The Beast (ewert grens)

by Anders Roslund

  Bengt was watching from the window, Helena and Ove at his side. He was almost hysterical, applauding his dog and shouting to it.

  ‘Good dog! Well done, Baxter! The peddo is where he belongs. Baxter! Watch!’

  The dog stopped barking, sat down and fixed its eyes on the door handle.

  Bengt, laughing now, clapped his hands for a little longer. Then he turned away from the window and caught the look in Elisabeth’s eyes, saw how much she despised him. She shook her head slightly at him.

  He suddenly realised that she was ugly, old and ugly, with her sneering face and flabby tits.

  She could never make him want her, long for her again, not any more.

  The cool release brought by the rain seemed a distant memory now. The heat was back. It was more obvious in the prison, where the high perimeter wall trapped the air over the flat expanse of the gravel yard. Hilding had gone out for a walk, wearing a pair of shorts and nothing on the bony upper half of his body. No one else was around. He was worried. Dickybird would soon discover it, he’d know who’d done it, and that it was his closest friend and ally would mean zilch. Hilding would be worked over. He expected it. If you nick from your mate you get hammered, simple as that. And he had nicked something important.

  He had got Axelsson out of harm’s way. The peddo had got the message, crawled off to the screws and licked arse. They saw his point right enough and tucked the fucking nonce away in seg wing. Sure enough, Dickybird had lost it when he heard; he figured the beast had been warned off, but couldn’t be sure. Above all, he couldn’t be sure who’d done it. He went berserk, screaming and kicking at the wall. Still, he had calmed down afterwards. He even agreed to a couple of games and magically got two tens of diamonds in one of the rounds.

  Hilding scratched his sore and kept walking, from one pair of goal posts to the other. He counted each round. Sixty-seven so far. Thirty-three left.

  He shouldn’t have gone and smoked all the shit. But what the fuck, the Axelsson business had taken it out of him, he’d had it by then. He had earned just a small one, like a prize, kind of. Alone in the shower-room, he got the resin out and rolled himself one. It had been as fucking bloody marvellous as last time, his body felt all relaxed, he smoked another small one and then, somehow, the rest went the same way. It felt brilliant. But that night he suddenly realised that this time he was really asking for it. Afterwards he stayed awake, waiting for the morning and the beating that would come. Except it didn’t.

  Two days ago that was. Soon he’d attack. Hilding waited and scratched.

  One more round. The hundredth.

  Sweat was pouring off him. Maybe he should do another hundred. It was almost like getting high, this steady walking in the hot sun. His thoughts flowed slowly and easily. He decided to keep going until someone else came outside.

  After one hundred and fifty-seven goes, the Russian turned up with a ball under his arm. Hilding went to take a cold shower; the water burned in his sore. Then he put on clean kit, pants, socks and shorts, and started walking in the corridor, driven by his anxiety. Three hundred times he passed the cells, reached the pool table and turned back. Everything was quiet, apart from the telly. It was on, as usual. The news was about the murder of the little girl and then about Lund. He forced himself to listen to distract himself from his growing fear.

  He hadn’t been in such a state for years, ever since he came under Dickybird’s protection. But now he was the one who’d screwed up. He had to do something different, blow his mind. Must.

  He knocked on the door to Jochum’s cell, first once, then again when there was no reply. Jochum opened up. He had been asleep, it showed.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘I’m Hilding.’

  ‘So what? Beat it.’

  ‘Just wondered if you were thirsty.’

  He had made up his mind. He had to do it, anything to get rid of that piss-awful ache inside him. So it meant more stealing. It would help if Jochum came along. Dickybird had too much respect to mess with him.

  Jochum came outside.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Come. I’ll show you.’

  Jochum went back inside his cell, then came out again wearing a pair of slippers. He closed the cell door behind him.

  That sod never left the door open. No one ever caught as much as a glimpse inside his cell. Hilding led the way along the route he had just walked three hundred times, past the kitchen, the shower-room, the pool corner.

  Fixed to the corridor wall was a fire-fighting contraption, a pipe made of red-painted metal attached to a black hose. The instructions for use ran into too many words to take in, especially with flames raging around you. Hilding looked around. No screws. He produced a toothbrush mug from the pocket of his shorts and unscrewed the stopper on the pipe.

  ‘Try this. Plain fucking water, a loaf and some apples.’ He filled the mug. The brew smelled bad; he almost retched. ‘This stuff is rotgut. Tastes like shit! But what the fuck!’ He swallowed the murky fluid. ‘It kicks. Just don’t fucking taste it!’

  He filled the mug again and handed it to Jochum.

  ‘It’s been settling for almost four weeks. It’s clearing. And must be ten per cent, easily.’

  Jochum swallowed, gagged, held out the mug.

  ‘Another one.’

  They got through five mugs each. Warmth began to spread through their bodies, and calm; the alcohol was reaching their souls.

  They used to brew in the bucket at the back of the cleaners’ cupboard, but doing it in the emptied fire-gadget was better, it was a closed container and easier to get at. The loaf was for alcohol, and the fruit helped the taste a bit.

  ‘Screw coming!’

