‘True, it can’t be much comfort to you that we’re all rooting for you.’
‘I’m ready to leave.’
‘You should’ve been freed.’
‘Let’s go.’
‘You’ll see, there are quite a few people out and about. Lining the roads to where you’re going.’
‘I don’t know where that is.’
‘There’s enough of us who do, don’t you fear. Word gets about. There’ll be protests, loud and clear.’
‘You know, all this is no comfort. You were right about that.’
Then he was handed back his own clothes and left alone again. He changed into what he would wear for a couple of hours at most. Then his things would be locked into a cupboard for ten years and he would be given the other kind of gear, the prison suit that hung loosely on him.
The door opened; no one knocked this time. Two uniformed police, two prison officers, and behind them Grens and Sundkvist.
‘What’s this? Why?’
Grens looked blank, pretending not to understand.
‘Why the crowd?’
Sven, who wasn’t into pretending, told him.
‘We can’t take any risks. We’re escorting you to Aspsås prison. There might be some trouble on the way.’
‘Aspsås?’ Fredrik was startled. ‘Isn’t that where… he was there, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, but you’ll go to another unit, a normal one. Lund was kept in a special unit for sex offenders.’
Fredrik took a step towards Sven and the two policemen moved forward, grabbing his arms. Fredrik backed into the cell, shaking his arms until they let go.
‘You mentioned risks? Do you think I’m going to try to escape?’
‘Your transport will have a police escort. That’s all I can tell you at present.’
It was still early in the morning. It was raining, the drops tapping insistently on the loose piece of guttering. That sound had accompanied his thoughts for several days now.
He might even miss it.
It rained so hard that Fredrik got practically soaked walking the short distance to the prison transfer van that was waiting with its engine running outside the Kronoberg gate. He took longer to get there because his leg-irons cut him when he tried to lengthen his stride.
He was considered unlikely to repeat his crime or to try to escape, but nonetheless his transfer had been classified as a maximum security operation. Two police cars with rotating blue lamps drove ahead of the prison van and behind were two uniformed officers on motorbikes. The violent demonstration outside Kronoberg had taken place only a few weeks ago and was remembered vividly and fearfully. Police guns in the wrong hands, demonstrators being run over, overturned buses, humiliated police. It was too much, no more of that.
Fredrik sat in the back seat, flanked by Sundkvist and Grens. He had begun to feel close to these two men, who knew so much about him. They had turned up at The Dove and interrogated people there, stood by Marie’s body in the forensic mortuary and attended her funeral, decently dressed in black. They had collected him for his retrial, played Siw for an hour and delivered him back to remand prison. And now again on this journey, the last one. Afterwards they’d be finished with him.
He ought to make contact with them. Say something, anything.
But it was too hard.
There was no need.
But they might have felt something similar, because Sundkvist, always the more forthcoming, started speaking.
‘I’m forty years old. My birthday was on the day your daughter was murdered. I had wine and a cake in the car, but I still haven’t celebrated.’
This baffled Fredrik. Was this man pulling his leg? Did he want to be pitied? He couldn’t think of anything to say.
But Sundkvist didn’t seem interested in starting a dialogue.
‘I’ve been in the force for twenty years, that is, for my entire adult life. It’s a weird job, but it’s all I know. All I’m trained to do.’
They had a fifty-kilometre drive ahead, maybe thirty-five or forty minutes of sitting side by side, but Fredrik had had enough. No more talk. He wanted to close his eyes and start counting the hours. Ten years to go.
Sundkvist was on a roll. He sat turned towards Fredrik. His face so close, his breath was almost palpable.
‘I used to believe I was doing something useful. Even good. The right thing. And maybe I have, on the whole. But this is different. You’ll understand, of course you do. I’m ashamed that I’m sitting here, pretending to guard you so we can take you off to an institution and lock you up. It’s a bloody miscarriage of justice! I don’t swear, not normally, but this… Steffansson, it’s a fucking disaster.’
Ah, he was being sympathetic. Fredrik didn’t give a fig for sympathy.
