Two Soldiers (8 page)

“I’m looking for Leon Jensen.”

But if you so much as showed it, they only got more aggressive.

One of the guys who’d been throwing billiard balls up and down was maybe throwing faster and higher and the guy beside him had a cue in his hand now and was slicing it through the air, a swishing twitching sound, but nothing more than that for the moment.

“Pereira.”

The voice came from one of the open cells farther down the corridor.

One of the first cells on the left.

Cell 2. Or maybe Cell 4.

“I don’t think you should be here. I think you must be lost.”

It was him. Jensen. And Pereira came closer. Conscious of the faces watching his every step, the others listening to them through open cell doors.

“I’m pretty sure that I’ve come to the right place.”

José Pereira didn’t see the billiard ball, but he heard it.

It passed only centimeters from his forehead and slammed into the corridor wall.

“I’m sure that I’ve come to the right place, since it was you I wanted to talk to.”

“And I don’t talk to pigs.”

A civilian-clad policeman on his own in a place that policemen otherwise only visited in flocks, with protection. The billiard ball was just the start. They were standing there watching carefully, waiting for the man who showed no fear to do just that.

“I’ve come to ask you to roll up the right leg of your pants. And as soon as you’ve done it, I’ll leave again.”

That peculiar silence. Eyes that were watching. The four around the card table stood up almost simultaneously but stayed where they were when Jensen raised his hand.

“You can see my ass if you want.”

The door to the wardens’ office was closed. He had asked to be alone and they had done as he asked, retreated out of sight for a coffee.

José Pereira gripped the rectangular piece of plastic in his pocket even harder, his thumb on the red button.

“Right pant leg. Your choice. Either you roll it up now—or later in an examination room with your favorite guards and me watching.”

Pereira looked Jensen in the eye. And he could see that he knew.

That the policeman he’d known for as long as he could remember was standing in front of him and was not going to back down. That the staring faces around them were waiting for a show of power. That he couldn’t lose face.

“Right?”

Every step he’d taken. That fucking pig had been there.

And he’d been a nuisance, been in the way with his reports and questions, his meetings with his mom.

And then, the morning he turned fifteen, the pig bastard had rung the bell and his mom had opened the door and they had done all the things they couldn’t do earlier, taken his fingerprints, photo, DNA, and in a column for special features, a description of a tattoo drawn with soot and needles that was no longer there.

And the pig just went at it. Knew what he wanted.

“You can see the left.” Leon Jensen laughed out loud and looked at the others, who also laughed.

Then he slowly and with a great flourish rolled up his left pant leg to the middle of his thigh. The large wound was infected, the scab was fresh.

He didn’t lose face. But had answered the question.

José Pereira met his eyes again, nodded, and left.

The car in the middle lane was careful to keep to the speed
limit despite the fact that the warm August evening had emptied the wide highway of traffic. It came from the south, a light gray Mazda, stolen from a parking place in central Södertälje just over an hour before.

It had passed Rönninge and Salem church and changed lane as it approached Råby and the exit, slowly, but not too slowly, into the area called Råby Allé and the entrance to a garage, a vast concrete underground space that linked thousands of apartments. A short and extremely overweight man in his thirties had great difficulty getting out of the confines of the passenger seat, but managed on the third attempt by putting his hand on the gearshift and levering himself out. He punched in a code and nodded to the driver as the door slowly slid up, then followed the car on foot as it drove down into the garage before stopping.

Night, silent, not a sound.

Except for a faint clatter, a loose steel blade that fluttered in the warm air blowing out of one of the many ventilators.

The driver closed the car door without locking it and they walked together toward one of the many exits, and as they continued toward the metro station, one of them got out a cell phone and whispered “
PSW 656
,” then hung up.

———

Gabriel snapped shut his phone.
PSW 656
. And he had the whole wide world in his hand. A feeling he recognized, the rush, as if it grabbed hold of something inside, all the anger and all the tears and all the hate at the same time, and he almost laughed, he who never
laughed, who couldn’t laugh, had once so long ago, but he remembered it was a bit like this, as if everything deep inside was released and he was light.

He got up from the bench on Råby Torg and walked toward the garage entrance, feeling the rush, the power, the whole fucking world. He took a gun out of the front pouch on his hoodie, he’d had it a long time and loved it and when he saw the car standing there exactly where it should be, he opened the cylinder and took out the six bullets and let them rest in the palm of his hand before putting only one back. He held the butt tight in one hand and spun the cylinder with the other, lifted the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger, a clicking sound that was brittle but could have been an almighty bang, he nearly laughed again, opened the cylinder, and put the other bullets back in.

