'Hi there, Wildboy, listen to this, who do you think scooped the whole fucking pot? Who's sitting here with thousands of smackers owing to him, eh?'
Hilding wasn't listening; instead he showed Dickybird the paper.
'Look at this, you should read it, Dickybird. It's a letter. Milan got it today. He showed it to me in the crapper. Thought I'd better tell you. It's from Branco.'
Dickybird collected the matches, put them into a matchbox.
'Oh fuck off, sweetie. I can't be arsed reading letters that aren't to me.'
'I think you should. And Branco thinks you should.'
Dickybird stared at the sheet of paper in his hand, turned it over, tried to give it back.
'Forget it.'
'OK, just read the last bit. From there.'
Hilding pointed and Dickybird looked.
'Errr… I…' He cleared his throat. '"I hold… hope…" My eyes aren't right today, they're aching something awful. Hilding, you read this shit.'
He carried on rubbing energetically while Hilding read the last few lines.
'It says, "I hope there are no misunderstandings about where Jochum Lang fits in. He is my friend. Here is a piece of good advice for you. You treat him nicely. Signed Branco Miodrag." And I recognise the handwriting.'
Dickybird had been listening in silence, standing very still. Now he held out his hand, took the letter and made his eyes follow the ink pattern of the signature. A Serb or some other fucking wog. He threw the letter on the floor, then the matchbox, and stamped on the lot. He looked up and towards the cell doors in the corridor, then met the eyes of the men around him. Hilding slowly shook his head. Skåne did the same, and so did Dragan and Bekir. Dickybird was bending to pick up the paper with the black imprint of the sole of his shoe when he heard a cell door open at the far end of the corridor.
It was like the guy had been hanging around inside, just waiting for the right moment. Jochum walked towards the still half-kneeling Dickybird.
'Fuck's sake, Jochum, no need for any papers. You don't need to show me nothing. We thought we'd just fool around a bit.'
Jochum kept walking past him, not looking his way, but just as he passed he whispered something, and it sounded like a shout in the silence.
'You had a letter then, tjavon?'
* * *
The nursery school was called The Dove. It had always been called The Dove, but the reason why was unclear. There were no living birds anywhere near. Was it Dove as in Love or as in Peace? No one knew, not even a redoubtable lady from the local council who had been around for ever, or at least ever since The Dove had opened, the first modern day- nursery school in town.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon, normally the time for outdoor play, but the school had shut itself off from the onslaught of the heat and the children were allowed to stay inside. It had become obvious a while ago that their small bodies couldn't cope in the open playground. With thirty degrees in the shade, it must have been fifteen more in the full sun.
Most of the twenty-six children didn't want to go outside, but Marie did. She was bored with playing Indians and having her face painted, because none of the others were any good at painting; they did lines and picked colours like brown or blue. She thought red rings were great, but nobody else liked them, they just didn't want to do rings at all. She almost kicked David when he said no, he didn't want to, but then she remembered he was her best friend and you weren't meant to kick your best friend, not for little things anyway. So she changed into her outdoor shoes and went outside to play because the pedal-car was free. It was bright yellow.
She drove for quite a long time, twice round the house, and three times round the play-shed, and up and down the long path, and then she tried it inside the sandpit but the silly car wouldn't do it, so she kicked it like she'd wanted to kick David and said nasty things to it. But it didn't move. And then a dad came, the one who'd been waiting on the bench all day. Her daddy had nodded to him, like saying hello. The dad seemed nice. He asked if it was OK to lift the car, and she said yes please and then he did. She said thank you and he smiled, but then he looked sad and said did she want to look, there was a tiny dead baby rabbit next to the seat and it was such a shame.
Officer in charge of the interrogation Sven Sundkvist (SS):
Hello there.
David Rundgren (DR): Hello,
SS: My name is Sven. What's yours? DR: I… (inaudible)
SS: Did you say David?
DR: Yes.
SS: That's a nice name. I've got a son who's almost your age. Two years older. His name is Jonas.
DR: I know someone called that too.
SS: Do you like him?
DR: He's one of my friends,
SS: Do you have lots of friends?
DR: Yes. Quite a lot.
SS: That's very good. Brilliant. Is one of your friends called Marie?
DR: Yes.
SS: Did you know that I wanted to talk to you about Marie especially?
DD: Yes I did. We're to talk about Marie.
SS: Brilliant. Do you know what I want to do first? I'd like you to tell me how school went today.