Sundkvist leaned forward, grabbing Fredrik’s damp shirt.
‘Lund sat right here, not long ago. Now it’s you, on a straightforward murder charge. And I’m on duty. But
Steffansson, regardless, I want you to know I’m sorry. Truly sorry.’
Grens had been silent throughout all this, but now he cleared his throat.
‘Sven, look. You’ve said enough.’
‘Enough?’
‘Quite enough.’
The transport continued in silence. It was still raining and the wipers beat regularly, sloshing the water away from the windscreen.
The small convoy left the dual carriageway via a roundabout, passed a couple of garages and then went on to a smaller road through a built-up area. Here they saw the first rows of demonstrators. They formed an unbroken chain, kilometre after kilometre. Some sang, some had brought placards, some shouted in unison when the transport drove past.
Fredrik felt as ill at ease as he had outside Kronoberg. More people who made use of his name and his fate, unknown people who had nothing to do with him. What right did they have? What they did they did for themselves and not for him. It was their outlet, for their fears and their hatred.
The crowds grew the closer they came to Aspsås and especially along the last bit, a gravelled road leading up to the prison gate. Fredrik kept looking down at his lap. The waiting demonstrators were calmer than last time and the atmosphere was less threatening and less aggressive. Even so, he could not bear to look at them. A strong aversion filled him, as if he detested them all.
The van had to stop before it reached the big gate. It simply could not get any closer. Grens estimated quickly that the crowd was a couple of thousand strong. The demonstrators simply stood there, blocking the way.
Grens took charge.
‘Sit still. Wait. This isn’t like last time. They’re here to make a point. Don’t provoke them. We’ll shift them soon enough.’
Fredrik kept looking away. He felt tired and wanted to go to sleep. Get away from the people out there, leave the van and put on the shapeless prison kit. Lie down on a narrow prison bed and stare at the ceiling in his cell, its light fitting. Let the hours pass, one at a time.
They were surrounded by demonstrators, who didn’t sing or shout, just stood shoulder to shoulder, forming a solid human wall. Twenty minutes later, the riot squad arrived, sixty policemen carrying sidearms and shields. But since the crowd stayed passive and unthreatening, the police set about shifting the inert bodies methodically, heaving them aside one by one. Everyone stayed put where he or she had been placed. When a large enough gap had been created, the van inched forward. Straight-backed, the demonstrators watched as the bus finally reached the prison gate and drove inside the walled compound.
Fredrik was marched to the reception entrance, with Sundkvist and Grens holding him by the arms. They handed him over to the guard, nodded briefly and walked away. They had completed their task. From now on the prison system was responsible for Fredrik’s care.
Fredrik saw them go, his last link with the world outside.
Two prison officers took him into the reception for registration. He undressed in front of them and, after donning rubber gloves, they felt around
his mouth and parted his buttocks to probe his anal canal. His clothes were packed in plastic bags and he was handed his droopy suit, told to dress and then wait in a small, cell-like room with a barred window. They told him that he would have to stay there until someone came to fetch him. Then they locked the door.
He had changed, become a prisoner, one of them inside.
He had been sitting on the hard chair in the locked cell for an hour. Sometimes he watched between the bars as the rain splashed into the puddles on the lawn and streamed down the tall wall.
He had tried to think about Marie, but she wouldn’t materialise in his thoughts. She had become elusive, her face blurred and her voice somehow inaudible; he couldn’t hear her.
A knock on the door. Keys rattling. The door opened and another prison officer stepped inside. He seemed familiar. Fredrik felt that he knew him, that he had at least seen him somewhere.
Then the officer made for the door again.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was looking for someone else.’
Fredrik was ransacking his mind. Who was this?
‘Hello. What did you want?’
The officer turned round.
‘Nothing. I said so. A mistake.’
‘I recognise you. Can you think of any reason why I should?’
The man hesitated. He had tried to cope with his sense of guilt for months and now it got its claws into him again.
