The Beast (44 page)

    Dickybird
had never liked pool, strictly for the birds, all that poking about with a long
stick on a green tablecloth. Cards now, that was different. But not today.
Didn't feel like it. Besides, Jochum was at the table playing poker with Skåne
and Dragan, dealing and bluffing. It wasn't the same when Hilding wasn't
around.

    Nothing
else to do, he had to get out, some fresh air, never mind the fucking rain.

    When
he reached the exit, he slowed down to check out the three prison officers, who
were chatting inside their cubicle, the lazy bastards, sitting on their arses
all day and getting their dough monthly, what an easy life.

    He
couldn't see them, but their voices were loud, excited. The sound was muffled
and hard to make sense of, but now and then words and phrases were clear
enough.

    One
word got to him.
Sex offender.
That came again several times, and then
there was more.
Long sentence… with Oscarsson… pervs' unit.

    Fuck's
sake. What were they on about? Not another one, hadn't the screws got the point
when Axelsson ran, because they'd traced his ID and got hold of his indictment
and would've killed the bastard if he hadn't got the wind up?

    Usually
the screws went about like zombies, rattling with their fucking keys and saying
fuck all, but now they were pissing themselves, nobody shut up for a second.
Hero. Murdered. Sex offender.

    Dickybird
could hardly stand still. One more mother- fucking peddo. Here!

    His
face had become flushed and angry, rage filled his whole body.

    Then
he heard a chair being pulled back and moved quickly away from his listening
point, but he was still close enough to hear their last sentences as they came
out, waving their hands about, clearly very agitated. One of them asked,
why
send the hero here?
Someone agreed; he didn't get it either, cons with
sentences that long didn't usually come to Aspsås. First one said that anyway
the guy had done his thing, he wouldn't attack anyone else.

    They
turned to enter the unit, and the Russian shouted, 'Screws!'

    Dickybird
went to pick up a raincoat and a pair of welly boots and went off into the
streaming rain. Rage was bubbling up from deep inside him; it felt as if he was
suffocating. He was shaking.

    Now
they'll fucking see! That's final! Trying to push another peddo into his unit,
no way, they'd better think again; if that kidfucker came here he wouldn't
leave alive.

    Fredrik
decided to pee in the basin, rather than asking the guard out there to take him
to the toilet. He'd just have to deal with their questions about his sentence.

    Ten
years.

    He
couldn't get his mind round it. Kristina had visited him yesterday afternoon,
wanting to go through the sentence, explain the motivations and persuade him
that they should appeal again, take his case to the Supreme Court. She wanted
to test the limits of the plea of 'reasonable force' and set up a precedent. He
had refused, said he simply wasn't interested. He had had enough. Chewing over
past events was meaningless to him. Prison, no prison, what the hell, it didn't
bother him.

    Ten
years from now he'd be almost fifty.

    He
washed his hands and went to stand in the middle of his cell.

    His
little girl had been fouled, torn to pieces by a sadistic killer, who would
have done what he wanted with other little girls if Fredrik hadn't killed him.
The consequence for him was ten years of solitude, isolated from the world. He
had to laugh.

    He
kicked the bed, laughing until his chest hurt.

    The
prison officer, still the man who had made Fredrik his favourite, pulled back
the flap in the door.

    'Hey!
What's going on here?'

    'Why
worry?'

    'You're
making a fucking din.'

    'Is
laughing forbidden?'

    'Laugh
away. I just don't want you to do something stupid.'

    'Leave
me alone. I won't do anything I shouldn't.'

    'It's
that sentence of yours. Hearing they've got a long stretch can make people do
all sorts. Wrong things.'

    'I'm
fine, honestly. Just laughing.'

    'Good.
Anyway, I'll be back soon. Time to pack.'

    'How
do you mean, pack?'

    'Your
placement has come through.'

    He
sat down on the edge of the bed and looked around. Ceiling, walls, floor, all grimy
and familiar. Now he had to leave.

    Pack
what? His soap, toothbrush and toothpaste went into a plastic bag. There, done.

    The
officer knocked and opened the door. He was young, about twenty-five, with hair
like a shaving brush and a ring in one nostril. He was a musician, or, at
least, a wannabe. He spoke about this quite a lot, to show that guards weren't
just official bodies, but real human beings with dreams of their own. He was
just hanging on in here, he'd explain, while he and his mates in the group were
plotting to get a recording contract. He'd keep waiting, at least until he was
thirty. Then he'd be too old.

    Now
he put his hand on Fredrik's shoulder.

    'Listen.
I'm sorry. You know what I think.'

    'Yes,
yes. But I'm not really that interested.'

    'It's
a crazy world, but locking you up is the worst.'

    'Never
mind.' 'We all agree, you know. And I mean all. Officer or prisoner, it makes
no difference. I don't think we've agreed on anything before.'

    'Look,
I've packed,' Fredrik said and held out the plastic bag.

    '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.