The Beast (14 page)

    That
was why Frans haunted him at night. That was why he could not make love to the
beautiful, naked young woman lying close to him, instead constantly comparing
her with someone who filled his thoughts but who didn't want him, with Agnes.
For a long time working, writing, had kept memory and reflection at bay. And
perhaps that was what he had always done, avoided emotion through work work
work, his mind turning over like an engine racing. Only by moving forward could
he be sure to leave the past behind.

    Fredrik
had pulled in right in front of the school and parked on a double yellow line
despite having been caught once already. It was worth it, rather than driving
about aimlessly, looking. He helped Marie out of her seat in the back. On the
way up the path to the school door she skipped and jumped in front of him. It
was a lovely warm day, what a remarkable summer it had been, and she looked so
happy; she hopped on both feet, then her right foot, then both, then her left
foot. Micaela and David and all the others were waiting inside, twenty-five
children whose names he'd never learned. He should have.

    Just
outside the gate a man was sitting on the park bench; must be somebody's dad,
because he'd surely seen that face before. He nodded at the man while he tried
fruitlessly to match him with one of the little faces in the crowd inside the
school.

    Micaela
was standing next to the coat-hangers in the hall. She kissed him, asked if he
was properly awake now, and had he missed her? He said yes, he'd missed her.
Had he? At night when he couldn't sleep and sought out her soft body, then he
would've missed her if she hadn't been there; he needed her so much and felt
less frightened when he could stay close to her and borrow her warmth. Daytime
was different. Looking at her, he saw how young she was, too young and too
lovely. He didn't deserve her. Surely her lover should match her youth and
beauty? Or did he actually believe all that crap?

    These
were things he mulled over all the time. These and, deep inside, the beatings.

    The
first time he had sought her out was after the divorce. She greeted the
children when he brought Marie to school, and she was there morning after
morning. Then, one day, they walked together for a while, long enough for him
to tell her about the pain and loss of separation. She listened. They took more
walks together, he kept confessing and she kept listening. Then the day came
when they went to his house and made love all afternoon, while Marie and David
ran around playing on the other side of the closed bedroom door.

    He
helped Marie to change into her indoor shoes, white fabric slip-ons. He took
off the red shoes with the shiny buckles and put them on her shelf. Her sign
was an elephant. The others had chosen bright red fire engines and football
stars and Disney figures, but she had wanted an elephant and that was that.

    She
grabbed his arm.

    'Daddy,
you mustn't go.'

    'But…
you wanted to come, didn't you? Micaela is here. And David.'

    'Please
stay. Please, nice kind Daddy.'

    He
held her in his arms, lifted her up.

    'My
little sweetheart. But… Daddy must work. You know that.'

    Her eyes
met his, her forehead wrinkled. Her whole face pleaded with him.

    He
sighed.

    'Right
you are, I will stay. But just a tiny little while.'

    Marie
stayed close to him while she gave her elephant a kiss and followed the contours
of its body with her finger: its legs, along its back and all the way down its
trunk. Fredrik made a what-can-I-do gesture to Micaela. This was how it had
been ever since Marie had started at the nursery almost four years ago, after
Agnes had moved away. Every time he had hoped that this would be the day he
could leave easily, just say goodbye and go without having a bad conscience
about it.

    'And
how long are you staying today?'

    This
was the only thing they really disagreed about. Micaela wanted him to go, to
establish that even if he did, he would still be back in the afternoon to pick
Marie up. Never mind a few tears, the crying would pass. He always

    told
her that since she didn't have children herself she couldn't possibly know what
he felt like.

    'Quarter
of an hour. At most.'

    Marie
heard him and tightened her grip on his arm.

    'Daddy
must stay. Stay with me.'

    Then
David came along, running, his face covered in warpaint stripes in garish
poster paints. He ran past Marie, but called to her to come along. She let go
of Fredrik's arm and followed him.

    Micaela
smiled.

    'Look
how easy it is! It's the best I've seen. She's forgotten about you already.'

    She
stepped closer, very close.

    'But
I haven't.'

    A
light kiss on his cheek. Then she turned and went away too.

    Fredrik
was at a loss. He watched her go, then went into the play-room. Marie and David
and three other kids were piled up together, painting each other's faces,
shouting about Sioux Indians or something. He waved at Marie, she waved back.
When he left, their war cries followed him to the door.

    The
sun hit his face. What about a coffee in the shade? After picking up a paper
from the newsagent at the main square? But he made up his mind to go to his
writer's den on Arnö Island, just, to sit there and wait. He'd start the
computer, read his notes, probably write nothing but at least be prepared.

