The Beast (ewert grens)

by Anders Roslund

  They pulled him up from the floor, all agreeing that they were lifting a dead body.

  The cards were in untidy piles on the table. The game ended immediately when the new prisoner fell to the floor bleeding. They knew enough about what the blade of a sharp knife could do to a man’s insides, realised this one was a goner and that there’d be trouble.

  Jochum hovered at the far end of the corridor. He was sweating. His shaven skull was glistening. He had just welcomed the new inmate, shaken the guy’s hand and said that he had followed the whole thing on TV, felt bad about it and would willingly help with whatever. And now there was the brave dad, dead on the floor.

  He walked quickly past the officers and across to the card-players. With his face centimetres away from Dickybird’s he hissed out the words.

  ‘What was that in aid of?’

  Dickybird licked his lips.

  ‘Mind your own fucking business.’

  ‘You stupid bastard… do you know who that was? The guy you did in?’ Jochum had raised his voice.

  Dickybird was smiling now, and turned to face the other man.

  ‘Course I fucking know. Another peddo. A beast. But now he won’t fuck about with little kids no more.’

  The unit door was pulled open. Fifteen officers in full riot gear. Helmets with visors down, shields, black overalls. The emergency squad almost encircled the unit inmates.

  ‘You all know the score!’

  Jochum pushed Dickybird to the side and looked at the screw, who was shouting at the top of his voice and banging on the table with his truncheon.

  ‘We want no hassle! You know what to do. Bugger off into your cells! One at a time!’

  The prisoners in the furthest cells filed away first, followed by two officers. Each cell door was locked. Next, two men who had been in the kitchen were sent off. Everyone left quietly. The whole unit was silent.

  The officer in charge pointed to one of the card-players on the sofa.

  ‘You next.’

  Skåne rose, glaring at the screws. He hated them, always, and gave them the finger before he moved off.

  It was Dickybird’s turn.

  ‘You.’

  He stayed where he was.

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Move!’

  Dickybird stood up, but instead of walking towards the cell corridor he bent over, grabbed the table and tipped it so that it fell against the line-up of guards, showering their black-booted feet with cards. Then he turned, leapt over the back of the sofa and, in a few strides, got to a large aquarium along the wall.

  ‘Fucking fascist pigs! No peace for a game of cards! Now you’re gonna get it!’

  As he howled this he placed his hands on either side of the aquarium and pushed. The panes of glass gave. The entire glass box disintegrated and four hundred litres of water gushed towards the emergency squad.

  As the helmeted men ran to get him, he had already managed to grab one of the pool cues and waved it about crazily, hitting out and striking the first officer to get near him hard on his neck. Then he made a dash to the duty guards’ cubicle, locked the door and set about wrecking it. Everything was kicked and beaten to pieces, the TV set, the communication mikes, the fridge. Lamp, flowerpot, mirror. When they managed to break the door open, his long weapon forced them to attack behind raised shields. They formed a circle, walling him in.

  The senior officer had stayed in the corridor.

  ‘Bag him there. Off to solitary,’ he commanded.

  The four prisoners who had not been marched off to their cells were watching Dickybird’s attack of manic rage and its inevitable end. Jochum checked out the situation wearily, the unbreakable glass cubicle walls, the scattered screws. He mumbled something in Dragan’s ear.

  Dragan got the message and suddenly ran towards one of the officers outside the cubicle and kicked him hard between the legs. The man fell with a scream and his nearby colleagues turned to see. The momentary confusion was all Jochum needed. He crashed his fist into the temple of a man blocking his way, broke through the ring outside the cubicle and strode in to stand by Dickybird’s side.

  ‘Now, Jochum, tjavon! We’ll make the pigs work! Let’s beat the hell out of them!’

  Dickybird felt strong again with the big man at his side, and started waving the cue towards the hated uniforms. He didn’t notice Jochum’s arm moving, only felt the fist that struck his face, then his midriff.

  ‘What the fuck…?’ He was bending over, whimpering.

  Jochum grabbed the crouching body next to him and ran it into the wall, head first. By the time the officers got to him, Dickybird was unconscious.