  Skåne had been on the alert this time, warning everyone. It was rare for them to turn up in the unit so suddenly. Hilding put the stopper in place and they wandered off; they met a screw on the way, he looked hard at them but didn’t stop them.

  Hilding and Jochum, nicely pissed now, went along to sit on the sofa, united for a while by booze; no one says no to a drink with a mate.

  The TV news was still chewing over the Lund murder; the whole unit had followed the hunt and by now most people had had enough. The kid’s dad had blown the head off the fucking nonce, showing the beasts what the score was. Hilding and Jochum took no notice of the flow of words and images, just sat back feeling relaxed.

  ‘Where’s that tinker mate of yours anyway? I haven’t seen him for days.’

  ‘Dickybird?’

  ‘Yeah. The Diddler.’

  Jochum grinned. Hilding grinned. Fucking good that, the Diddler.

  ‘Holing up in his cell, he can’t hack all that. The shit on the telly.’

  ‘He can’t stand the fucking telly?’

  ‘It’s like… I don’t know. The stuff about the girl and the nonce. It spooks Dicky. Or something. Like, he knows he could’ve done Lund in himself. Before he scarpered.’

  ‘So what? It’s been done.’

  ‘But the kid wouldn’t have been… you know.’

  ‘Happens.’

  Hilding looked around, noted the screw on his way out and lowered his voice.

  ‘Dicky has a daughter too. That’s why.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘He’s got to think like that.’

  ‘Why just him? Lots do. Don’t you?’

  ‘Sure. But his daughter lives near where it happened. Strängnäs. Well, Dicky thinks so, anyway.’

  ‘Thinks? Doesn’t he know?’

  ‘Never even clapped eyes on her in his life.’

  Jochum slid his hand across his shaved scalp, turned away from the TV for a moment to look at Hilding.

  ‘I don’t get this. It wasn’t his kid who was done, right?’

  ‘No. But it could’ve been. That matters for Dicky.’

  ‘Give over.’

  ‘That’s how he thinks. He’s got this photo of her. He had it blown up and put it up on the wall, it’s like a fucking big poster.’ />
  Jochum threw his head back and laughed, a drunk’s wild laugh.

  ‘The tink has fucking lost it, no question. There he is, head stuffed fit to burst with what might’ve happened but didn’t and can’t any more ’cause the nonce is a goner, he’s been shot to bits. The guy is dreaming, must be in worse shape than I thought. He needs a shot of your brew, more than anyone.’

  Hilding stiffened, scared again.

  ‘Fuck’s sake! Don’t tell him!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About us having a drink.’

  ‘Scared of the Diddler, are you?’

  ‘Just take it easy. Don’t tell him.’

  Jochum laughed again and gave Hilding the finger. Then he turned back to the set.

  More reports about the nonce killing.

  The prosecutor, a dead correct-looking bugger with a blond fringe; they had squeezed him up against a wall in the court stairwell and stuck a microphone in his face.

  Just the type, a climber, no experience. He needed shaking up a bit.

  Lars Ågestam did not quite grasp the full implications of it all until he had seen Fredrik Steffansson in the interrogation room.

  At first the case had seemed a gift from the good fairy. Then the fairy shape-changed into an evil witch, the case came to involve a grieving parent and his just anger, and Ågestam had thrown up in the CPS office toilet from utter dread.

  But once Steffansson was arrested, the prosecutor had ceased to be simply someone about to become a has-been, as far as his legal career went.

  Now his situation was far worse.

  Worse because of his constant fear, a fear that meant he could not cross the street without looking over his shoulder. A fear of death.

  In court, he entered a plea that Steffansson should be kept in custody until his trial, on the basis that he was someone ‘on sufficient grounds suspected of murder’. For the defence Kristina Björnsson, his opponent in the Axelsson case, argued that custody was not required, since her plea was that Steffansson had acted with ‘reasonable force’. Expanding on this, she claimed that if freed, Steffansson would not represent any danger to the public, nor act so as to complicate the investigation, nor defect prior to the trial. Björnsson’s conclusion was that her client should be ordered to report daily to the police in Eskilstuna.

  Van Balvas, the sitting judge, took only a minute or two to decide that Fredrik Steffansson was indeed suspected of murder on sufficient grounds and should therefore remain in custody until tried. The date of the trial would be determined presently.

  She rapped the desk with her gavel. Then all hell broke loose.

  First, the crowd inside, near the front door. They wielded microphones and pushed him up against the wall of the stairwell.

  Steffansson has become a popular hero.

  Has he?

  He saved the lives of two little girls.

  So far, we have no proof of this.

  Bernt Lund had their photos.

  Steffansson is accused of having murdered somebody.

  Lund knew the girls’ names. He kept watch on their nursery school.

  Allegedly, Steffansson has committed murder. If that is so, his act must be my chief concern.

  In your opinion, should someone who has prevented the death of innocent citizens be rewarded by a long prison sentence?

  No comment. Your question is out of order.

  In your opinion, did Steffansson do the right thing?

  Bringing about someone’s death can never be the right thing.

  Why?