They all came at the same time.

Jon from Råby Allé 6, Bruno from Råby Allé 36, Big Ali and Javad from Råby Allé 77. Identical metal doors into the garage, and over to a light gray Mazda with the registration number PSW 656.

They waited there in a random circle while Gabriel took out his phone again and dialed a number that only he had.

To a phone that right then was lying on a bed, close to a hand under a lit lamp.

———

He had switched it to silent, but was lying awake, waiting.

Now it vibrated and flashed.

The one that was just his, the one he’d collected in between the lawyer and Pereira coming to the unit, the one he kept in the kitchen, inside the fridge door, where he’d made a hole.

“Brother?”

Gabriel’s voice. He almost felt a warmth in his chest.

“Best brother.”

He’d never trusted any bastard, ever. And he knew that Gabriel hadn’t trusted anyone, ever. Two people who didn’t trust anyone, but did trust each other.

“It’s here.”

“Registration?”

“PSW 656.”

“Left-hand front wheel. Back of the driver’s seat.”

Leon straightened the bedside lamp, it was crooked and the cell was darker than normal.

“The judgment.”

“Yeah?”

“I read it.”

“And?”

“They talked, brother.”

A lawyer had stood with his back to him and known that every court case against a gang member was built on someone grassing on his brothers, his colleagues.

“Who?”

“Javad.”

“You take care of him. In Masmo. Mom’s place.”

“Who else?”

“Danny.”

A lawyer who knew that the consequences for someone who cooperated were always sufficient violence to punish them, tidy up, prevent any repetition.

“And I’ll take care of him here. In his cell. One floor up.”

Leon didn’t want to hang up, it was almost like being with him out there and he wanted to stay there as long as possible.

“One love, man.”

“One love, brother.”

———

He missed Leon so much, emptying the car, they should be doing it together.

His cell phone beside the revolver in the pouch of his hoodie when he opened the trunk: empty apart from a wheel wrench in a side pocket, which he handed to Bruno, who was already on his way around to the front left-hand wheel.

Big Ali and Jon got into the backseat of the car and cut through the fabric of the driver’s seat and took out four plastic packages that were in there. They were done at about the same time that Bruno loosened the five nuts on the hubcap and lifted off the wheel.

Through the door to Råby Allé 85, and the elevator up to the fourth floor.

Gabriel opened the door to the empty apartment with one of the keys on his heavy key ring and chose the living room. Bruno whooped loudly as he threw the wheel down onto the floor, it rolled away toward the far wall before bouncing and spinning and then lying still in the middle of the parquet. He used the same knife that Jon had just used to slash the driver’s seat, and cut deep into the tire and then waited for the rushing sound when the knife flew out releasing two kilos of air in just a couple of seconds. Now he went for the lightly glued edges, mustered his energy, jumped, landing with all his body weight, and on the third time it started to come away from the shiny rim, the fifth time even more and he turned the wheel over, kept jumping on it until it came away on that side too. Big Ali and Jon took over and each jammed the end of a crowbar in under the rubber edge, four eighteen-year-old arms pushing up, centimeter by centimeter until the whole thing was free and Bruno could cut loose several thin packages that were taped to the rim.

———

A large piece of tin foil like a rug on the parquet floor. And a pile of yellow and white capsules growing in the middle.

First the four round packages that had been in the back of the driver’s seat—six hundred yellow methamphetamine capsules from Thailand for one hundred and twenty weekly customers.

Then the four flat packages from the rim of the front wheel—two hundred white heroin capsules from Russia for seventy weekly customers.

Altogether, eight hundred capsules that were immediately repackaged and divided into four plastic bags.

———

When the doorbell rings in an empty apartment, there’s an echo.

And when it’s the middle of the night and there are no other sounds to compete, the doorbell becomes a jangling clamor.

They were so eager. Their thin hands pressing and pressing until they heard footsteps inside the apartment bouncing off the walls and Gabriel opened the door. They all stretched up as far as they could. But it didn’t make them any taller.

Four of them, the youngest eleven years old, the oldest thirteen.

He gave them each a plastic bag with two hundred capsules. He recognized the one farthest to the right,
Eddie’s the name
, gold chain and slicked-back hair and still a mark on one cheek from his ring.

fourteen days to go

He hadn’t slept. He had never slept at night in the dark.

Leon screwed in the bulb that must have come loose sometime after lockup.

It didn’t matter where.

