The Beast (45 page)

    '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.