  Ewert Grens slammed the car door shut and turned to Sven.

  ‘No end to it. All fucking summer, and they’re still at it.’

  Sven stared at the ground. A stone. He wanted to kick it.

  ‘I told Jonas my case was over. Done with. The dad had been locked up. Do you know what Jonas said? He said it was brill. Totally brill that the dad was in prison, because it was only fair. But it was fair that he would get out sometime soon, too. His girl had been murdered first, after all. Now I don’t know what I tell him. Not that he doesn’t know; the telly news people won’t stop broadcasting this.’

  They had reached the small door next to the main gate. Ewert rang the bell.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Grens and Sundkvist. City police.’

  ‘I recognise you by now.’

  They crossed the parking lot for Aspsås staff; Bergh just waved them on.

  They stopped in the large entrance hall. The door to the visitors’ room they had booked stood open. It wasn’t exactly welcoming. Ewert gestured vaguely towards the plastic-covered mattress on the bed and the roll of kitchen paper. He was sickened by being in the place where the inmates were allowed to entertain their women once a month, shagging until some of their wretchedness was forgotten for a while.

  They shifted the table to the centre of the room, put two chairs along one side and went out to fetch a third chair, then set up the tape recorder and two microphones.

  He was escorted by two officers. Ewert greeted them, and then turned to the escort. ‘Wait outside, please.’

  A man wearing a pair of odd, blue-framed spectacles objected noisily to the order. ‘We should stay in here.’

  ‘No. If we need you we’ll let you know. This interrogation is no spectator sport.’

  Ewert Grens (EG): I’m turning on the recorder now.

  Jochum Lang (JL): Fine.

  EG: Please state your full name.

  JL: Jochum Hans Lang.

  EG: Good. And do you know why we are here?

  JL: No.

  Ewert glanced at Sven, feeling tired already. He would need help, and soon. This bugger didn’t want to cooperate. He knew, but didn’t want to.

  EG: You must answer the questions. For instance, tell us why Fredrik Steffansson fell forward when he managed to open the shower-room door. And next, why Steffansson was alive one minute and dead the next.

  For a minute or so the room was silent. Ewert’s eyes were fixed on Jochum, and the big man’s were on the barred window.

  EG: Enjoying the view?

  JL: Yes.

  EG: Fuck’s sake, Jochum! We know Dickybird knifed Steffansson.

  JL: Good for you.

  EG: It’s not news. We know.

  JL: I said, good for you. Why question me?

  EG: Because, for your own sweet reasons, you beat Dickybird senseless. I want to know why.

  Ewert waited for the reply. His adversary looked a hard man all right. Heavy build, broad shoulders, big shaven head and calm eyes. He’d have made dead meat of quite a few men outside.

  JL: He owed me money. EG: Come off it!

  JL: Quite a lot.

  EG: Crap! Dragan tricked some of the officers. You knocked Dickybird out cold. You wanted to make him pay for knifing Steffansson.

  Grens stood up, red in the face. Bending over Jochum, he lowered his voic
e.

  EG: Pull yourself together, man. For once, we’re on the same side. If you simply confirm that Dickybird did it, I promise I won’t let on it was you who said. Get this: if no one in the unit tells us what happened, Steffansson’s murderer will go free.

  JL: I didn’t see what happened.

  EG: Give me a break.

  JL: I didn’t see a thing.

  EG: Screw that.

  JL: You can switch your machine off now.

  Ewert turned to Sven, shrugged. Sven nodded. After fumbling for a bit, Ewert switched the tape recorder off.

  ‘Satisfied now?’

  Jochum checked that the tape had really stopped running, and then looked up. His face was tense.

  ‘Grens, you know what gives here. Rule number one is don’t grass. You’re finished if you do, never mind what’s up. So listen hard now. Yes, Grens, we know who used the blade on Steffansson. That bastard will be on his way out of here soon enough. Feet first. Think about it. And now the goons outside can take me back.’

  He got up and walked to the door. No one tried to stop him.

