The Beast

by Anders Roslund

  There were lots of them out there. For each one down, there was one ready to go.

  Ewert was cursing himself. He should have inspected Lund's cell then. But the police had been constantly pushed for time, always under media pressure, invariably targets for public outrage. He had felt too harassed to visit Aspsås himself and had sent two junior colleagues to interrogate Lund, whose cell had been stacked to the ceiling with his illegal handiwork. Mostly CDs with thousands of pictures showing tormented children. It was all very bad, and conclusive enough, but if he had gone himself he would have picked up more about the man. Maybe he wouldn't have been at such a loss now that Lund had got ahead of them.

  Lennart unlocked the door.

  'There. All yours. Tidy is one word for it.'

  Ewert and Sven stepped inside and then stopped. Despite its standardised ordinariness - about eight square metres, one window, the usual furnishings - the room was very odd indeed. Full of objects, all lined up, as if for an exhibition. Candlesticks, stones, pieces of wood, pens, bits of string, items of clothing, folders, batteries, books, notebooks, all were arranged in lines stretching along the floor, across the bedspread, the windowsill, the shelves. Each object was separated from the next by what looked like exactly two centimetres. It made Ewert think of an unending row of dominoes, upright until one piece is moved out of place and it's all over.

  Ewert's diary had a small ruler marked along its edge. He aligned it with a row of stones. Two centimetres, twenty millimetres exactly, between the stones. The pens on the windowsill were twenty millimetres apart. On the shelves, the books were twenty millimetres apart too, and the same went for the bits of string on the floor and between the battery and the notebook and the packet of cigarettes. Everywhere, twenty millimetres.

  'Does it always look like this?'

  Lennart nodded.

  'Yes, it does. Before taking off the bedspread at night he puts the stones on the floor, one by one, measuring the distances as he goes along. In the morning he goes through the whole performance in reverse after he's made the bed and put the bedspread back on.'

  Sven moved some of the pens. Dead ordinary biros. The stones were ordinary stones, one more pointless than the next. Plain, empty folders and notebooks.

  'This is too much. I don't get it.'

  'Nothing to it. What is it you don't get?'

  'I don't know. Something. Why? Why does he lick children's feet, for instance?'

  'Why do you think it matters to know why?'

  'It matters who this guy is, inside. Where he's going, what it's for. But the bottom line is, I want to find the motherfucker so I can go home and eat some cake and drink a glass. Or three.'

  'You'll never know what he's like inside. Not a hope, I'm sorry. There's nothing like a reason in any of all this. He doesn't know himself why he licks the feet of his victims, dead or alive. I'm convinced he doesn't have a clue why he lines things up two centimetres apart either.'

  Ewert was holding up his diary at face level. He put his thumb as a marker at the two-centimetre mark, forcing them all to look.

  'Control. That's all. They're like that, all of them. They enjoy rape, because when they do it they call the shots. Power and control. Though this one is extreme, he's actually just like the rest. His rows of stones and so forth are all about order, structure, being in charge.'

  He lowered the diary, placed it at the end of the row of stones and swept the lot down on to the floor.

  'But we know that. And we know he's a sadist. We know what power does to men like Lund. His cock goes hard, that's how it works. He controls someone, that person is powerless. Only he decides how to hurt them and how much. It's what gives him his kicks, makes him come in front of tied-up, broken nine-year-olds.'

  He did his trick with the diary to the biros on the windowsill. One by one they hit the floor.

  'Come to think of it, the pictures. The computer ones. Did he sort them too?'

  Lennart fixed his gaze on the piled-up biros on the floor. No sign of order now. Then he met Ewert's eyes, looking surprised, as if the question was new to him.

  'Sorted? How do you mean?'

  'Well, how did he do it? I can't fucking remember. Faces, eyes, yes. How bloody abandoned they all looked. But not distances, how the images were related to each other.'

  'I don't know. I should, maybe, but I don't. Didn't even think about it. But I will find out, if you think it's important.'

  'Yes it is. It's important.' Lennart sat down on the bed. 'Tomorrow, will that do?' 'Not really.'

  'OK, later. When we're done here. The file is in my room.'

  They turned the cell inside out. They inspected every corner of what had been Bernt Lund's home for four years, touched everything, sniffed around.

  There was no information to be had. He had not had a plan.

  He had not known that he was going somewhere.

  * * *

  Fredrik opened the car door. He had driven far too fast, stayed in seventy on the Tosterö Bridge with its thirty- kilometre limit, but he had promised Marie they would be in school by one thirty so there was nothing else for it.

  And it was good that she went to school, because Daddy was working today. Actually, it was a lie. It had been a lie yesterday. She went to nursery school because it was important for her to keep the place, and because having a daddy who worked was part of the scene. Even better, a daddy who worked hard at writing and needed to be alone when he was thinking complicated thoughts. He hadn't had even a single thought worth thinking for months, and he hadn't written a word for weeks. He was in the grip of writer's block and had no idea how to wrench free.

  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 th
e 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.'

  'The queen is high.'

  'Nope.'

  'No? What the fuck?'

  He put his last card down. King of clubs.

  'There.'

  Dragan started waving his hands about.

  'What the fuck! The king went before.'

  'Too bad. Here goes anoth
er one.'

  'You can't have two fucking kings of clubs.'

  'Can't I? Seems I can.'

  Dickybird pushed Dragan's hands away.

  'That's my lot now. Goes to the top card. You owe me, girls.'

  He laughed out loud and banged on the table. The screws in the guards' box, three guys who passed most of their working time chatting, turned round to place the source of the noise. They watched as Dickybird threw a pile of matches high in the air and tried to catch them in his mouth. They shrugged, turned away.

  Hilding walked along the corridor from the toilet. He moved slowly, but seemed more alert than before. He was holding a sheet of paper.