne and Dragan, dealing and bluffing. It wasn’t the same without Hilding Wilding there.
He was on his way outside anyway. Needed some air, fuck the rain. He walked toward the exit, approached the door, and peered out at the guard station. Three guards. What the hell did they do in there all day? Sit on their asses getting paid? For fuck’s sake!
He stopped just in front of their window. He couldn’t see them. But he heard them. They were talking loudly, seemed upset. He couldn’t quite follow what they were saying, words flying around, impossible to know without context.
He recognized one phrase. Sex offender. He heard it several times. Long sentence. He heard that: long sentence. He heard another half a phrase: with Oscarsson and perverts.
What the hell were they talking about? Not another pedo. Not here. Hadn’t they understood anything? Didn’t they see how Axelsson had to hightail it out of here? They’d gotten hold of his social sec
urity number, found out what he was convicted of, and they would have killed him if he hadn’t been warned.
The ones who never made a sound. Who walked around in their units with their fucking keys and kept their mouths shut. Now they were upset. All three were complaining. He heard hero. He heard murdered. He heard sex offender again.
A fucking pedophile coming here! Another one! For fuck’s sake!
Tinyboy had a hard time standing still. He was filled with fury, his cheeks turning red, the anger clawing its way up his throat.
A few chairs scraped against the floor. They stood up and he took a hasty step backward. They came out of the guard station still talking—one of them was waving his hands around. He heard the last sentences, they were standing outside, and he heard them clearly now. The first asked what would happen if the hero came here. The second said he didn’t know, but they didn’t get those long sentences here. The first one again, he said there wasn’t any danger anymore, he wouldn’t attack again, that was over. They went into the unit, the Russian looked up from the pool table and shouted guards on the floor! Tinyboy kept walking, past the guard station, looking through the raincoats and finding one that fit. He grabbed a pair of boots, too, that were a little too big. He went out into the rain, it was pouring down, and he headed for the track, lengthening his stride. The anger that had a stranglehold was now on its way out. He was shaking, screaming, now motherfuckers, now motherfuckers! He’d made up his mind—he was gonna take down that bastard, never again would they try to squeeze a perv into this unit again. No way in hell. If that pedophile bastard came here, he’d never leave here again.
He pissed in the sink. He had no desire to call for the guard to be taken to the toilet, or to answer any curious questions about the verdict.
Ten years.
He didn’t even know what that was. Kristina Björnsson had visited him the day before. She’d arrived in the afternoon and gone over the verdict with him, explaining the wording. She had wanted to appeal to the supreme court. She wanted a precedent to prove the strength of the self-defense argument. He’d said he didn’t want to continue. That this was enough. He wasn’t interested. What had happened had happened. He’d shot the man who’d taken his daughter away from him. That was enough for him. Prison or no, it didn’t matter.
Ten years.
He’d be almost fifty by then.
He rinsed his hands and stood in the middle of his cell.
An already convicted rapist and serial killer had escaped, stuck sharp metal objects into Marie’s genitals, masturbated on her, torn her apart. And Marie’s father had stopped him from doing it again. Therefore, he should sit in a cell, separated from real life, for ten years, from the age of forty until he turned fifty. He had to laugh. He kicked at the sink and laughed until it hurt in his chest.
The guard who gave him extra favors knocked anxiously, opened the door.
“What are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s quite a bit of noise in here.”
“Am I not allowed to laugh?”
“Yes.”
“Then let me be.”
“I just don’t want you to do anything stupid.”
“I won’t do anything stupid.”
“That kind of verdict can make people do the wrong thing.”
“I’m laughing, okay?”
“Good. I’m coming back in a few minutes. You should pack.”
“Pack?”
“You’ve been placed now.”
He sank down onto the bed. The piss-yellow ceiling, the white walls, the dirty floor. He was going away. He should pack. What? A plastic bag with toothbrush, toothpaste, soap? He stood up, opened the plastic bag, stuffed his toiletries in it. He’d packed.
The guard knocked. He opened the door. He was young, hardly more than twenty-five. His hair stood straight up. A ring through one nostril. He was a musician. Or wanted to be a musician. He often talked about it. As if he thought Fredrik would want to know. As if he wanted to prove he was more than just a prison guard, a man with dreams. This was just a job, while he was waiting for a record deal. He’d waited a few years and was ready to wait a few more. Until he got too old. Thirty or so. Now he went into the cell and put his hand on Fredrik’s shoulder.
“You know what I think.”
“Sorry, I’m not interested in what you think.”
“It’s insane. Locking you up is probably the weirdest thing I’ve heard so far.”
“Not interested.”
