The Beast (ewert grens)

by Anders Roslund

  At least Ewert wanted something. He believed in what he did, unlike most of the others. So, never mind his surliness, his fits of bad temper, his oddities.

  ‘Come on, Sven. Get on with it.’

  Sven gave an account of Lund’s hospital transport, the whole trip from Aspsås to Southern General’s casualty entrance. He described how he had used his elaborate body- belt chains to batter the two officers. Afterwards he had made off with the van. Now he was at liberty out there, probably stalking girls, children, little kids who’d just started school.

  Ewert got up during this and limped restlessly about the room, waddling round his desk, manoeuvring his big body between the chair and the stand with potted plants. He stopped in front of the wastepaper bin, aimed with his good foot and kicked it hard.

  ‘How fucking stupid can you get, letting Lund out with only two escorts? What was Oscarsson thinking about? If he only could’ve been arsed to call us, we’d have sent a car and then that fucking freak wouldn’t have been at large!’

  The kick had sent the bin flying, spewing banana peel and empty snuffboxes and torn envelopes all over the floor. Sven had seen it all before, and waited for the next instalment.

  ‘Åke Andersson and Ulrik Berntfors,’ he said. ‘Two good men. Andersson is the tall one, well over one hundred and ninety-something. Your age.’

  ‘I know who Andersson is.’

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Tell you in a while. Can’t think now.’

  Sven felt tired. It came over him suddenly. He wanted to go home. Home to Anita, to Jonas. He had finished for the day and couldn’t bear thinking about what had happened, that a child might be violated any moment now, or anything else to do with Bernt Lund. After all, he’d swapped to get the morning shift, because they’d planned to celebrate. He had some bottles of wine and a posh gateau in his car. They were meant to be drinking his birthday toast, soon.

  Ewert noticed Sven’s tired eyes, his straying thoughts. Damn, he shouldn’t have kicked that effing bin. Sven disapproved of that kind of thing. Better say something. Be calm, cool.

  ‘Sven, you look tired. How are things?’

  ‘Oh, all right. I was about to leave. Go home. It’s my birthday today.’

  ‘Is it? Congratulations! How many years?’

  ‘Forty.’

  Ewert whistled, then made a bow.

  ‘Well I never. Shake hands!’

  He held out his hand, Sven grabbed it firmly and they shook for quite a long time. Then Ewert spoke.

  ‘But, young man. Regrettably, forty or not forty, you’re going nowhere now.’

  Ewert had bad breath. Normally they never got that close.

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Let me tell you something.’

  Ewert pointed at his visitor’s chair. He was impatient, jabbing towards it with his index finger. Sven pulled his hand away and went to perch on the edge of the chair, still ready to leave any minute now.

  ‘I was in it up to my neck, the last time.’

  ‘The girls in the basement.’

  ‘Two girls, both nine years old. He had tied them up, jerked off all over them, raped them, cut them. Just like the time before. They were lying on this bare cement floor, staring at us. The medic confirmed that they’d been alive when Lund cut them, stuck a metal object into them, into the vagina, the anus. I don’t believe it, because I can’t bear to believe it. Have you thought about that, eh, Sven? That you can believe whatever you like, if you put your mind to it?’

  Ewert Grens scared quite a few people. He didn’t stay put where you left him. His body was restless inside his creased shirt, his too-short trousers. Sven understood why people kept away from him, he had avoided the man himself. But he always felt that it was wrong to set out planning to humiliate someone. Simple enough rule. Anyway, he’d kept himself to himself until it seemed Ewert had accepted him. Even selected him, not that Sven understood why. The old boy must have needed someone and it happened to be him. Now Ewert didn’t seem dangerous any more. Big and grey and intense, but not dangerous.

  He was sad, grieving over the two girls. He didn’t cry, not tears yet.

  ‘I did the questioning. I kept trying to look Lund in the eye: No way. No fucking way. He stared above me, past me, through me. I interrupted the session several times to demand that he look straight at me.’

  Grens, you don’t get it.

  Grens, listen.

  I thought you were one of the guys who’d get it.

  I don’t get the hots for all kids.

  You’ve no reason to say that.

