Pen 33

by Anders Roslund

  He walked a hundred laps. Sweat poured from his hairline down his neck, chest, stomach. He considered taking another hundred laps. For him walking was almost like getting high, the sun flooding over him, his thoughts floating away. He decided to keep going until someone else came out. One hundred and fifty-seven laps. Then the Russian appeared with a ball under his arm, and Hilding left the field.

  He took a cold shower. Water on his face, on his aching wound, washed away the sweat. He got dressed—clean underwear, socks, shorts. He went out into the corridor, back and forth, pursued by his worries. He started counting again. Three hundred times through the corridor and past the cells toward the pool table corner and back. The television was on, it was always on, but otherwise the unit was quiet—the murder of the little girl, and then a mention of Lund forced him to listen for a while, cajoling him away from what concerned him.

  He was scared. It had been a long time since he’d felt fear. When he was around Tinyboy he had protection, but now he’d fucked it up. Anxiety tore away at him. No weed left. He had to numb it. He had to numb it.

  He knocked on Jochum’s cell. No answer.

  He knocked again. Jochum was sleeping.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  “It’s Hilding.”

  “Go away.”

  “I was just wondering if you were thirsty.”

  He’d already decided. He had to steal again. He had to get rid of the pain in his chest. With Jochum, it would be easier. Tinyboy wouldn’t go after Jochum.

  Jochum Lang opened the cell door.

  “Where is it?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Jochum went in again, put on a pair of slippers, and closed the door behind him. He never left it open. Hilding had never been inside. They walked past the kitchen, past the shower room, past the pool table corner where Hilding had just done three hundred laps.

  He walked over to a fire extinguisher hanging on the wall—a red metal tube with a black hose and detailed instructions on the side, more words than anyone would have time to read during a fire. He looked around, no guards, unscrewed the black hose, and laid it to the side. He took a small toothbrush mug out of the pocket of his shorts.

  “Regular fucking water, a fat fucking loaf of bread, and some apples.”

  He grabbed hold of the fire extinguisher, turned it upside down, filled up his mug.

  “Fucking hell, that tastes like shit!”

  The mash smelled so strongly it nauseated him.

  “But who cares?”

  The cup to his mouth, he swallowed the cloudy liquid.

  “You’re supposed to feel it, not taste it, for fuck’s sake!”

  He filled the cup again, handed it to Jochum.

  “Three and a half weeks. Almost ready. At least ten percent.”

  Jochum gagged, took it all in one gulp.

  “One more.”

  They poured down five more each and started to feel the warmth and peace of the alcohol making its way through their bodies. They used to keep it in a broom cupboard, in a bucket at the back, but this was better, an empty fire extinguisher—the bread for the alcohol, the fruit for the taste, and the fermentation process inside a closed container that was readily available. They drank until they heard a hoarse voice in the corridor. It sounded like Skåne.

  “Guards on the floor!”

  It wasn’t often that the guards went into the unit and a warning system had always been in place, someone shouted and everyone knew. Hilding pointed to the rubber pipe, Jochum threw it to him, and he screwed it back on quickly. They walked away and ran into a guard, who looked at them without saying anything. They continued to the couch and sat down.

  They were tipsy, drinking buddies for the moment. No one says no to a pitcher of mash, and so, for the time being, Hilding and Jochum were united, familiar.

  The TV was on in front of them, the same news. The whole unit had followed the hunt for Lund closely, but they’d had enough now—it was over, the father had blown that bastard’s head off and now every damn perv knew how things worked. They leaned back and watched pictures of the father and Lund flow past without listening—a feeling of tranquility reigned.

  “Where’s the Gypsy? I haven’t seen him for a couple of days.”

  “Tinyboy?”

  “Yeah. The clown.”

  Jochum grinned, Hilding grinned. Clown.

  “He’s in his cell. He doesn’t like this stuff. The shit on TV.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Tinyboy’s got fucking ghosts. Damned if I know. He can’t stand to hear about the little girl and the perv. He knows he could have finished him off before.”

  “What does that matter now?”

  “Then this never would have happened.”

  “But it happened.”

  Hilding looked around. The guard was on his way back, on his way out again. He lowered his voice.

  “He has a daughter, too. That’s why.”

  “And?”

  “Well . . . that’s why. Surely, that could make you think.”

  “There’s a hell of a lot who do. Don’t you?”

  “This one lives there. Where the girl was murdered. Strängnäs somewhere. Or he thinks so.”

  “Thinks so?”

  “He’s never met her.”

  Jochum’s eyes left the television screen for a moment. He put his hand on his shaved head, looked at Hilding.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “This is important for Tinyboy.”

  “But it surely wasn’t her?”

  “No. But it could have been.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “He thinks so. He has a picture of her. He had it enlarged himself. It fills up his whole damn wall.”

  Jochum threw his head back against the sofa and laughed out loud, like you do when you’re tipsy.

