Box 21

by Anders Roslund

  Lydia didn’t speak Swedish and she certainly couldn’t read it. Whatever it said in the paper was lost on her, the bold headline as much as the small print. But she saw the picture. Alena held the paper up so she could see and her eyes stopped at the picture. Suddenly she screamed, burst into tears, ran from the room, then came back and stood there staring at the paper, hating it.

  ‘The swine!’

  She threw herself on the bed, close to Alena’s nakedness, crying now more than screaming.

  ‘The stinking, rotten swine!’

  Alena waited. There was no point in talking; she had to let Lydia cry, as she herself had cried not long before.

  She held her friend tight.

  ‘I’ll read it for you.’ Alena knew Swedish quite well. Lydia couldn’t understand how she could bear to learn the language.

  She and Alena had been in this country for just as long as each other and met just as many men, but that wasn’t the point. Lydia had decided to shut it out, never to listen, never to learn the language in which she was raped.

  ‘Do you want me to read?’

  Lydia did not want her to. Didn’t. Didn’t.

  ‘Yes.’

  She huddled closer to Alena’s naked skin, borrowing her warmth. She was always so warm. Lydia felt frozen most of the time.

  The picture was dull. It showed a middle-aged man leaning against a wall. He was tall and slim, with blond, smooth hair and a moustache. He looked pleased with himself, like someone who has just been praised. Pointing to him, Alena read out the headline, first in Swedish and then in Russian. Lydia lay still, listening, not daring to move. The article was badly written, in a rush, a drama that had been resolved early that morning, just before the paper went to print. The man leaning against the wall was a policeman who had managed to get a small-time crook, who had in a panic taken five people hostage and held them locked up in a bank vault, to enter negotiations. In the end, the hostage-taker had been talked round by the policeman and all his captives were freed.

  It wasn’t a very exciting story. Routine police work, see page seven. Tomorrow, another page, another policeman.

  But he was smiling. The policeman in the picture was smiling, and Lydia cried with hate.

  The Plain was packed with them, speed freaks who couldn’t get enough. Needed more.

  Hilding made for the stairs to Drottning Street, where he usually hung out, and stood a few steps up. Easier to spot him there. He didn’t give a toss about the pigs with their telephoto lenses. Fuck them.

  She was waiting by the metro entrance. Tiny chick, smallest brownie customer he knew. No more than one metre fifty tall. She wasn’t old, not even twenty and ugly with it. Big tangled hair, a greasy sweater. She must’ve been using for three or four days and now she was going off her head. Randy as hell too; all she wanted was to shoot up and fuck and shoot up and fuck. He knew her name was Mirja and she spoke with a foreign accent that made it hard to understand what she was on about and it was fucking impossible when she was really freaked out; it was like her mouth couldn’t cope any more.

  ‘You got it?’

  His grin was mean. ‘Got what?’

  ‘You know. Some.’

  ‘What? Fucking what?’

  ‘A gram?’

  Christ, what a slag. Speed and shagging. Hilding straightened his back, checked out the Plain. The cops were taking no notice.

  ‘Crystal or ordinary sulphate?’

  ‘Ordinary. Three hundred.’

  She started rooting inside one of her shoes, near the laces, pulled out a wad of crumpled notes and handed him three.

  ‘Like, just ordinary.’

  Mirja had been on a bender for almost a week. She hadn’t eaten, just had to have more, more, more, needed to get away from what seemed like high-voltage circuitry inside her head, thoughts that hummed and pulled her brain this way and that, making it hurt, like high-voltage shocks.

  She walked away from Hilding as fast as she could, away from the Drottning Street steps, past the statue in front of the church and into the cemetery.

  She heard the people she passed talking about her. Such loud voices, and it was scary, the way they knew everything, all her secrets. They talked and talked, but soon they’d stop and go away, at least for a few minutes.

  Mirja was in a hurry now, sat down on the seat nearest the gate, slipped her bag from her shoulder, took out a Coke bottle half filled with water, held it in one hand and a syringe in the other. She drew the water up into the syringe and then squirted it into the plastic bag.