    He
opened the gate, nodded again to the father on the bench, who must be waiting
for someone, and went to get his car.

    He
liked this nursery. It had looked just the same four years ago. The little
gate, white-painted wooden walls and blue shutters.

    He
had been sitting on this seat for four hours. There must be at least twenty
kids in there. He had watched as the children came and went, always with a
mother or a father, no kids on their own. A pity, it was easier then.

    Three
of the girls had gym shoes on. Two had weird sandals with long straps tied
round their legs. Some were barefoot. So the heat was fucking unbearable, but
he didn't like this going barefoot thing. One of them had worn red leather
shoes, shiny, with metal buckles. They were the best, really beautiful. She had
turned up late, her dad had brought her. A blonde little whore. Her hair had
natural curls, she tossed them about while she was speaking to her dad. Not
much on, just shorts and a plain T-shirt, she must've dressed herself. She
seemed happy. Whores were always happy. This one had hopped and jumped all the
way to the front door and her dad had nodded to him, a kind of greeting, and he
had returned it, it was only polite. The dad had taken longer to come back out
than the rest of them, and when he passed, he had nodded again. What a weirdo.

    He
tried to spot the blonde whore through the window. Lots of heads came past but
not the blonde with curls. She'd come looking for cock; whores like plenty of
hard cock. She was hidden in there, only shorts and T-shirt on, and her red
shoes with metal buckles, bare legs. Good. Whores should show skin.

    Dickybird
was holed up in the TV corner. He felt knackered, like he always felt after he
had smoked pot, and the classier the shit was the more dog-tired he got. Pure
kif had the biggest effect and this lot had been the fucking best ever. The
Greek, who flogged it, had spoken nothing but the truth when he said he'd never
sold better, no argument with that, it was good shit and Dickybird knew what he
was talking about, he had been through some in his day.

    He
looked at Hilding in the chair opposite. Wildboy Hilding wasn't so wild now,
that was for sure; he looked shagged, with that spaced-out look on his face,
and he didn't even scratch that fucking awful sore of his, his hand that was
usually somewhere at nose height was resting on his knee. Dickybird bent over
and tapped his mate on the shoulder, Hilding's eyes opened and Dickybird
signed, one thumb up and index finger pointing towards the showers. Good stuff,
and more in there, behind the tile next to the strip-light. Enough for at least
two more goes. Hilding got the message, his thumb went up and he smiled, before
sinking deeper into his armchair.

    Plenty
of tramping about in the unit today, no peace for the wicked. First the new
one, the skinhead who didn't have a fucking clue about what went and what
didn't round here, seemed to fancy that he could just hang out doing his own
fucking thing. Name of Jochum Lang, apparently, what kind of piss-awful name
was that? But that was what the nice new young screw had said when he asked.
One of them hitmen, seemingly, a bloody bailiff, long list of GBH and manslaughter,
but a shortish sentence because of all the sad tossers out there who didn't
dare to witness against him. Still, he had to learn, no messing about in this
unit, he'd have to get used to it.

    And
then Hitler, who had been pissing himself on the telly, but was thick enough to
show his face on the unit afterwards, sneaking a short cut to his sex hellhole.
Pissed his pants on-screen, knew he should keep his head down, so he had said
fuck all when he ran into them; they had been zonked then and Hitler must've
smelled the hash fumes but kept going, trotting along to his bunch of perverts.
They should be terminated, the whole lot of them.

    To
top it all, Grensie. What next? Marched through the unit by Hitler, limping as
always; the old copper was a fucking cripple and had been around for longer
than was good for him, so maybe he got a hard-on thinking about the old times,
but he should be dead by now. He had been one of the Stockholm cops sent down
to Blekinge in 1967, he had seen Per's bleeding goolies and escorted the
bawling thirteen-year-old to a young offenders' prison.

    Bekir
shuffled the cards, cut and dealt. Dragan put two matches in the pot and picked
up his hand. Skåne did the same. Hilding pushed his cards into a heap and went
to the john. Dickybird picked up his cards one by one. Crap cards. Bekir dealt
like an old maid. They picked new cards, he swapped all except one, king of
clubs, useless but he never gave up all his cards, on principle. The four new
ones were crap too. No points. He put out king of clubs, two of hearts, and
four and seven of spades. Last trick. Dragan played queen of clubs, and since
the ace and the king had both gone he slapped the table in triumph. The matches
were his, worth a hundred quid each. He reached out to grab them, but Dickybird
raised his hand.

    'Hi
you! What do you fucking think you're doing?'

    'The
pool's mine.'

    'No
way. I haven't shown.'