Örkelljunga secure training center or the foster home in Västervik or Liljanskolans independent training center or the foster home in Arvidsjaur or that place in Jönköping—he had never really understood what it was—or Eknäs secure home or Vemyra secure home or Mariefred prison or Aspsås prison, not even the months in the Barnbyn Skå family hostel where he and his mom had stayed when she was released from Hinseberg prison for women, so they could learn to be a family, not even then.

A strange night.

He’d had a call from Gabriel and listened to the sound of a tire being dismantled and a car seat being slashed.

Then he’d banged on the wall to Cell 4 but the bastard was asleep.

He’d banged again and again and when he finally got a reaction, he’d pressed his lips to the flaking paint and shouted
Marko Bendik will be sick tomorrow
and then listened to the banging pass from Cell 4 to Cell 6 and from Cell 6 to Cell 8 and on to Cell 10 and Cell 12 where Marko got the message.

There was a knock on the door.

“Good morning.”

The bitch.

“Good morning. Time to get up.”

He didn’t answer.

“If you don’t get up, you’ll be reported. You were warned the last time.”

He turned over, but stayed lying where he was until she gave up and left.

He’d gotten some information from the cleaner yesterday, the one they used to beat up and now paid, that they’d changed position on the bastard pig’s walls, from the second to the first. And today, he was going to prepare the way for them to move even higher up.

The Whore
was going to visit him and this time she’d just carry the smell and have dumped it and the guards would use all their papers and dogs, then wouldn’t be able to do it next time around.

The Kids
would sell another load and settle up and that should give enough for both guns and apartments.

Marko
would be given an initiation test that would equal cleaning up in here and a new full member and at the same time Gabriel would do his bit on the outside.

It was going to be a long day, a big day.

He almost smiled.

He might even have a fuck, might even make someone pay a fine.

And the next time the cleaner reported to him, they’d be even higher up.

He had stayed lying on his bed and listened to them go to the
showers and have breakfast, then some went to the workshop and some went to the classroom and there was only one guard left who hid in the fish tank with a cup of coffee; only then had he left his cell, with a number 2, and hurried down to number 12 and gone in.

“You look ill.”

“Strangely, it started during the night.”

Marko’s desire to belong was so strong they’d made him their runner, and he’d been forced to make his friends stash drugs, break a pinkie or a ring finger as a debt enforcer, and start disturbances when needed by smashing all the furniture in his room. Marko would never even get close to being part of it, but sometimes gangs needed particular qualities, and right now they needed someone who was prepared to do anything.

“You wanted an initiation test.”

There were eight of them.

“Yes.”

Soon there would be nine.

“Danny Hangaround.”

Marko was already on his feet and Leon pointed at the ceiling, the floor above.

“D2 Left. Cell 12.”

———

Wanda felt the hand on her breast and pulled back, they were tender around the nipple. Gabriel stretched after her, his hand on her skin
and she felt the fever, or whatever it was that felt like fever, like pressure or a burn, the tension in her body.

She kept her eyes shut when he pressed against her pelvis, demanding.

She pretended she was asleep.

He often sat and looked at her. Sometimes she squinted up when he wouldn’t notice and his face was different, he looked kind, almost as if he liked her. If she woke up, his face changed, and if she looked at him and he noticed, it was like he’d been caught red-handed and his cheeks became pointed, his lips tight and eyes narrowed, chasing off what they were looking at.

“Not today.”

The hand was demanding, the fingers, she pushed them away.

“What the fuck . . .”

“Not yesterday, not today, not tomorrow. You know that. But after . . .”

Gabriel stared at her for a long time but didn’t force her, didn’t try to give her a bad conscience or convince her. He respected her. He’d never done that before, respected a woman. And sometimes he realized, but only sometimes and very briefly, he felt something akin to what he felt for Leon; he recognized it and was ashamed.

She rolled over to the side and got out of bed, left the bedroom with the sun shining on her face through the gap between the blanket and the window, walked down the hall into the sitting room and it was empty. Jon wasn’t there, Bruno wasn’t there, nor was Big Ali or even Javad Hangaround. She smiled, it was a relief, Gabriel was always nicer to her when they weren’t there, the way they stared and
bitch, come here
and
bitch, piss off
, she smiled again and headed for the shower.

———

Leon stood in the unit corridor. It was silent, deserted.

He had just left Marko in his cell, on the edge of his bed.

An initiation test. Marko should have laughed and given him a hug,
one love, brother
, he’d been wanting this for so long. But Leon
knew he wouldn’t react like that, in the same way that he wouldn’t react like that, to laugh out loud with joy—guys like him just didn’t do that, to be so fucking happy, if he ever was; there was sure to be some bastard who would take it away, run off with it, hide it.