‘My name is Lennart Oscarsson. I’m in charge of one of the units here. For the pervs, as they say. One of the two units housing sex offenders.’
Of course, the TV interviews. Fredrik had placed him now.
‘It was your fault.’
‘Lund was my responsibility. I authorised his transport and he escaped.’
‘It was your fault, all of it.’
Lennart looked at his accuser. Not much time had passed since Lund’s escape and since this father had lost his daughter. Back then Lennart had already been burdened with guilt, because by trying to love two people and betraying them both, he had cheated on Karin and failed to acknowledge his feelings for Nils. The whole thing had become utterly unbearable. When Lund did a runner, and then when his little victim was found in a wood, coping with the guilt was no longer possible. All these people haunted his dreams at night and perched on his shoulder in the daytime. For a while he had simply gone into hiding, staying in bed all the time.
‘I’ve spoken about you often, with a colleague of mine, someone I trust. Well, now he’s my partner as well. I take everything he says seriously, we agree on this anyway, and it’s something you should know. When Lund was here, we did everything possible to treat him, to cure him, if you like. We tried every kind of therapeutic intervention in the book.’
He half turned to go, but stayed in the doorway. His forehead glistened with sweat, which made his fringe damp.
‘I’m sorry,’ he went on. ‘I could not regret more what happened.’
‘It was your fault.’
Oscarsson held out his hand.
‘I’m sorry. And I wish you well.’
Fredrik looked at the hand in front of him.
‘You can put that somewhere else. I will never shake hands with you.’
His words landed like a blow. Oscarsson sagged, his breathing became laboured and he kept looking at Fredrik in mute appeal. His hand stayed extended. It was trembling.
Fredrik looked away.
Oscarsson waited for a while, gave in, put his hand briefly on Fredrik’s shoulder and then left the cell, locking the door behind him.
By early afternoon the tapping sound of drops on the pane ceased abruptly. It had been the only sound in the cell for what felt like hours, and after several days of nonstop rain the silence seemed odd, empty. Peering out, Fredrik saw that the cloud cover was breaking up.
Later that afternoon the door was unlocked. He had waited for six hours by then. Two bulky prison officers, truncheons at their belts, marched in with heavy steps. New prisoners were the order of the day for them and they were all set to show who was in charge round here. Respect was due, and proper conduct. One of them, he wore spectacles with blue frames, leafed through a document he had brought.
‘Steffansson, that’s you, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. You’ll come with us now. We’ll take you to your unit.’
Fredrik staying where he was.
‘Listen, I’ve been sitting here for a long time. Getting on for seven hours now.’
‘And?’
‘Well, why?’
‘No whys about it.’
‘Are you trying to get a message to me?’
‘What?’
‘Is there some reason for making me wait?’
‘No reason, pal. You wait till you’re told to go. That’s all.’
Fredrik sighed and got up.
‘Where am I going?’
‘I said. To your unit.’
‘What kind of unit is it?’
‘Normal.’
‘Sure. But what kind of people are kept there?’
The officers stared at him, trying to stay calm. Then blue specs looked around the bare cell.
‘You’re a one for asking questions.’
‘I want to know.’
‘What can I tell you? It’s a normal unit. The lads are doing time for every kind of offending. Except sex. That kind we house separately, in specialist units.’ He shrugged. ‘You’ll have to accept this, Steffansson. The unit is your home now. And the lads are company.’
They walked Fredrik along a smelly basement corridor, slowly enough to let him take in the colourful daubs on the walls, presumably meant to be prisoner therapy, but otherwise meaningless images. He counted the steps and calculated that the corridor was at least four hundred metres long.
Every time they passed through doors the routine was the same: a glance towards the camera, a clicking sound as the guard flicked the switch in his cubicle and a nod to the camera, a kind of thanks.
Now and then they met other prisoners being escorted somewhere. They nodded to him and he nodded back.
In the last section of the corridor they turned into a stairway with a sign saying Unit H. His unit, he assumed. Inside the smell of food was the first thing he noticed. Frying something, fish maybe.