DD: OK.
SS: Nothing unusual happened?
DD: What?
SS: Was everything like it always is?
DD: Yes. Like always.
SS: Everybody played with different things?
DD: Yes. Mostly we all played Indians,
SS: Everybody played Indians?
DD: Yes. Everybody. I had blue lines,
SS: Did you? Blue lines… and everybody played, all the time?
DD: Well, almost. Almost all the time.
SS: Marie too? Did she play all the time?
DD: Yes, at first. But not later on.
SS: Not later on? Please tell me why she didn't play any more.
DD: She didn't like (inaudible) lines. I did. Then she went outside. She was cross because she wanted rings. Nobody else wanted rings 'cause everybody liked lines better. Lines like my (inaudible). And then I said to her that you must have lines too and she said no, I want rings, but nobody wanted to paint rings. And then she went outside. Nobody else wanted to go outside. It was too hot. We were allowed to stay in and we did. And we played Indians,
SS: Did you see when Marie went outside?
DD: No.
SS: Not at all?
DD: She just went. She was cross, I think,
SS: Did you see Marie later?
DD: Yes. Through the window.
SS: What did you see through the window?
DD: Marie and the pedal-car. She's almost never had it. And she got stuck.
SS: How do you mean, stuck?
DD: Stuck in the sandpit.
SS: She was in the pedal-car and it was stuck in the sandpit.
So what did Marie do next?
DD: She kicked it. The car.
SS: She kicked the car. Did she do anything else?
DD: And she said something,
SS: What did she say?
DD: I didn't hear.
SS: And what happened afterwards, after she had kicked the car and said something?
DD: The man came,
SS: What man?
DD: The man who came.
SS: Where were you?
DD: Inside. Looking out through the window.
SS: Was it far… were they far away?
DD: Ten.
SS: Ten what?
DD: Ten metres.
SS: Marie and the man were ten metres away?
DD: (inaudible)
SS: Do you know how far away ten metres is?
DD: It's quite far.
SS: But you're not quite sure exactly how far?
DD: No.
SS: Tell you what, David. Come over here to this window.
Look at the car over there. OK?
DD: OK.
SS: Is that car as far away as Marie and the man?
DD: Yes.
SS: Really truly?
DD:
Yes, that's how far it was.
SS: And when the man had come along, what happened?
DD: He helped Marie lift the pedal-car. He was quite strong.
SS: Did anybody else see the man lifting the car?
DD: No. It was only me there. In the hall.
SS: No teacher?
DD: No. Only me.
SS: What did the man do afterwards?
DD: He said things to Marie.
SS: What did Marie do?
DD: She said things to him. They talked.
SS: What clothes did Marie have on?
DD: The same ones.
SS: The same as when?
DD: The same that she had on when she came to school.
SS: Can you remember what Marie had on? Colours and so on?
DD: She had a green T-shirt. Humpie has got one just like that.
SS: And?
DD: Her red shoes. Her best. With metal things,
SS: Metal things?
DD: For closing them. So they stay on.
SS: Trousers? Skirt?
DD: I can't remember,
SS: Maybe a skirt?
DD: Maybe. Not proper trousers, it was too hot.
SS: What about the man? What was he like?
DD: Big. And strong, he could lift the pedal-car out of the sandpit.
SS: Can you remember what he was wearing?
DD: Trousers. And a top. I think. And a baseball cap.
SS: What kind?
DD: The kind you have on your head.
SS: Can you remember anything about the cap?
DD: Yes. It was like the ones they sell in Statoil garages.
SS: What did Marie and the man do next?
DD: They walked away.
SS: Where did they go?
DD: To the gate. And the man fixed the thing.
SS: What did he fix?
DD: The lock-thing on the gate.
SS: The hook on top that you've got to lift straight up to open the gate?
DD: Yes. He did that,
SS: Then what did they do? DD: They went outside in the street. SS: Do you remember which way they walked?
DD: Just out. I couldn't see.
SS: Why did they leave?
DD: Don't know. We're not allowed. To go out, I mean. It's not allowed.
SS: How did they look? What mood were they in?
DD: Not angry.
SS: No? Not angry, but instead…?
DD: They were pleased, a bit.
SS: Did they look pleased when they left?
DD: Not angry, anyway.
SS: How long could you keep watching them?
DD: Not long. Not after the gate,
SS: So they disappeared?
DD: Yes.