He walked down the corridor, empty of people, and opened the wooden door with a small square of glass in the middle, the telephone cubicle for approved numbers, left it ajar and carried on to the kitchen. Perfect. If he stood here, at just this angle, the reflection in the glass showed the guards’ fish tank, he could even see them, the bitch who insisted on
good morning
, and the one farther in. Leon watched them move between the desk and the coffee machine.

Another door, this time to the cleaning closet.

First he checked the reflection in the glass, they were sitting comfortably, drinking their coffee, so he could open the cleaning closet door without being disturbed, move the cleaning cart and vacuum cleaner and take out the metal bucket. Which just fitted in the sink and he filled it almost all the way up with warm water. He opened the food cupboard and took out three slices of bread from the bread box, the sort that tasted of syrup and stuck to your teeth, broke each one into five pieces and put them in the water. Some bags of apples, red and sweet, from a shelf higher up, twenty of them, quartered, and dropped in the water. A couple of bags of stale cinnamon buns in the water, half a box of sugar lumps in the water. A quick glance over at the precisely angled door to the telephone cubicle and the bucket went back into the cleaning closet, behind the cart and the vacuum cleaner and two mops, a black trash bag over the top.

Fourteen days. It would be ready then. When he needed it.

———

Back in his cell, Leon had lain down again to wait for the lunch break from books in the classroom and drills in the workshop. They’d come back one by one from their various places to the wooden table, the best place in the yard, as far from the watchful eyes in security as from the dusty gravel on the football pitch. They sat there with their faces to the sun and five cards in their hands and if he closed his eyes, if he
couldn’t see the seven-meter-high wall that kept them in—Alex beside him on one side and Marko on the other, they could have been sitting on the other side.

“Oi, you.”

At the next table, Smackhead and two guys from Denmark, or Skåne or wherever, who were just as fucked, were playing poker and holding the cards hard in their skinny, scabby hands, playing as if their lives depended on it, half a gram in the pot for every deal.

“
Oi, YOU
.”

Smackhead looked up and turned around, scrawny thirty-five-year-old body and twitching face.

“Come over here.”

Leon used his whole arm to wave him over and the guy at the next table dropped his cards and practically ran over, smiling as he got nearer, stiff lips, slightly open.

“This guy.”

Leon put his arm around Marko.

“Very soon. The same.”

The rag-and-bones cast a glance at Leon’s right thigh, what he had written there only a few days ago, then at Marko, and at Alex, and Leon again. It was as if he only now fully understood and was overcome with fear.

“Who?”

He knew what was about to happen. If someone was going to carry the same emblem. There was only one way to become a full member.

“You don’t need to fucking know.”

An initiation test. A murder.

He didn’t want to die.

“But—”

“Not you.”

Over the twenty years that he’d spent in prison, he had regularly tattooed new full members and there was a strange feeling, the way they always shone, like they’d just left a mouse on the sitting room floor and expected payment and praise, so proud of having just taken away someone’s breath.

“Not me?”

“Not you, Smackhead.”

The smile softened.

“The name’s Sonny. I want—”

“One like that.”

A smiling skeleton that could barely stand on his feet, eyes switching between Leon’s thigh and Marko’s thigh. They couldn’t care less what he was called. It made no fucking difference, he didn’t care and he couldn’t remember what they were called, always some new little shit who he didn’t know, who told him what he was going to do, and then lashed out if he didn’t do it.

“Then I want more. Fifteen g.”

“What the fuck, you—”

“They confiscated it. The searches. But . . . I can still do it. Needles. It’ll take longer. And then I want more. Fifteen g.”

“We’re not getting any in today.”

“And I want it up front.”

Leon leaned closer.

“You . . . I don’t think you’ve understood how it works.”

Smackhead’s smile, his mouth smelled putrid.

“If you . . . if we haven’t got any use for you, we’ll kill you too.”

———

Lennart Oscarsson stood between the table stacked with sixteen TV monitors and the small fan that circulated warm, stuffy air around the cramped central security office. He looked out through the window at the prison yard, the gravel, the inmates. If he turned around, he could see through the other window: the wall, the church, the sky.

His world. He had only questioned it once.

The time when Martin had been lying there on the monitor in the middle, curled up with a gun to his head.

