The Beast (46 page)

    'You're
in cell fourteen, that's over there, almost at the end.'

    The
card-players looked up when he walked past. One of them, who had dark hair and
wore a gold chain round his neck, had been speaking loudly. Now he fell silent
and fixed his eyes on Fredrik. The others consisted of one big one, with
muscles like a body-builder and long hair tied at the back of his neck; opposite
him a foreigner of some kind, short and dark-skinned and moustachioed, maybe a
Turk or a Greek; and the fourth man was one of those emaciated types who had
junkie
written all over them.

    His
cell door was open. Apart from being slightly larger, it looked exactly like
the one he had left in the remand prison. Same bare furnishings, same barred
window, same gloomy colours, dirty pale green and diluted piss yellow. The bed
wasn't made. At one end a rolled-up blanket, one sheet and a pillow without a
pillowcase.

    He
reacted as he had this morning, slapped his hand against the wall and started
to laugh. The pain went away for a moment.

    The
officer fingered his blue specs.

    'You're
laughing. What's up?'

    'Nothing's
up. Is laughing forbidden?'

    'I
thought you were having a breakdown or whatever.'

    Fredrik
started making the bed. He wanted to close the door, lie down, rest, stare at
the ceiling.

    'Hey.
You were right before, you know.'

    Fredrik
looked at the officer.

    'You were
kept waiting in reception for quite a long time. Now, do you want to shower?
I'll get you a towel if you do.'

    'Why
not? OK, yes.'

    'Hang
on then. I'll be back.'

    Fredrik
held out a hand.

    'Wait.
Is it safe?'

    'Safe?'

    'I
mean, safe to shower. Or will somebody have a go? You know.'

    The
officer grinned.

    'Take
it easy, Steffansson. No fear. No poofs or pervs in straight Swedish prisons.
Nobody will try to fuck you in the shower.'

    Fredrik
stopped making the bed, sat down on it to wait, counting the lines in a long
row that someone had drawn with red biro on the skirting board. He had got as
far as one hundred and sixteen when the officer came back with a towel and a
pair of plastic flip-flops.

    Outside
his cell two men shook hands with him and said they lived next door. From the
card table voices were raised in an argument. The junkie was nagging about how
there was one king too many in the deck and the man with the gold chain told
him to shut it. Then he noticed Fredrik standing there and stared at him; his
eyes were looking mad. He hated, and Fredrik could not work out why he should.

    Then
he was alone in a large tiled room with four showers. He closed the door to
shut out all sounds and turned on the water, which would help him to absent
himself for a while.

    Dickybird
checked out the new one. He remembered what the screws had been saying, how
excited they had been. When the perv came out with his towel, he suddenly put
his hand down in mid-game.

    'Got
to go to the john. Fucking nuisance. Hey, Skåne!'

    'What's
that?'

    'You
play, but don't miss a trick.'

    He
gave Skåne his cards and went off towards the toilets. A quick glance to make
sure the players were staying put, the coast was clear, then he went on to the
shower-room. He stayed there for a minute maybe, not much longer.

    It
had sounded like a blow against the door. At least that was how the first
prison officer on the scene described it afterwards. As if someone had struck the
closed door to be heard, to be let out. When he saw Fredrik come out, or rather
fall out, the first thing he noticed was that the prisoner was holding his hand
pressed against his lower stomach area. That was where the knife had cut most
deeply, where the heaviest flow of blood was coming from. The officer rang the
alarm and ran towards the injured man, who was lying on the floor trying to say
something, with blood being expelled rhythmically from his mouth. When words
would not form, he had looked towards Dickybird Lindgren with fear in his eyes.
That was how the officer described it; he called the look in the dying man's
eyes fearful, or frightened. Two colleagues had turned up on the run and
together they had stopped the bleeding. Then someone felt for his pulse.

    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.'