The Beast (4 page)

    Five-year-olds
are so small. You don't realise quite how small until they're naked. Soft skin,
slender bodies, forever hopeful faces. He looked at Marie, her forehead covered
in white bubbles that trickled down her nose. He looked at

    David,
who was holding the empty Mr Men bottle upside down, making more bubbles. He
felt he lacked a picture of himself at the age of five, and tried placing his
own head on Marie's shoulders. People said that they were strikingly alike,
they enjoyed pointing it out. This baffled him and embarrassed Marie. His
five-year-old face on her body. He ought to recall something, have a
recognition of the way he'd felt then, but all he remembered was the beatings.
He and Dad in the drawing room, that fucking awful big hand hitting his bottom,
this he did remember, and he remembered too Frans pressing his face against the
pane of glass in the drawing room door.

    'The
foam's finished.'

    David
held out the bottle to show him, shook it with the spout touching the water.

    'I
noticed. Now, could that be because you've poured it all out?'

    'Wasn't
I meant to?'

    Fredrik
sighed.

    'Oh,
sure. Of course.'

    'You
must buy another one.'

    He
had used to do it too, watch through the pane when Frans was beaten. Dad never
noticed either of them, how they'd be observing what happened through the
glazed panel in the door. Frans was older. He got hit more times, the beating
took longer, at least that was how it felt from a couple of metres away.
Fredrik had not remembered any of this until he was an adult. The beatings
hadn't happened for over fifteen years and then, suddenly, it all came back,
the big hand and the pane of glass. He was almost thirty by that stage and ever
since then he'd had to haul his thoughts away from the memory, away from the
drawing room. Not that he felt angry, oddly enough not even vengeful; instead
he grieved, or at least, the nearest thing to what he felt was grief.

    'Dad.
We've got more.'

    He
stared vacantly at Marie. She chased that hollow feeling away.

    'Hey!
Dad!'

    'More
what?'

    'We've
got more Mr Men bath foam.'

    'Do
we?'

    'On
the bottom shelf. Two more. We bought three, you see.'

    Frans
had felt a greater grief. He was older, more time had passed, more beatings.
Frans used to cry behind the pane of glass. He cried only when he was watching.
Only then. He lived with his grief, hid it, carried it with him, until it
became all he was, savagely threatening his self. Its last, conclusive blow
struck him that morning, backed by a thirty- ton carriage.

    'Here
it is.'

    Marie
had clambered out of the tub and padded over to the bathroom cabinet.

    'Look.
Two more. I knew that. 'Cause we bought three.'

    She
pointed proudly.

    The
floor was awash, foam and water had been pouring off her body but she didn't
notice, of course, just climbed back into the tub clutching the Mr Men figure.
She got the top off with less trouble than he'd expected. David grabbed the
bottle and instantly, unhesitatingly turned it upside down, shouting something
that sounded like 'Yippee!' And they did their high-five handclap again.

    He
hated nonces. Everyone did. Still, he was a professional. A job was a job. He
kept telling himself that. A job a job a job.

    Åke
Andersson had transported criminals to and from assorted care institutions for thirty-two
years. He was fifty- nine now, but his greying hair was still thick, well
looked after. He carried a kilogram or two more than he should, but he was
tall, taller than all his colleagues, and any villain he'd driven. He admitted
to 199 centimetres. Actually 202 was nearer the mark, but if you were over two
metres tall, folk took you for a freak, one of nature's misfits, and he was fed
up with that.

    He
hated nonces. Perverts who used force to get pussy. Most of all he hated the
beasts who forced kids. His feelings were strong and therefore forbidden, but
his hatred grew in intensity with each nonce job, the only times in his daily
round when he responded emotionally. The aggression he felt frightened him. He
had to control his urge to stop, shut down the engine, take a long stride
between the front seats and fix the bastard by pushing him against the rear
window.

    He
showed nothing.

    No
question, he'd had worse scum in the van, or, at least, scum with heavier
sentences. He'd seen it all, put handcuffs on every fucking hard man in the
headlines, walked them to the bus and driven them, staring vacantly into the
mirror. Many of them were complete cretins. Loonies. Only a few had got their
heads round the idea that there's a cost. If you buy, you've got to pay, it's
that simple. Never mind the suckers outside, with their sermons about care and
concern and rehabilitation. You buy and you pay. That's all.

    He
could spot the perverts, pick them out every single time. There was something
about them, which meant he didn't need to know the charge. No paperwork
required. He saw and hated. Now and then he had tried to explain it over a beer
in the pub, tried to convince people that it was possible to spot them and that
he knew how. Trouble was, when his mates asked for details he couldn't say and
they reckoned he was prejudiced, possibly homophobic or even anti-everybody.
Now he kept his mouth shut: it was too much hassle and not worth the effort.
Still, he knew who was who, and the scumbags sensed it, looking away shiftily
when his eyes sought theirs.