Maybe that was why he came in here so often, stepped out of the governor’s office for a while to look at the TV screens that flicked through the images from sixty-four security cameras. He focused on one of them, a black-and-white picture from a warm prison yard and a
thin man getting up from a game of cards, rolling in the way that people with sore feet do—his name was Sonny Steen and he’d had a handmade tattoo machine hidden under his mattress,
a fucking electric shaver
.

And he knew the prisoner who Steen was talking to right now, Leon Jensen, serving a long sentence, confirmed gang member, the one that José Pereira had first asked questions about and then asked to see,
inside
the unit. The picture was unclear, no color or sound, but it was still obvious that the older guy was frightened of the younger guy, constantly moving from one foot to the other, as if he wanted to run away.

“The day’s catch?”

Martin Jacobson had come into the office without knocking and sat down on the only chair, automatically reading the images from the yard, the wall, the corridors.

“Right. The day’s catch.”

“Plus or minus?”

They smiled at each other. A strange game. Counting time.

“Plus.”

“Lunch?”

“Yep.”

Martin Jacobson checked his papers.

“Two that left. This morning just before eight—an inmate with seven and a half years to go was moved abruptly from solitary confinement to Karsudden hospital and a closed psychiatric ward. Barely an hour later—an inmate in Block C with two years and seven months left was taken by the police to Kronoberg remand on suspicion of assaulting a fellow prisoner in the prison library.”

Ten more years of longing, somewhere else.

“And in exactly . . . twelve minutes, two new prisoners will be registered at reception. From Gothenburg remand—eight and a half years, serious drug crime, allocation G2 Right. From Huddinge remand—fourteen years, murder, allocation B3 Left.”

Twenty-two and a half years of longing, here.

“Minus eight years. Plus twenty-two and a half. You’re paying for lunch.”

Martin Jacobson nodded to the governor, smiled, and went on to the next document.

“There will be twelve visitors this afternoon. Five first-time visitors who will be observed. Four lawyers. And three where dogs have been ordered—Lundgren, Block B, Jensen, Block D, Syrjämäki, Block K.”

Lennart Oscarsson studied the TV screen again, three young men who were shouting at an older man on his way back to another table. And he thought about the equally young female prison warden, and the chaos she had told him about that indicated amphetamines, about Jensen smacking his lips, obviously high, that it wasn’t often someone was so obvious about being wired. And he was expecting a visitor today—he had registered a visit from a young woman called Wanda Svensson and they were certain that she was the one who had supplied the whole unit on her last visit and that this time she was going to get a different reception.

“Sniffer dog. And if there’s the slightest indication, a full body search. Everything’s clear: doctors, female police officers, and a search warrant.”

The older guy with the rolling gait had reached his table, and the youths had turned away, cards on the table, their faces to the sun, and it looked like they had their eyes closed to the summer warmth.

———

Leon almost relaxed. The strong sun burned on his skin, it was so good, like the bedside lamp when he pointed it directly onto his face.

“You talked to the guards this morning.”

He still had his eyes closed, but had turned toward Alex.

“I was in bed. Listening. And you . . .
you talked to the bitch
.”

“Fuck, brother . . .”

“Fine. Two thousand.”

“Brother, I just answered back . . .”

Alex fell silent, cleared his throat, paused a bit before he carried on.

“One love, brother.”

“One love.”

Sun and no wind, it was easy to hear the heavy gate opening and a car that started, rolled in, and stopped again. Leon got up from the
table, careful to walk alone across the prison yard toward the place where you could see through a gap into central security. He’d heard correctly. It
was
the gray Volkswagen bus. And when the doors opened, three uniformed police
did
get out. And when they gave the all-clear, a black Labrador
did
jump out of the back.

They had been given the information that she was coming soon. And they had done exactly what
he
wanted them to do.

Leon ran across the yard toward the unit and the guard opened the door for him when he said he needed a piss, and when he was sure that he was on his own, he put down the toilet seat and stood on it, just reaching the strip lights and the cell phone that lay hidden there, the one he shared with Frank and that he knew was not tapped.

He dialed the number; they should be in Täby now.

———

He had reached over to touch her breasts and her sex and she had turned away—
not today, not tomorrow, you know that, but after
—and now they were sitting in the front of the car and Gabriel handed her the bag and plastic-wrapped package. They said nothing, had already said what they needed to, and she got out of the car, walked past the gas pumps and the water and air, toward the back of the building and the toilets.

Every two weeks, same routine.

The walk through Råby to the metro, twelve minutes to Skärholmens Centrum, bottom level of the car park. A green Mercedes today—
00:31
—pretty good going. Then north on the E4 and Essingeleden and past the city in the middle lane all the way to the Shell station by the Täby exit.