  I only go for some of them, the ones who’re a bit… bigger.

  Like that blonde, plump one.

  You know the kind.

  That’s important, Grens.

  They’re whores.

  Little slags with small feet.

  Who think about cock.

  They fucking well shouldn’t do that, you know.

  Fucking little slags with tight cunts, they shouldn’t be thinking about cock all the time.

  Human beings looked at each other when they talked. But no, not him. No way.

  He looked at Sven. Sven looked at him. They were human.

  ‘I understand. And I don’t. If he’s one of those who don’t look at you, then why wasn’t he locked up in a special psycho institution? Like Säters secure? Or Karsudden? Or Sidsjön?’

  Ewert bent to pick up the bin. He pulled out the tobacco from under his upper lip.

  ‘That’s what used to happen. His first time inside he got three years in Säter. But last time he was caught his mental disorder was diagnosed as minor. And then it’s off to the jug like everyone else. These days. Sex offenders’ unit, not a secure madhouse.’

  Ewert swallowed whatever it was. Not quite tears.

  Then, back to normality.

  He changed the tape. More of Siw’s singing, of course. ‘Jazz Bacillus, 1959’. He stood in front of the loudspeaker for a moment with his eyes closed. He turned the volume up, crouched to pick up the rubbish, returning it to the bin. Then he straightened, took three steps back to get maximum impact, aimed and kicked the bin again. This time it went further, hitting the wall by the window.

  He started speaking again.

  ‘Sven, get this fucking message. -Understand it if you can. Minor mental disorder, that’s what this man has. He gets his kicks from torturing and killing two little girls. He carves them up. So he’s suffering from a minor mental disorder, is he? Are you hearing me, Sven? Tell me then, what the fuck is a major mental disorder?’

  It was still morning, but already hot, twenty-four degrees in the sun. Another summer’s day that would maybe reach thirty degrees in the afternoon, for the third week in a row. ‘Augustin’. Time: 2.08. The Swedish entry for the Eurovision Song Contest 1959.

  He caught him in his arms. Held him close. They were of the same height and it was easy to reach him, to caress his shoulders, the back of his neck, his cheeks. To kiss him. His lips were soft.

  ‘I do need you.’

  ‘I’m here for you.’

  Lennart Oscarsson kissed him again, out of lust and out of habit. He was so glad that they were together this morning, trusting each other, this fucking awful morning.

  ‘Nils. Did you close the door?’

  ‘Yes, sure.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He looked at Nils, at his colleague who was his lover and his appalling secret, the man he could not look at without being reminded of Karin, his wife who was his lover and his whole life.

  Nils sat down in the senior-status leather armchair and tugged at Lennart to make him sit down in his lap. They hugged.

  ‘Come on. Take your clothes off.’

  ‘I want to. Believe me, my whole body wants to, but it’s not on. Not now. I can’t, I must be at that press conference, ready to answer their questions. I’ve no choice. Fact.’

  ‘There’s time enough.’

  ‘I love you, Nils. And I want you. But th
ere isn’t time, not now.’

  Nils gave up, but Lennart knew, he saw his lover’s disappointment. It was harder for Nils, he thought, who didn’t have someone at home waiting for him, somebody to lie close to in bed, to make gentle love with. Nils dreamed with Lennart in mind, only him. No secrets to mull over, only a future when it was simply Nils and Lennart, nothing and nobody else.

  Lennart stroked his cheek, kissed his forehead. Nils was so beautiful, proud-looking somehow. Two years older, there were some grey streaks in his dark hair.

  ‘I must be off.’

  ‘Any chance of meeting up later today?’

  ‘Afterwards I’ve got to see Bertolsson. He’s asked me out to lunch. Maybe it’s to be nice to me, but on the other hand - maybe not. It might be a threat. When I come back, what about a walk to the water-tower?’

  ‘I’ll wait for you there.’

  Lennart held him for longer than he should. Let him free, slowly. Stood up.

  The grey concrete wall was seven metres high. It loomed at the edge of the forest and then snaked along for one and a half kilometres, enclosing five low brick buildings.

  Some people were kept inside. Others stayed outside.