  She was crazy for it; she had waited for so long. She didn’t notice that the contents in the bag foamed a little.

  Smiling, she drew up the solution, put the needle in place and held it still for a moment.

  She had done this so many times before – the tie round the arm, find a vein, pull back blood into the syringe, shoot up.

  The pain was instant.

  She stood up quickly, cried out but her voice didn’t carry. She tried to pull back what she had already injected. The vein had swollen up already, an almost centimetre-high ridge running from wrist to elbow.

  Then the pain passed and her skin went black, as the washing powder had corroded the blood vessel.

  TUESDAY 4 JUNE

  Jochum Lang was not asleep. The last night was always the worst.

  It was the smell. When the key turned in the lock for the last time, it always hit him: the small cells all smelt the same. It didn’t matter which prison it was, even in the police cells, the walls and the bed and the cupboard and the table and the white ceiling smelt the same.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and lit a fag. Even the air pressure in the cells felt the same. That sounded plain fucking stupid and he couldn’t tell anyone, but it was the truth that every cell in every prison and every jail had the same air pressure and it wasn’t like in any other room.

  He felt like belling the security desk – he always belled on the last night inside – so he went over to the metal plate with the intercom and pressed the red Call button long and hard.

  Fucking screw took his time.

  The red lamp went on and the central security desk replied.

  ‘What’s up, Lang?’

  Jochum bent forwards to speak close up into the pathetic microphone.

  ‘I want a shower. Get this fucking smell off.’

  ‘Forget it. You’re still locked up in here. Like the rest.’

  Jochum hated the lot of them. He had done his time, but these little shits had to show who was on top to the bitter end.

  He went back to the bed, sat down and looked around the cell. He would give them ten minutes and then try again. They usually gave in after the third or fourth try, came along to open up and stood aside just enough for him to push past. With only one night left, he obviously wouldn’t want to do anything out of order, but once outside they might meet him anywhere in town, and sometimes it was wise not to have too much shared history with inmates.

  He got up, walked about. A couple of paces to the window, a few more back to the metal door.

  He packed as slowly as he could, cramming two years and four months into a plastic carrier bag. Two books, four packets of fags, soap and toothbrush. Radio and the pile of letters. An unopened packet of tobacco. He put the bag on the table.

  He belled again. The fucker still took his time. Irritated, he put his mouth close to the microphone and growled. His breath misted the metal surround.

  ‘I want my clothes.’

  ‘Seven o’clock, mate.’

  ‘I’ll wake the whole fucking wing.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Jochum banged on the door. Someone banged in response on a door on the other side of the corridor. Then another. Quite a noise. The screw was faster this time.

  ‘Lang, you’re creating a disturbance.’

  ‘That’s right. Like I said.’

  The duty officer sighed.

  ‘So you did. Look, I’ll have you escorted to the sacks and the desk to check your stuff out. Then back you go. You won’t get out
until seven.’

  The corridor was empty.

  No one was up and about. The others, with years to wait behind their locked doors, had fallen quiet again. Who had any use for the dawn? He walked through the unit, along a corridor with eight cells on each side, passed the kitchen, passed the room with a billiard table and a TV corner. The screw was right in front of him, a little runt with a thin back. He could easily do him over, ten minutes after he’d finished his time – he’d done it before.

  The screw unlocked the main unit door and led the way through the long underground corridors where Jochum had walked so many times before. The store was located next to the central security desk, behind the wall with CCTV monitors. Being there meant getting out. Just wandering among the hundreds of hessian sacks that smelt of the cellar, then finding the right one – opening it, trying on the clothes. Too small, they were always too small. This time he had put on seven kilos, bigger than ever. He had worked out regularly and bloody hard. He looked around. No mirrors. Rows of cardboard boxes with name tags, the belongings of the lifers who had no digs outside and kept what they owned boxed up in a storeroom at Aspsĺs prison.

