The Beast

by Anders Roslund

  '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 tu
rned 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.'

  A man wearing a pair of odd, blue-framed spectacles objected noisily to the order. 'We should stay in here.'

  'No. If we need you we'll let you know. This interrogation is no spectator sport.'

  Ewert Grens (EG): I'm turning on the recorder now.

  Jochum Lang (JL): Fine.

  EG: Please state your full name.

  JL: Jochum Hans Lang.

  EG: Good. And do you know why we are here?

  JL: No.

  Ewert glanced at Sven, feeling tired already. He would need help, and soon. This bugger didn't want to cooperate. He knew, but didn't want to.

  EG: You must answer the questions. For instance, tell us why Fredrik Steffansson fell forward when he managed to open the shower-room door. And next, why Steffansson was alive one minute and dead the next.

  For a minute or so the room was silent. Ewert's eyes were fixed on Jochum, and the big man's were on the barred window.

  EG: Enjoying the view?

  JL: Yes.

  EG: Fuck's sake, Jochum! We know Dickybird knifed Steffansson.

  JL: Good for you.

  EG: It's not news. We know.

  JL: I said, good for you. Why question me?

  EG: Because, for your own sweet reasons, you beat Dickybird senseless. I want to know why.

  Ewert waited for the reply. His adversary looked a hard man all right. Heavy build, broad shoulders, big shaven head and calm eyes. He'd have made dead meat of quite a few men outside.

  JL: He owed me money. EG: Come off it!

  JL: Quite a lot.

  EG: Crap! Dragan tricked some of the officers. You knocked Dickybird out cold. You wanted to make him pay for knifing Steffansson.

  Grens stood up, red in the face. Bending over Jochum, he lowered his voice.

  EG: Pull yourself together, man. For once, we're on the same side. If you simply confirm that Dickybird did it, I promise I won't let on it was you who said. Get this: if no one in the unit tells us what happened, Steffansson's murderer will go free.

  JL: I didn't see what happened.

  EG: Give me a break.

  JL: I didn't see a thing.

  EG: Screw that.

  JL: You can switch your machine off now.

  Ewert turned to Sven, shrugged. Sven nodded. After fumbling for a bit, Ewert switched the tape recorder off.

  'Satisfied now?'

  Jochum checked that the tape had really stopped running, and then looked up. His face was tense.

  'Grens, you know what gives here. Rule number one is don't grass. You're finished if you do, never mind what's up. So listen hard now. Yes, Grens, we know who used the blade on Steffansson. That bastard will be on his way out of here soon enough. Feet first. Think about it. And now the goons outside can take me back.'

  He got up and walked to the door. No one tried to stop him.

  * * *

  Jochum Lang's interrogation had lasted less than half an hour. It was still only quarter past eight. Ewert sighed. Not that he had expected anything other than silence. No one in prison ever told a cop anything. Fucking cons' honour. Cutting someone, no problem, but grassing - never. Honour my arse! He slapped his hand on the table. Sven jumped. 'What do you think, mate? What do we do now?' 'We haven't much choice.'

  Ewert started the tape, ran it back to the beginning and listened to the interview again to check it. Jochum's voice, slow and indifferent. His own, angry and pressurised. It always surprised him to hear how loud and aggressive he sounded.

  Sven listened too, looking at a distant point on the floor. He turned to Ewert.

  'I think we should leave him alone for tonight. All we'll get is this kind of thing. He won't say any more than Jochum did. Let's just drop in, chat informally, that kind of thing. Harmless.'

  Arne Bertolsson, the governor of Aspsås, decided that evening to isolate Unit H in its entirety, which meant keeping all the prisoners locked up in their cells.

  Banged up, they ate, shat and counted the hours alone.

  Meanwhile Ewert and Sven strolled along the empty corridor, inspecting the place where a man they had learned to respect, even like, had just been killed.

  They looked over the broken furnishings that littered the cubicle where Jochum had silenced Dickybird by slamming his head against the wall. Torn wallpaper and traces of blood marked the spot. Mirror glass, bits of electronics crunched against the soles of their shoes. The sitting room was a mess of broken glass, water, sodden cards and dead fish, their shiny scales fading. The plastic flooring was slippery. Leaving damp footprints, they passed the cell doors.

  There was a large puddle of blood at the end of the corridor. That was where Fredrik had fallen. They shook their heads at each other and followed the trail of blood into the shower-room. He must have been cut several times just after stepping inside. The white tiles glowed red near the washbasin.

  They found Dickybird in bed in his cell. He was wearing only a pair of tracksuit bottoms. His face was badly cut, one eye had disappeared in swollen tissue. The gold chain gleamed on his chest. He grinned broadly at his visitors.

  'Grensie himself. And his sidekick. Fuck's sake! Why the honour?'

  The cell interested them. This prisoner had been around for some time, regarded this as his home and had made the bare room positively cosy. A small TV set, a coffee-maker, a couple of flowerpots. Even curtains, red and white checked cotton. One wall was covered in posters, and on the other was just one, hugely magnified photograph.

  He noticed them noticing.

  'My daughter. And here too.'

  Dickybird pointed to a framed photo on the bedside table. A smiling little girl, her blonde hair in plaits, finished with neatly tied ribbons.