  “Fucking Gypsy! Is he going around obsessing about something that didn’t happen and absolutely can’t happen, because the pervert has already been shot? He’s in worse shape than I thought. He’s hallucinating. That guy needs that mash more than anyone.”

  Hilding froze, afraid again.

  “Don’t say that, for fuck’s sake!”

  “Say what?”

  “About the mash.”

  “Are you afraid of Gypsyboy?”

  “Just that. Don’t say anything.”

  Jochum laughed again and held his finger in the air, turned back to the TV. There were more reports about the execution of the pedo: an interview with the prosecutor, pushed up against a wall in a stairwell in the courthouse, a proper-looking asshole in a suit with blond bangs and a microphone in front of his face. He looked just like they usually did—too young, too eager, somebody who deserves to get shaken up a bit.

  It was only after Fredrik Steffansson was arrested that Lars Ågestam finally understood what this was about.

  What this whole story was about.

  He’d laughed silently when he was first handed the pedophile case, when it was about a sick serial killer and his murder of a little girl. Later, he vomited in the bathroom at the Prosecution Authority when it turned into a grieving father and his murder of his daughter’s rapist and killer.

  So, when Steffansson was arrested, Ågestam felt like he’d lost his opportunity for a professional breakthrough in the Swedish courts.

  It had turned into so much more.

  His own fear, not being able to walk across the street without looking around, life, death.

  He’d insisted that Steffansson be held on suspicion of murder in custody until his trial.

  Steffansson’s lawyer, Kristina Björnsson, whom he’d just informally lost to in the Axelsson trial, had claimed self-defense as a description of Steffansson’s action and, therefore, disputed the arrest.

  She’d argued that another person’s life had clearly been in danger, and pointed out that there was only a slight r
isk that Steffansson would obstruct the investigation or flee from any upcoming trial, so it should be sufficient for him to report daily to the Eskilstuna police.

  The presiding judge, van Balvas, ruled after just a few minutes that Fredrik Steffansson would remain in custody until his trial for suspected murder, the date of which would be determined later.

  With the gavel still echoing, all hell broke loose. First, among those standing outside.

  Those with microphones, who pushed him up against the stone wall of the stairwell.

  Steffansson’s become a hero.

  Really?

  He saved the lives of two little girls.

  We can’t say that for sure.

  Bernt Lund had their photos on him.

  Steffansson murdered someone.

  Lund had their names. He was watching their nursery school.

  Steffansson murdered someone, those are his actions. And that’s what I’m concerned with.

  So you think someone who has prevented the death of many innocents should be rewarded with a long prison sentence?

  I have no comment on that statement.

  Don’t you think that he acted correctly?

  No.

  Why?

  It was premeditated murder.

  Yes?

  Premeditated murder should be judged for what it is.

  With life imprisonment?

  With the law’s most severe punishment.

  You mean that it would have been better if the two girls had been murdered?

  I mean that there’s no special rebate for bereaved fathers when it comes to premeditated murder.

  Do you have children of your own?

  Then, the others: the public, those who were watching, listening, reading. Those who screamed and made threats—his phone never stopped ringing.

  Fucking tool of society!

  I’m just doing my job.

  Tool!

  I have no choice.

  Little bureaucrat soldier!

  If a person breaks the law, it is my duty to prosecute them.

  If you do, you’ll end up dead!

  What you just said is called an unlawful threat.

  Die!

  It’s called an unlawful threat, and it is punishable by law.

  Your whole family will die!

  He was scared. What was happening was real. There were crazy people out there—but also the greater public. They all hated him, and they meant what they said. He knew that and took it seriously.

  He sought out Ewert Grens, who reluctantly let him in.

  He thought their last conversation had opened something up, perhaps a kind of intimacy when he revealed his uncertainty about the indictment, but he was still what he was, just as prejudiced, just as predictable. Grens smiled mockingly when Ågestam talked about being threatened, about his family being threatened, that he was afraid and wanted police protection. He had been close to tears—they came suddenly and he cursed the fact that he was here, in this room—but Grens pretended not to see, explained that everyone got threats. You had to expect that if you wanted to be a tough-guy prosecutor.

  He asked him to come back when he’d seen his ghost for real, not just heard voices.

  Lars Ågestam slammed the door behind him. It was muggy outside. He walked slowly back.

  He bought a newspaper and a bottle of mineral water at a newsstand; the humidity made him sweat profusely, and it took a lot more water than usual to keep hydrated in this heat. His picture was on the paper above the headline “Prosecutor Wants Hero to Get Life in Prison.” Everyone was staring at him, he was sure of it and walked faster, sweating again, but kept up the pace all the way to Kungsholmen, to the Prosecution Authority.

  He went into his office. His phone started ringing immediately.

  He looked at the phone, didn’t answer. It rang again, he didn’t answer. It rang eight times, and he sat with the preliminary investigation material, read it over and over again until the ringing stopped.