  If it is proven that we have a case of premeditated murder, there is no option in law.

  Is that so?

  Premeditated murder must be judged for what it is.

  A lifetime prison sentence, then?

  The most severe punishment available in law must be considered.

  You would prefer that the two little girls had been violated and killed, would you?

  What I’m saying is that there is no exemption for grieving dads who commit murder.

  Do you have any children?

  Afterwards, he confronted the rest of them. The public. People had watched, listened, read. Now they shouted at him, threatened him, phoned him to say vile things. Every time he put the receiver down the phone rang again, demanded more of him.

  You’re a shit. Establishment lackey.

  I’m only doing my job.

  Fucking tin soldier. Paragraph-crazy bureaucrat.

  If someone is suspected of breaking the law, it is my duty to prosecute that person.

  You’re a dead man if you go for that dad.

  What you just said is intimidation and against the law.

  DIE!

  Intimidation is a punishable offence.

  We’ll kill your family, one by one.

  He was frightened. All this was for real. The menacing callers were mad, of course, but also representative of a wider public hatred. And they meant what they said. This was serious.

  He went off in search of Ewert Grens.

  Their last talk, when he had exposed his worries about the prosecution, should have changed things, opened doors to a new understanding. Or so he had hoped. Not at all; the old boy was just as difficult, just as unapproachable. In fact, he received the news that Ågestam was scared by threats to himself and his family with a broad grin. The young prosecutor was close to tears, he didn’t want to be, not here of all fucking places, but Grens pretended he hadn’t noticed. Instead he said that threats were par for the course, something a tough prosecutor had to expect, and when there was something more concrete than voices on the phone to report, he was welcome back.

  Lars slammed the door behind him when he left.

  A slow walk back through the hot, stale city air. He had been passing concentrated, dark-yellow urine for days; he supposed it was because the heat and humidity made him sweat so much. Stopping at a newsagent’s for a bottle of mineral water and a copy of the big morning paper, he saw that his picture was on the front page, under the headline Prosecutor insists: life for popular hero.

  Everyone stared at him, even the tourists; he met droves of them, dripping with cameras and camcorders and whatever.

  He walked as fast as he could, quick march all the way to the CPS office.

  He stepped into his room and the phone rang.

  He just looked at it. It rang eight more times.

  He focused on the police investigation documents, read and reread, until the ringing stopped.

  Bengt Söderlund went over the story about Baxter again, how the dog had been nailed to the spot all day, all evening and through the night until the following morning, when he obeyed his master’s command to leave. They had heard all this twice before, Elisabeth who didn’t want to hear at all, Ove and Helena, who had seen it from the beginning, Ola Gunnarsson and Klas Rilke, who laughed louder every time. The same thing had happened in school, when someone had found out something new about a teacher, maybe a smart nickname, and they kept having hysterics about it all through upper school; or in the men’s locker room at the Tallbacka Sports Club, when they fixed boot-studs and put on embrocation for aching muscles, going over and over the time the opponents’ fat, useless goalie had been kicked in the balls.

  This evening they had spent some time playing the gaming machines in the bar and then wandered off to sit at their usual table, before they lost too much of their hard-earned money. Everyone had a beer, enjoyed being there and toasted Baxter, who had made them laugh.

  They were only halfway through the first pint; a warm- up, there was more to come, at least another three or four.

  The discussion would take off, alcohol stimulated the flow of words.

  Bengt drank more slowly than usual. He had made up his mind during the week and prepared himself properly by reading a lot of deadly dull law handbooks. He had the evening all worked out in his head.

  He raised his glass to his companions.

  ‘Drink up, boys and girls. I’ve got something to
say afterwards.’

  They drank. Bengt signalled to the barman to bring another round, and then he began.

  ‘I’ve been thinking. Drawn up a plan of action, you might say. We had better get some law and order round here.’

  The others moved closer, stopped drinking and sat still. Elisabeth clenched her jaw and stared down at the tabletop. Her face was flushed.

  ‘Remember last time we were here? Remember what Helena said?’

  He smiled at Helena.

  ‘Right at the end, before closing time, she stood up and asked us to listen. The late-night news was all about the killing of the paedophile, the father who shot that sex maniac. Afterwards Helena said something that stayed with me. She said, that man is a hero. A hero of our time. He wasn’t going to let a fucking pervert get away with murder. He didn’t hang about waiting for the police. They had messed up before, so he took it in his own hands to act.’

  Helena beamed.

  ‘I meant what I said. That man is a hero. Good-looking, too.’

  She pushed playfully at her Ove, smiled at him. Bengt nodded impatiently. He had more on his mind.

  ‘The trial will start soon. It will take five days and the sentence will come at some point during the last couple of days. We’ll be around when it is.’

  He looked around triumphantly.

  ‘The defence is pushing for something called “reasonable force”, and so are ordinary folk all over the country; they’ll fucking riot if the court comes out in favour of locking him up. I bet it won’t take the risk. The set-up will be the usual, only the judge has law training and the rest are magistrates, not trained in the law so they won’t stick to paragraphs. See what I’m saying? He might well go free, and that’s when we strike. Then it’s our turn.’