  Jochum Lang’s interrogation had lasted less than half an hour. It was still only quarter past eight. Ewert sighed. Not that he had expected anything other than silence. No one in prison ever told a cop anything. Fucking cons’ honour. Cutting someone, no problem, but grassing - never. Honour my arse! He slapped his hand on the table. Sven jumped. ‘What do you think, mate? What do we do now?’

  ‘We haven’t much choice.’

  Ewert started the tape, ran it back to the beginning and listened to the interview again to check it. Jochum’s voice, slow and indifferent. His own, angry and pressurised. It always surprised him to hear how loud and aggressive he sounded.

  Sven listened too, looking at a distant point on the floor. He turned to Ewert.

  ‘I think we should leave him alone for tonight. All we’ll get is this kind of thing. He won’t say any more than Jochum did. Let’s just drop in, chat informally, that kind of thing. Harmless.’

  Arne Bertolsson, the governor of Aspsås, decided that evening to isolate Unit H in its entirety, which meant keeping all the prisoners locked up in their cells.

  Banged up, they ate, shat and counted the hours alone.

  Meanwhile Ewert and Sven strolled along the empty corridor, inspecting the place where a man they had learned to respect, even like, had just been killed.

  They looked over the broken furnishings that littered the cubicle where Jochum had silenced Dickybird by slamming his head against the wall. Torn wallpaper and traces of blood marked the spot. Mirror glass, bits of electronics crunched against the soles of their shoes. The sitting room was a mess of broken glass, water, sodden cards and dead fish, their shiny scales fading. The plastic flooring was slippery. Leaving damp footprints, they passed the cell doors.

  There was a large puddle of blood at the end of the corridor. That was where Fredrik had fallen. They shook their heads at each other and followed the trail of blood into the shower-room. He must have been cut several times just after stepping inside. The white tiles glowed red near the washbasin.

  They found Dickybird in bed in his cell. He was wearing only a pair of tracksuit bottoms. His face was badly cut, one eye had disappeared in swollen tissue. The gold chain gleamed on his chest. He grinned broadly at his visitors.

  ‘Grensie himself. And his sidekick. Fuck’s sake! Why the honour?’

  The cell interested them. This prisoner had been around for some time, regarded this as his home and had made the bare room positively cosy. A small TV set, a coffee-maker, a couple of flowerpots. Even curtains, red and white checked cotton. One wall was covered in posters, and on the other was just one, hugely magnified photograph.

  He noticed them noticing.

  ‘My daughter. And here too.’

  Dickybird pointed to a framed photo on the bedside table. A smiling little girl, her blonde hair in plaits, finished with neatly tied ribbons.

  ‘Would you like a cuppa? Tea or coffee?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Ewert said. ‘We’ve had some already. When we interviewed Jochum Lang.’

  Dickybird appeared not to have heard the last bit.

  ‘OK. I’ll have some myself.’ He busied himself with topping up the water in the kettle, tipping spoonfuls of tea leaves into a pot. ‘Sit you down. Try the bed.’

  They sat down. The cell was very tidy and smelled clean. He even had a room-scenter.

  ‘Nicely fixed-up place you’ve got,’ Ewert said, making a sweeping gesture.

  ‘I’ve got a fair stretch and not that fucking much of a home outside.’

  ‘Fancy that, curtains. And pot-plants.’

  ‘Just like your home, innit, Grensie?’

  Ewert clenched his jaw and the thought passed through Sven’s head that he had no idea whether Ewert had plants and curtains at home. He had never visited his old colleague, strangely enough. Ewert had come for supper with himself and Anita several times, but had never asked them back.

  Dickybird sipped the hot tea. Ewert waited until he had put the mug down.

  ‘We’ve seen a lot of each other, Stig. Over the years.’

  ‘That’s a fair comment.’

  ‘I remember you when you were in your teens. Picked you up in Blekinge that time you’d jammed an ice-pick into your uncle’s balls.’

  The images crowded back into Dickybird’s mind. Per was there, bleeding. How he’d wanted that, cut the old bastard’s balls off and laugh.