  Bengt Söderlund had just finished telling the story of how Baxter had guarded the toolshed all night and into late morning, at which point his master commanded him to stop, and Flasher-Göran finally opened the toolshed door. It was the third time now. They’d all heard it: Elisabeth, who didn’t want to, Ove and Helena, who’d seen it happen, and Ola Gunnarsson and Klas Rilke, who laughed more loudly each time they heard it. Just like when they were at school talking about a teacher, someone they’d given a nickname to and decided to laugh at all through high school, or like when they’d sit in the Tallbacka Football Club’s locker room, liniment and cleats and crotch kicks aimed at the opposing team’s fat butterfingers of a goalkeeper, a community built on remote humiliation. They’d stood for a bit in front of poker machines in Tallbacka’s only restaurant, feeding them ten-kronor coins and losing a few hundred in the process, then they went to their table, the same table where they always sat. They all ordered a beer, toasted the heat, which forced them to drink more, and Baxter, who made them laugh.

  They drank to the halfway mark, three or four every evening; the first filled the chest and quenched the thirst, and that was when the discussions really got going, as they do when alcohol loosens the tongue.

  Bengt drank more slowly than usual. He knew what he wanted from this evening. He’d decided during this week, weighed the pros and cons, looked at the legal books, read the wooden legal statutes.

  He lifted his glass, nodded to the others.

  “Let’s drink up. Then, I have something to say.”

  They toasted, emptied their glasses, one by one. Bengt raised his hand and made eye contact with the waitress behind the bar, made a sign to bring a new round. Then he spoke.

  “I’ve been thinking. I know now what we should do. How to clean up this village.”

  The others moved closer to the table, held their glasses still. Elisabeth turned her face. She clenched her jaw and stared down at the table. Bengt continued.

  “You remember the last time we were here? You remember Helena?”

  He smiled at her.

  “She stood up at the end, just before we went home. They were showing the pedophile murder on the TV, and Helena told us to be quiet. They were talking about the father who’d killed that pervert and that was when Helena said it. She said he was a hero. A modern-day hero. He wouldn’t let any fucking pedophile get the better of him. He didn’t sit around waiting. If the police weren’t willing to do what they should, he’d do it himself.”

  Helena was pleased with Bengt’s description.

  “That’s just what I said. He is a hero. He’s good-looking, too.”

  She smiled lovingly toward Ove, pushed him gently. Bengt nodded to her. He was impatient, wanted to say more.

  “The trial starts soon. It’s gonna go on for five days. Then comes the verdict. The verdict will come not too long after the trial ends. That’s when we have to be at it.”

  He looked around triumphantly.

  “The defense is claiming self-defense. All of Sweden is claiming self-defense. If they lock him up all hell will break loose. I bet you they wouldn’t dare. It’ll be just like it usually is, only the judge knows the law, the rest of the lay judges won’t have any legal education. You understand, right? The district court might free him, and that’s when we act.”

  The others at the table still didn’t understand, but they were listening. Bengt usually knew what was up.

  “The moment that verdict is read, if he’s freed, we strike. We’ll get rid of that pervert. I don’t want any pedophiles around here, not as my neighbor, not in my village. We’ll get rid of him and claim self-defense.”

  The bar owner, a portly man who used to own one of the now defunct grocery stores, brought out new glasses of beer, three in each hand. They drank a few mouthfuls each, until Elisabeth turned her face up, looked at her husband.

  “Bengt, you’re starting to lose control.”

  “If you don’t like this, Elisabeth, you can go home.”


  “Killing a person should never be the solution to a problem. This father is not a hero. He’s a very bad example.”

  Bengt slammed his beer glass on the table.

  “So what the hell do you think he should have done?”

  “Talked to the man.”

  “What?”

  “You can always talk to someone.”

  “Give me a fucking break!”

  Helena looked at Elisabeth, and her eyes were filled with disgust.

  “I don’t understand what you’re up to, Elisabeth. I don’t get why you can’t see things as they are. Can you tell me how you plan to talk to an armed rapist and serial killer who tortured and killed your own child? Can you? Discuss his tragic childhood? Broken toys and difficult potty training?”

  Ove put his hand on his wife’s shoulder as he stood up.

  “For fuck’s sake, there was no fucking Freud seminar going on at that day care center! No more of this fucking poor him talk.”

  Helena put her hand on her husband’s, continued speaking when he fell silent.

  “It wasn’t right that the father shot the pedophile. But it would have been more wrong if he hadn’t. Surely that’s obvious? Life is sacred—until you come to a situation where your personal morals and your ethical judgments have to be set aside. If I could have taken a shot with that rifle, I would have done the same thing as the father. Don’t you understand that, Elisabeth?”

  ————

  She made up her mind when she left the restaurant. She’d just lost her husband. She hurried home, asked her daughter to grab whatever she could carry, their only child still living at home. She packed both of their bags with clothes. She took the car—that’s all she needed. The summer evening was turning into night as she left Tallbacka, never to return again.