SS: Is there anything else you want to tell me?
DD: (inaudible)
SS: David?
DD: (silence)
SS: Never mind. You've been very, very helpful, David. You're very good at remembering things. Would it be all right if I left you here for just a little while? I'd like to speak to some other men.
DD: I'm all right.
SS: Afterwards I'll go and get your mummy and daddy. They're waiting for you downstairs.
* * *
II
(A WEEK)
Fredrik caught the two o'clock ferry. The ferries, in their moss-green and sun-yellow livery, set out every hour on the hour. Crossing the strait between Okö and Arnö took only four or five minutes, but marked the divide between mainland and island. For him, it symbolised a shift from time that raced to time that lingered. He had bought an old cottage on the island a month or so before Marie was born, when writing at home had looked like becoming impossible. The cottage had been half ruined, and surrounded by a jungle, but it was only fifteen minutes away by car. During the first couple of summers Agnes had helped him recreate a house and a garden from this ruin in the wilderness. Eventually a novel trilogy had emerged from it, books that had sold rather well and were now being translated into German, which really pleased his publishers, only too aware that the market for foreign publication rights was tough.
Fredrik knew he wouldn't be able to write anything today, but had made up his mind to pretend to himself he might. He went through the routine, settled down in front of the little square screen with his pile of untidy notes at hand. Quarter of an hour passed, half an hour, three quarters of an hour. He turned on the television in the room next door, it was companionable to have it mumbling away at low volume. It joined the commercial radio station that was playing worn pop tunes, too familiar to attract any attention.
After a while he decided to take a short walk. He went down to the water's edge and observed people messing about in boats, a simple but pleasing show that was always on.
Still nothing written, not a word. He must stay until he had one phrase that looked worth keeping on paper.
The telephone rang.
These days it was always Agnes. Everybody else had stopped trying. Knowing what a rude bastard he was when someone disturbed him in mid-sentence, it was amazing that he hadn't realised sooner that people had been scared off. It was only when the writer's block had tightened its grip and the screen stayed forever blank that he discovered how emptiness had crept up on him. He didn't know what to think about it, his isolation seemed both beautiful and ugly.
'Yes?'
'No need to sound so cross.'
'I'm writing.'
'What are you writing?'
'Well. It's a bit slow at the moment.'
'That'd mean nothing, then.'
It was no good lying to Agnes. They had seen each other naked too often.
'Yes, roughly. I'm sorry. What do you want?'
'We've got a daughter, remember? I'd like to know how she is. We do phone each other at times and it's always about her, you know that. I tried earlier, but you made Marie put the phone down so I didn't get to hear anything. Now I want some answers.'
'Marie is fine. Really, she is, all the time. For one thing, she's one of those rare people who don't suffer when it's as hot as it is now. She gets that from you.'
He had a vision of Agnes' tanned body, imagined what she looked like now, curled up in her office chair, wearing a thin dress. He had longed for her every morning, every day, every night until he learned to control it by shutting her image away, learned to be brisk and no-nonsense and free.
'What about school? What happens when you leave her there now?'
Aha, Micaela, you want to know about Micaela. Good! Agnes must be troubled by his relationship with a woman much younger than either of them. Never mind that it wouldn't make Agnes come back to him, she wouldn't crawl just because he loved someone who was as beautiful as that, but he felt good about it. Childish maybe, but enjoyable.
'It's much better now. This morning it took maybe ten minutes and then she was off, playing Indians with David.'
'Indians?'
'Yes, that's what they're up to now.'
He started to wander about holding the phone, left the small kitchen with the table where he worked and went into the even smaller sitting room to sit down in an armchair. Her timing had been perfect, he couldn't have endured staring at the blank computer screen for much longer.
He was just about to ask her about her life in Stockholm, how she was getting on, although this was something he hardly ever did because he feared what she might say, maybe that she loved her new life and had found somebody special to share it with, but then his mind suddenly fixed on an image on the mumbling television set in the middle of the room.
'Agnes, wait. Hold it.'
The black-and-white still showed a smiling man with short darkish hair. Fredrik recognised the face. He had seen it recently. He had seen it today: it was the man on the seat by the school gate, the father waiting outside The Dove. They had nodded to each other. Now a new image, still of the father, but this time in colour. The photo had been taken inside a prison; there was a wall behind the man and he was flanked by two pri
son guards. He was waving to the camera, or at least that was what it looked like.
The Beast Page 10