  He had taken the Karl Lagerfeld bottle back with him. The screw hadn’t noticed or else didn’t give a fuck either way. Jochum hadn’t smelt like a free man since they stripped him on Day One. No alcoholic fluids allowed in the unit. He undressed and, standing naked in the middle of his cell, emptied the aftershave over his shaved head, its contents flowing over his shoulders and torso and dripping down over his feet and on to the floor, the powerful scent stripping off his prison coating.

  Ten to seven. The screw was punctual.

  The cell door opened wide. Jochum grabbed his carrier bag, spat on the floor and walked out.

  All he had to do now was change into the tight clothes he had just tried on, collect the release money, a pitiful three hundred kronor, and the one-way train ticket, tell the screw to go to hell as the gate slowly swung open, and walk out, bag in hand, giving the finger to the guard at the security camera. And turn sharp right, to the nearest stretch of wall, open his flies and piss against the concrete greyness.

  The wind was blowing outside.

  At the far end of the ground floor of the police headquarters, the dawn chorus was competing with Siw Malmkvist. As ever. Ewert Grens had served in the force for thirty-three years and had an office of his own for thirty. His cassette player, a present for his thirtieth birthday, had been around for almost as long. It was one of those large, lumpy things which combine a mono speaker and a tape deck. Every time he moved office he would carry it himself, cradled in his arms. Ewert only played Siw Malmkvist. A home-made rack held his collection of all her recordings, Siw’s entire repertoire, in different orders on different tapes.

  This morning it was ‘Tunna skivor’ (1960), the Swedish version of ‘Everybody’s Somebody’s Fool’. He was always the first one in and turned the sound up as high as he liked. The odd bod might complain about the noise, but as long as he acted the sour old bugger they let him be, on the whole, left him to it. He kept life at bay behind his closed door, buried in his investigations while Siw belted out Sixties pop.

  His mind was still caught up in yesterday. It had been good to see Anni in her crisply ironed dress, her hair neatly combed. She had looked at him more often than usual, almost made contact. As if, for a few moments, he was more than just a stranger sitting beside her and holding her hand.

  And later that morning, Bengt’s nice home, so full of life. Breakfast with messy kids and kind looks. As always, he had been full of gratitude. As always, he had nodded and smiled, while Bengt and Lena and the kids treated him like a member of the family, just as they always did. Yet he had felt lonelier than ever and that bloody awful feeling was still hanging around him now.

  He turned up the volume and started pacing up and down on the worn linoleum. He had to think about something else. Anything but that. No doubting today, not any more. He had made a decision, chosen this place, this job. If the working life of a policeman meant missing out on some of the good things in life, so be it. That was how things had panned out. One day followed the other, making it thirty-three years in the end. No woman and no children and no real friends, just his long, devoted service, due to end in less than ten years from now. When it ended, he would cease to be.

  Ewert looked around the room. The room was his only for as long as he put in the hours. When he retired this would become someone else’s office. On he paced. Limping, his large, heavy body turning at the bookshelf and then at the window. He was not good-looking, he knew that, but he had been powerful, intense and brooding. Now he was just angry most of the time. He pulled his fingers through what had once been hair and now was grey, cropped tufts.

  That song.

  The tears I cried for you could fill an ocean,

  But you don’t care how many tears I cry.

  And so, for a while, he forgot. It was morning now and his mind turned to the piles of documents on his desk, reports to be read and investigations to be completed. He had to deal with them, come what may.

  A knock on the door. He ignored it. Too early.

  Whoever it was opened the door.

  ‘Ewert?’

  It was Sven.

  Ewert didn’t say anything, he simply pointed at his visitor’s chair. Sven Sundkvist came in and sat down. He was one generation younger than his colleague, a slightly built, straight-backed man with pale, short hair. Apart from Bengt Nordwall, Sven was the only one in the police house whom Ewert didn’t detest. The lad had a good head on his shoulders.

  Sven said nothing, because he had realised long ago that Siw’s songs were Ewert’s past, another, happier time that Sven knew nothing about. He sensed how powerful these memories were, though.