  ‘You know you’re under suspicion for having carved somebody again. Or don’t you? You see, we think you might have cut Steffansson a couple of hours ago. Well and truly killed him, as it happens.’

  Dickybird sighed and rolled his eyes heavenwards, acting out mock-innocence.

  ‘Oh, don’t I know it. I’m under suspicion. Like the rest of the lads in the unit.’

  ‘I’m talking to you.’

  ‘Give over, it’s not as bad as that. All I’ll tell you is that the peddo got what was coming to him.’ Dickybird had turned serious. ‘Fucking beast.’

  Ewert heard, but didn’t understand.

  ‘Stig, are we on the same wavelength? I mean, you might call Fredrik Steffansson many things, but not a peddo. The reverse, rather. If anything.’

  Dickybird had just lifted the mug of tea to his lips. Now he put it down, staring at the two policemen. When he spoke, his voice was rough, angry.

  ‘What the fuck are you saying?’

  Ewert registered the man’s surprise and his mood change. This was no theatre.

  ‘You heard me. Don’t you ever watch the TV news?’

  ‘Happens. So what?’

  ‘You must have followed the reports about the dad who shot his little daughter’s killer?’

  ‘Followed, well, I wouldn’t say that. I don’t like stuff like that. You know, what with this little one and all.’ He looked briefly at the blonde girl in the photo. ‘I didn’t watch a lot. Enough to get the message. That dad was a regular fucking hero. No question. Pervs like that should be shot, all of them. Beasts. What’s all that got to do with anything?’

  Ewert and Sven exchanged a glance. They both thought the same thing and neither spoke.

  ‘Grensie, out with it! What’s all this got to do with that dead fucker?’

  ‘The name of that dad, your hero, was Fredrik Steffansson.’

  Dickybird shot upright, his face twitching.

  ‘Give over! Fuck’s sake! Stop sitting here talking fucking crap like that!’

  ‘Stig, I wish it was crap.’ Ewert turned to Sven. ‘Let’s have a look at the papers.’

  Sven rummaged in his briefcase until he had found copies of the two main evening papers, dated the day Fredrik Steffansson had been arrested for shooting at and killing Bernt Lund. Ewert lined them up for Dickybird to see.

  ‘Here. If you don’t trust me, just have a look.’

  The headlines, the type as large and the ink as black on both front pages, screamed the same
message.

  He Shot His Daughter’s Killer. Saved Two Girls’ Lives.

  The photographs too were the same in both papers. The ones Errfors had found in Lund’s pockets. The pictures showed his intended victims. They sat side by side, in the playground of their Enköping nursery. Both were smiling. One of them had her blonde hair in neat plaits.

  Dickybird stared. At the text. At the pictures. And then at the photo in the frame and the magnified one on the wall.

  As if it were she. His little daughter, on the front pages of the papers.

  He was still standing.

  He screamed.

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  Writing a novel sometimes struck us as a very strange thing to do. You rule the world by tapping on your keyboard, sending out instructions about how it should look. We used our power to create prisons and woodland and roads that no one will ever see. We have moved nursery school locations and described nonexistent rooms in some of the official buildings in Stockholm.

  We have also written about things which we wished were pure invention, exaggerations, in order to sell our book on its dramatic plot.

  Not so.

  Destructive people who spit on their own humanity and end by exterminating themselves exist in real life. Men like Bernt Lund, with his sadistic obsessions and inability to engage emotionally with others, walk the streets. So do men like Dickybird, abused as a child until he wants to cut down anyone who reminds him of it. The two Steffanssons, Fredrik and Agnes, are the kind who can lose everything and still search for a way to survive. There are quite a few Lennart Oscarssons, who despise the paedophiles they are meant care for. Hilding Oldéus, who has packed away emotion and keeps the lid on with drugs, who is always afraid and who turns himself into an arselicker for protection by someone less fearful; he exists in reality. Flasher-Göran, condemned for life because his one mistake is never forgotten, and Bengt Söderlund, out to defend his precious property and his precious children by taking the law into his own hands if necessary; they exist too.