    This
nonce in the back had done the rounds. Åke had driven him at least six times.
Back in '91, a couple of round- trips between trial court and the cells, then
again in '97, after he'd done a runner and been caught once more. Another trip
in '99, from Säter secure to wherever it was. Now he was off to the Southern
General Hospital, in the middle of the night. He looked at the face in the
mirror and the beast looked back, it was like some pointless competition about
who could keep staring the longest. As ever, he seemed normal enough. At least,
he would've, to most people. A bit shortish, 175 centimetres, say, medium
build, close-cropped hair. Calm. Normal. Except, he was a repeat child rapist.

    Red
lights at the start of the uphill run along Ring Street. Not much traffic at
this time of night. Blue lamps materialised behind him. An ambulance, its
sirens blaring. He stayed where he was to let it overtake.

    'That's
it, Lund. You've got thirty seconds now, then out. We phoned ahead, a doctor is
seeing you straight away.'

    Åke
didn't talk with nonces. Never did. His colleague knew that. Ulrik Berntfors
felt very much the same way, it was just that he didn't hate.

    'This
way we don't have to wait for our breakfast. And you don't have to sit in the
waiting room with all that kit on.'

    Ulrik
gestured at Lund, at the chain across his stomach. It was part of a transfer
waist-restraint, complete with leg- irons. He had never had to use one before.
Body-belts, yes. Still, it was an order. Oscarsson had phoned up about it, made
a special point. Told to undress, Lund had smiled and waggled his hips. He was
fitted out with a metal belt round his waist, joined to the leg-irons with four
chains running down his legs and to the handcuffs with two chains along his
torso and arms. Ulrik had seen these things on TV and once for real, during a
study visit to India. Never in Sweden. Here, the main idea was to control
offenders by outnumbering them. More guards than villains. Sometimes handcuffs,
of course, but not chains inside shirt and trousers.

    'How
caring. Thanks a lot. You're great guys.'

    Lund
was speaking quietly. He was barely audible. Ulrik had no idea if what he said
was meant to be ironic. Then Lund shifted position, chains clanking against
each other, until he was leaning forward with his head resting on the frame of
the glazed hatch separating the front seats from the back of the van.

    'Listen,
you two. This is no good. I've got chains up my arse. Get me out of this
fucking tin body-belt and I give you my word I won't run.'

    Åke
stared at him in the mirror. He speeded up suddenly, shot along the slope up to
the Casualty entrance and then stood on the brakes.

    Lund's
chin crashed against the sharp edge of the hatch.

    'Fucking
screws! What the fuck's that for? You cunts!'

    Usually
Lund spoke calmly and sounded quite educated. Until he felt got at. Then he
swore. Åke knew that. It wasn't just that they all looked alike. They were alike.

    Ulrik
was laughing, but only inside. That bugger Andersson, he wasn't quite right in
the head. He kept doing stuff like this, but refused to say a word.

    'Too
bad,' he said. 'Nothing doing, it's Oscarsson's orders. You see, Lund, you're
classed as dangerous. A danger to society. So you'd better lump it.'

    Ulrik
found it difficult to utter all this. The words seemed to have a will of their
own, pushing their way out of his mouth despite his straining facial muscles,
tensed to hold back the rumbling laughter inside. If it slipped out and was
heard, it would provoke their passenger even more. He spoke, but afterwards,
following Andersson's example, stared silently straight ahead.

    'If
we take the tinsel off you, we'd be ignoring Oscarsson's express order. And
that's against the regulations. You know that.'

    The
ambulance that had overtaken them was parked next to the ramp outside Casualty.
Two male paramedics were running up the stairs to the entrance, two steps at a
time, carrying a stretcher. Ulrik caught a glimpse of a woman; the blood in her
long hair made it stick to the leg of one of the paramedics. Orange and red
don't go together, he thought, wondering why they wore orange, they must get
blood on their uniforms pretty often. Being upset always made his mind wander.

    'Oscarsson's
an arsehole! He's fucking lost it. Why won't that motherfucker believe me? I
said I won't run! I told him at Aspsås!'

    Lund
was shouting through the hatch, then backed away only to throw himself against the
windowless wall. The chains of his restraint thumped against the metal side of
the van, making Åke momentarily think he'd hit something, turn to look for
another vehicle that wasn't there.

    'I
fucking told him, you bastards! So you didn't know? OK, here's another deal. If
you don't get this lot of chain- mail off me, I'll be away. Get that, cunts?
I'll walk. Understood?'

    Åke
tried to meet his eyes. He adjusted the mirror to find Lund. He sensed the
hatred welling up; he had to hit him, that scum had gone too far, had just said
'cunt' once too often.

    Thirty-two
years. A job a job a job. But he couldn't hack it any more. Not today. And
sooner or later it would all go to hell, whatever.

    He
ripped off the seatbelt, opened the door. Ulrik realised what was up, but
didn't have time to act. Åke was going to beat the shit out of the nonce. Lund
would get it harder than any of them ever had. Not that Ulrik minded. He stayed
where he was, smiling to himself.