  Aspsås was one of Sweden’s twelve Category-B prisons, a medium security rating. The lifers, murderers and heavy drug-traders were locked up in Cat-A’s. Small-time traders hid inside Aspsås, where there were no long-term men, only fixed-termers coming and going with sentences between two and four years. One hundred and sixty men, in eight of the ten units in the wings. Most were repeat offenders with drug-habits, who would do a house-job to land some dosh, get fixed, do a job for more dosh, more fixes, do a job, get nicked and twenty-six months inside, then release, a job, some dosh, fixes, a job, dosh, fix, the pigs and thirty-four in the jug, release, a job.

  Here, just as everywhere. Me against you, you against the screws. Only two rules, don’t grass and don’t fuck mates who don’t want to.

  The other two units housed sex offenders. Hated, always under threat. Nonces fuck people who don’t want to.

  It was as if the prisoners’ joint shame and self-disgust had to find an outlet, as if being despised by society outside the wall was so hard to take that the only thing that could make up for it was to humiliate someone else. We, the straights, will breathe more easily if we fall in with the ancient prison compact everywhere that these sex freaks are nastier, more damaged, more excluded and that I, the murderer, rank more highly than you, the rapist, and that I, having robbed someone of the right to live, have more dignity than you, who fucked some sad cunt senseless. Though I’ve violated, it’s not the way you did it and, surely, you’re worse than me.

  Maybe in Aspsås hatred was greater than in many other prisons because it was a mixed institution, where a couple of wings had one unit for normal prisoners and one for sex offenders. Because every Aspsås prisoner was suspect, a placement there was a potential death sentence for a man doing time for something straight, like eighteen months for grievous bodily harm. Transfer from Aspsås to another prison was bad news and could mean a serious beating unless you had papers to prove you were clean. Without your sentence up front to show anything different, every incomer was convicted of sex crimes until proven innocent.

  H Unit was one of the eight normal units, which housed the ordinary lot of small-time crooks and street drug-dealers, assorted robbers, quite a few with GBH convictions, and the odd fraudster. These men were either on their way up in the criminal hierarchy and could expect longer sentences next time round, or had settled for doing the same pathetic stuff over and over, but were unsuitable for mixing with drunk drivers and minor first offenders in Category-C prisons. The unit looked like every other unit in any Swedish middling-grade prison. A locked, armoured door to the stairwell. A corridor with a linoleum floor in institutional yellow. Along it, ten cells on each side, their doors half-open. A small kitchen. Next door, a few tables to eat at and a TV corner and the green baize of the snooker table. Men slowly shuffling about, going away and coming back again, wandering off to somewhere to kill time, trying not to think of the hours that had passed and the hours that remained, only the present. Longing for zero hour is longing away your life. Staying alive and passing the time is all that is left when the prison gate is locked behind you.

  Stig Lindgren had settled in the TV corner. The set was on, some channel or other, the sound was turned down and a deck of cards was on the table in front of him. He was about to deal to the five other players waiting for their hands.

  Stig collected his cards. Grinned. His gold-crowned front tooth gleamed.

  ‘No shit. All aces to me. Again. You’re playing like right tossers.’

  The others said nothing. Checked their cards. Flicked them about.

  ‘Fuck’s sake. Don’t show me your cards.’

  He was forty-nine, but looked older, lined and worn. Thirty-five years of drug abuse had lodged amphetamine twitches in his face, spasms pulling his cheek towards his eye, the eye blinking out of sync. His dark hair thinning. A thick gold chain round his neck. He weighed eighty kilograms now, well muscled after nineteen months at Aspsås.

  Once he was outside again and back on speed he’d soon be down to sixty.

  He got up suddenly and flapped about, looking for the remote control among the cards and newspapers on the table.

  ‘Where’s the fucker?’

  ‘Are you playing fucking cards or what?’

  ‘Shut it. Where’s the thing? The remote. Go get it, Hilding. Dump the cards. Gotta find it!’

  Hilding Oldéus quickly put his cards down and started pulling nervously at the same newspapers that Dickybird had just been over. Thin and short, with a high-pitched, edgy voice, ten trips in eleven years. When he was on heroin, he had started scratching an itch near his right nostril and somehow couldn’t stop. Now it was a chronically infected sore.