“We all think that, everyone in here. Guards and prisoners, there’s no difference, everyone thinks alike. I don’t think we’ve ever agreed on anything else.”
Fredrik held out the plastic bag.
“I’ve packed.”
“I understand that it’s not very comforting to hear that.”
“I’m ready to go now.”
“You should have been acquitted.”
“Ready.”
“There are a lot of people out on the streets. Who know where you’re going.”
“I don’t even know that.”
“A lot of us do know. We’ve made sure they’ll be heard. The protesters.”
“You’re right. That’s no comfort.”
He was alone again. Waiting. He’d been given his normal clothes. He was supposed to wear them for a few hours. Then he’d undress, lock them up in a cabinet until the day he was free to go again. He’d wear something else instead, something that hung off his body. The prison uniform.
They didn’t knock the next time. They just opened the door and stepped inside. Two guards and two uniformed police officers. Grens waited outside the door with Sundkvist beside him.
Fredrik had known they were coming. Still, he was surprised. He turned away from the four who’d entered the cell and made eye contact with Grens through the doorway.
“Why?”
Grens pretended not to understand.
“Why so many? Why the uniformed police officers?”
Sven couldn’t pretend. He answered.
“We’ve made an assessment.”
“I see that. I’m wondering why?”
“We’ve received information that we might encounter problems while we transfer you to Aspsås prison.”
Fredrik winced.
“Aspsås? Is that where I’m headed?”
“Yes.”
“That’s where he came from.”
“You’re going to another unit. A normal unit. Lund was in a special unit for sex offenders.”
Fredrik took a step closer to the door, closer to Sven. The uniformed officer immediately moved in between, holding him. He shook himself, irritated, until they released him, and he went back into the cell again.
“You said problems?”
“Your transport is going to have a police escort.”
“Does it look like I’m going to escape?”
“That’s all I can say.”
It was still early morning. It was raining outside, beating down on the metal windowsill outside the bars, just as hard, just as persistent as it had done for several days.
It was almost as if he was going to miss it.
He was being transported in a minibus. It was still raining heavily, and he got soaked during his very short walk between the Kronoberg jail’s entrance and the vehicle, which stood idling on the street outside. His steps were short, his ankle restraints chafed if he tried to lengthen them.
He was hardly considered an escape risk.
He was considered at little risk of repeating his crime—he’d shot the only man he intended to shoot.
Nevertheless, he was transported using the most extreme security measures. Two police cars with rotating blue lights a few meters in front of the minibus. Two motorcycles driven by uniformed officers behind it. The demonstration a few weeks earlier outside Kronoberg had left its mark. The people who’d put themselves on the ground, who’d been run over and injured when the car fled the scene, the gun leveled at t
he police officer’s temple, the SWAT team vans that had been overturned, the demonstrators who urinated on them as they crawled out. Not again. Never again.
He sat in the back seat, between Ewert Grens and Sven Sundkvist. It was almost as if they knew one another. After Marie disappeared, they’d interviewed everyone outside the Dove, one after another. They’d been waiting at Forensic Medicine by her table. They’d come to her funeral dressed in black. They’d picked him up in Strängnäs before the court of appeal—an hour of Siw Malmkvist. This trip, too. Then, they were done with him.
He should talk to them. Say something. He couldn’t.
He didn’t need to.
The proper one, Sundkvist, started.
“I’m forty years old.”
Sundkvist looked at him.
“I turned forty the day your daughter was murdered. I had wine and cake in the car. I haven’t celebrated yet.”
Fredrik Steffansson didn’t understand. Was he making some kind of joke? Or did he think Fredrik should feel sorry for him? Fredrik didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Sundkvist wasn’t looking for a conversation.
“I’ve been a cop for twenty years. That’s my entire adult life. It’s a fucked-up job. But it’s the job I have. That’s what I’m able to do.”
They were going to drive for fifty kilometers. Thirty-five or forty minutes. Fredrik didn’t want to hear any more. He wanted to close his eyes. Start counting the hours. Ten years.
“I always thought that I was doing some kind of service. Been good. Done right. And maybe I have.”
Sundkvist was sitting close to him, Fredrik could feel his breath.
“But this. Do you understand? Of course you do. Do you understand how ashamed I feel to have to sit here and guard you, take you to a prison and lock you up? For fuck’s sake! I almost never swear, but now, Steffansson, for fuck’s sake!”
It was surely sympathy. Fredrik didn’t care at all about sympathy. Sundkvist leaned forward and pulled on Steffansson’s wet shirt.
“This is just how Lund sat just a few months ago. Now you’re sitting here. Like some ordinary murderer. And I’m making sure that you do. And for that, Steffansson, I sincerely apologize.”
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