  No one spoke. Only the music.

  A buzzing noise as the tape came to an end and then the snap when the elderly machine’s Play button popped up.

  Two and a half minutes.

  Ewert stood still, cleared his throat and spoke for the first time that day.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Morning.’

  Ewert walked over to his desk, his chair. He sat down, looked at Sven.

  ‘And what do you want? Apart from saying good morning?’

  ‘You know, don’t you, that Lang gets out as of today?’

  Ewert made an irritated gesture.

  ‘Yep. I know.’

  ‘That’s all. I was actually on my way to an interrogation. The heroin addict who flogged washing powder.’

  A second passed, maybe two. Ewert suddenly hit his desk with both hands. Sheets of paper showered on to the floor.

  ‘Twenty-five years.’

  He hit the desk again. Now that the documents had scattered, his hands slapped against wood.

  ‘Twenty-five years, Sven.’

  She was lying under the car.

  He stopped, he jumped out, ran over to her motionless body, over to the blood that was gushing from somewhere in her head.

  The piles of papers were all over the floor. Sven could see that Ewert was clearly caught up in thoughts he had no intention of sharing with anyone. He bent down and randomly picked up a few of the scattered documents and read out loud.

  ‘“Trainee teacher, found naked in Rĺlambshov Park,”’ he read aloud. ‘“One leg broken below knee. Both thumbs broken. Criminal Act Not Confirmed.”’

  He started on the next sheet of paper, his finger following the lines.

  ‘“Insurance office worker, found in Eriksdal Wood. Knifed in the chest, four times. Nine potential witnesses. No one noticed anything. Criminal Act Not Confirmed.”’

  Ewert felt the anger, the rage. It started in his stomach and made his whole body ache. It had to be released. He waved at Sven, to make him move out of the way. Sven moved over. He knew.

  Ewert took aim and kicked the waste-paper basket across the room. Its contents rained down everywhere. Silently and
almost automatically, Sven started to make a pile of the empty tobacco tins and coffee-stained paper cups.

  When he had finished he went on reading aloud.

  ‘“Suspected grievous bodily harm. Criminal Act Not Confirmed. Suspected manslaughter. Criminal Act Not Confirmed. Suspected murder. Criminal Act Not Confirmed.”’

  Sven had interrogated Jochum Lang more times than he could remember. He had used every technique recommended in the college textbooks and quite a few others besides. Once, a few years ago, he had almost managed, he had just about won his trust through showing him that he could cope with anything, no matter how shitty, if he wanted to open up. If Jochum talked, Sven would listen. Regardless. Jochum had taken this on board, but backed away just when he seemed ready and carried on as before, asking for fags, staring out the window. Later he clammed up totally, admitting nothing, not even to taking a dump now and then.

  Sven turned to face his boss.

  ‘Ewert, these papers that you flung all over the floor – I could go on for ever.’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘“Intimidation of court witnesses, aggravated abduction . . .” He’s under suspicion on twenty different counts.’

  ‘I said, enough.’

  ‘Found guilty on only three occasions. Short sentences. The first time . . . Let’s see. Yes, for “causing serious injury”.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’

  Sven jumped, didn’t recognise the face of the man who was shouting at him. Ewert was often loud and aggressive in Sven’s presence, but his anger was normally directed at someone else. This time was different.

  Ewert turned away, marched over to the cassette player. The ancient apparatus started up again, playing the same tape.

  Yes, everybody’s somebody’s fool.

  I told myself it’s best that I forget you.

  Ewert listened and Siw’s voice cooled his rage. I can’t take much more, he thought. It could all end here and now. At this moment in time. Jochum Lang was one of those villains who had kept him at it for thirty-three years, nose to the grindstone and never a thought of stopping, of drawing breath, until the sentence had been pronounced. If he couldn’t nail scum like him by now, he might as well give up. Drop it, go home and dare to live. During the last year, thoughts of this kind had bothered him; he dismissed them, but they came back, more distinct, more often.