  The remote wasn’t on the table. Hilding ran around, searching at random on tables and windowsills. Dickybird pushed the coffee table out of the way, stepped forward between the irritated but silent card-players and turned the volume up.

  ‘Quiet, girls! Hitler is on now.’

  In the TV corner, in the kitchen, in the corridor, everywhere, people stopped doing whatever it was. Hurrying to the TV, they lined up behind Dickybird. The midday news programme. Somebody whistled appreciatively when the next item was announced.

  ‘You heard. Shut up.’

  Lennart Oscarsson. Someone held out a microphone. Behind him, Aspsås prison.

  Oscarsson looked stressed. He was unused to TV cameras, unused to having to explain why something he was responsible for had been utterly buggered up.

  …how was Lund able to escape…

  …as I was trying to say…

  …this prison is allegedly secure but…

  …it didn’t happen here…

  …what do you mean, ‘not here’…

  …a hospital visit, to the Southern General, under guard…

  …under guard…

  …two of our most experienced warders… only two…

  …two of our most experienced warders and a waist restraint…

  …on whose recommendation… …he beat them both down and… who considered two guards enough… and escaped in the prison transport van… Oscarsson’s face was shown in close-up. He was sweating, his moist, nervous face held on screen for a long time, the camera enjoying his nakedness, picking out the drops of sweat on his forehead.

  Television is all surface and immediacy. Oscarsson had been on leadership training courses and been filmed in media practice sessions, but this was for real. He was gripped by a deep-seated, churning anxiety; he was very tense and kept swallowing, his eyes had an uncertain, shifty look. He took too long to think up answers, stumbled over his words too often and forgot to come out with his prepared statements, despite knowing that you must have something definite to say and keep repeating it, regardless of what you’re asked. The situation was so in-your-face, fear ha
d flooded his mind and drowned the lessons he had learned; what with the camera and the microphone and the insistent reporter, he was exposed with his trousers down to every backwoods citizen watching the news. He tried to produce sensible answers, but his mind was taken up by images of Nils, or of Karin, watching him on screen. Would he embarrass them? Did they understand what it was like? He longed to feel close to one of them, longed to feel hands touching his face, his neck, stroking his chest, his hips.

  ‘What a fucking loser!’

  Dickybird had issued a command. Hilding heard it and cut the silence in the room.

  ‘Hitler’s coming across like a fucking retard.’

  Dickybird moved and landed his fist hard on the back of Hilding’s head.

  ‘Shut the fuck up! Got that? I’m listening!’

  Hilding twisted nervously in his chair, picked at the sore on his nose and said nothing.

  He had learned his lesson the first time inside, only seventeen years old and on an eight-month stretch for robbery; he had done a central Seven-Eleven shop, as high as a kite but would need to buy more horse soon, he knew, and was close to panic. He threatened the shop assistant, a young woman, with a kitchen knife and robbed the till, didn’t get much, just two 500-kronor notes. Still, it was enough for a deal with the trader round the corner; he was negotiating when the police arrived on the scene. Back then prison had seemed strange and very frightening. He quickly tired of looking out for himself and adjusted to the fact that there would always be at least one man who ran the show and protected a faithful arselicker. He had been brown-nosing Dickybird in other prisons, once in ’98 and then again in ’99, and he was no worse than the other unit bosses.

  The TV image switched to a different setting. Oscarsson’s pained face was still there, but further away, with the Aspsås wall in the background. The camera panned slowly from the top of the wall to the sky and back again, a visual cliché in the quickly produced news item. A voiceover, factual to the point of dreariness, reiterated some points. Bernt Lund had been given permission to visit hospital and had escaped from a secure transport that morning; he had been found guilty of several brutal rapes of underage girls, a series that had culminated in the so-called basement murders, when his victims had been two nine-year-olds; he had served four years of his sentence in solitary confinement at Kumla, but had recently been moved to one of the special units for sexual offenders at Aspsås, and since he was classified as very dangerous, it was in the public interest to show a picture of him.