‘They’ve just finished supper,’ one of the officers said. ‘You’ll get yours later.’
Another ugly, bleak corridor. Off it he could see a TV room, where a group of prisoners were sitting about, some on chairs and sofas, others playing cards at a table. Ahead, the corridor narrowed and there were cell doors along both its sides. Most of the doors were open. At the far end was another room with a table-tennis table.
‘You’re in cell fourteen, that’s over there, almost at the end.’
The card-players looked up when he walked past. One of them, who had dark hair and wore a gold chain round his neck, had been speaking loudly. Now he fell silent and fixed his eyes on Fredrik. The others consisted of one big one, with muscles like a body-builder and long hair tied at the back of his neck; opposite him a foreigner of some kind, short and dark-skinned and moustachioed, maybe a Turk or a Greek; and the fourth man was one of those emaciated types who had junkie written all over them.
His cell door was open. Apart from being slightly larger, it looked exactly like the one he had left in the remand prison. Same bare furnishings, same barred window, same gloomy colours, dirty pale green and diluted piss yellow. The bed wasn’t made. At one end a rolled-up blanket, one sheet and a pillow without a pillowcase.
He reacted as he had this morning, slapped his hand against the wall and started to laugh. The pain went away for a moment.
The officer fingered his blue specs.
‘You’re laughing. What’s up?’
‘Nothing’s up. Is laughing forbidden?’
‘I thought you were having a breakdown or whatever.’
Fredrik started making the bed. He wanted to close the door, lie down, rest, stare a
t the ceiling.
‘Hey. You were right before, you know.’
Fredrik looked at the officer.
‘You were kept waiting in reception for quite a long time. Now, do you want to shower? I’ll get you a towel if you do.’
‘Why not? OK, yes.’
‘Hang on then. I’ll be back.’
Fredrik held out a hand.
‘Wait. Is it safe?’
‘Safe?’
‘I mean, safe to shower. Or will somebody have a go? You know.’
The officer grinned.
‘Take it easy, Steffansson. No fear. No poofs or pervs in straight Swedish prisons. Nobody will try to fuck you in the shower.’
Fredrik stopped making the bed, sat down on it to wait, counting the lines in a long row that someone had drawn with red biro on the skirting board. He had got as far as one hundred and sixteen when the officer came back with a towel and a pair of plastic flip-flops.
Outside his cell two men shook hands with him and said they lived next door. From the card table voices were raised in an argument. The junkie was nagging about how there was one king too many in the deck and the man with the gold chain told him to shut it. Then he noticed Fredrik standing there and stared at him; his eyes were looking mad. He hated, and Fredrik could not work out why he should.
Then he was alone in a large tiled room with four showers. He closed the door to shut out all sounds and turned on the water, which would help him to absent himself for a while.
Dickybird checked out the new one. He remembered what the screws had been saying, how excited they had been. When the perv came out with his towel, he suddenly put his hand down in mid-game.
‘Got to go to the john. Fucking nuisance. Hey, Skåne!’
‘What’s that?’
‘You play, but don’t miss a trick.’
He gave Skåne his cards and went off towards the toilets. A quick glance to make sure the players were staying put, the coast was clear, then he went on to the shower-room. He stayed there for a minute maybe, not much longer.
It had sounded like a blow against the door. At least that was how the first prison officer on the scene described it afterwards. As if someone had struck the closed door to be heard, to be let out. When he saw Fredrik come out, or rather fall out, the first thing he noticed was that the prisoner was holding his hand pressed against his lower stomach area. That was where the knife had cut most deeply, where the heaviest flow of blood was coming from. The officer rang the alarm and ran towards the injured man, who was lying on the floor trying to say something, with blood being expelled rhythmically from his mouth. When words would not form, he had looked towards Dickybird Lindgren with fear in his eyes. That was how the officer described it; he called the look in the dying man’s eyes fearful, or frightened. Two colleagues had turned up on the run and together they had stopped the bleeding. Then someone felt for his pulse.
The Beast (ewert grens) Page 26
