The Beast (22 page)

    'I
know what he's like,' Ewert went on. 'I've interrogated him. I've read his
stash of reports. Every single fucking line that the forensic psychos have
penned. He'll do it again; the only question is when. And where. He's beyond any
kind of control. He'll go on until we get him or he kills himself.'

    Dickybird
was looking for shade. There were no trees in the exercise yard, no walls or
fences, nothing to hide behind to get the sun off his back; sweat was pouring
off him. The large expanse of gravel had become a huge dust cloud contained
within the grey stone of the perimeter wall. They had tried a game of football,
five-a-side, with five thousand in the pot, but had to stop, their shoulders
red and burning, every breath hurting. The two teams had collapsed on the
ground behind the goals. Reps from each team had met in the centre circle to
negotiate, both arguing the same case, saying that their boys were ready for
more, but it was obvious that the opposition was dead beat, so the bet was off
for now, surely?

    Skåne
had been their rep. When he returned, he sat down between Dickybird and
Hilding.

    'They
came round. They're clapped out. The Russian couldn't fucking breathe.'

    'Good.'

    'We'll
go for it on Monday, play the second half. And I raised the stake. Double. That
lot can't kick a fucking ball. No way.'

    Hilding
stirred, looking anxiously at Dickybird, scratching the sore near his nostril.
Bekir was silent, Dragan was silent.

    Dickybird
spat into the gravel.

    'Did
you so? Doubled the stake. And who pays if we screw up?'

    'Shit,
Dickybird, we won't screw up. Fuck's sake, they haven't even got a proper
goalie.'

    Dickybird
lifted his head to examine the other team; everyone was still lying down as if
the sun had sapped their collective strength.

    'Skåne,
you're full of shit. Your brain's stoned senseless. Like, haven't you seen the
boys play? Have you been here at all? We've had crap luck, that's a fact. But
fine, fine. OK, shithead. OK. We'll go for it, double the fucking pot. But your
dosh is on the line if we lose. You'll pay up, I'll see to that. And if we win,
we share and share alike. That's fair. Two grand each.'

    Skåne
shook his head, he didn't give a monkey's. He moved a few metres away, went
down on his belly in the dust and started doing press-ups. He counted aloud to
let them hear, ten, twenty, fifty, one hundred and fifty, two hundred and
fifty. His shaved skull and thick neck were gleaming with sweat, it dripped on
the ground; he groaned and pushed, emptying himself of frustration and summer
and having four years to go.

    Dickybird
closed his eyes. He stared wide-eyed at the sun for as long as he could stand
it, letting in the blinding rays. When he lowered his eyelids there were
patterns of rhythmic light, dots and colours and wavy bands; this was a trick
he'd played since childhood, closing your eyes made you vanish.

    'What
news about the big boy? The hitman?'

    Hilding
realised what he was after, but didn't want to know.

    'How
do you mean, what news?'

    'Like,
where is he? I haven't seen him today.'

    'How
should I fucking know?'

    'Make
it your fucking job, that's how. Jochum Lang and Håkan Axelsson, the new guys,
it's up to you to keep tabs. And let 'em know what's fucking what.'

    'Like
you did with Jochum?'

    'Shut
it.'

    A
breeze was blowing, the first wind for days. It started suddenly, fanning their
faces gently so that they forgot about arguing for a while. Dickybird sat up to
suck strength from what was no longer unyielding heat. Turning his head towards
the wall he saw the man on the running path circling the endless concrete. He
had reddish-blond hair and a beard, one of the two new guys; this was the one
who had arrived in the morning. Dickybird's eyes followed him, step by step,
while he pulled a half-smoked fag out of his packet, one of the many fag-ends
inside it. He became agitated and started waving his arms about, his eyes still
glued to the stranger.

    'Look,
there he goes. Axelsson. Not a fucking peep about who he is. He says he's in
for GBH. Fuck's sake, the prissy cunt isn't up to pissing against the wind.
He's a beast, I can smell it. I fucking sniff these perverts out.'

    The
cooler air had alerted Hilding. He sat up to watch Axelsson's slow progress.

    'I
listened to the screws earlier on, and they were on about him, that bugger over
there. Like, this place is full up. Every single cell set aside for beasts has
someone in it. And that's why he's here, because there was no room anywhere
else.'

    Dickybird
kicked irritably at the gravel and a white cloud of dust rose against the blue
sky. He threw the fag-end at the whiteness and it glowed for a while before
going out.

    'Skåne.'

    'Yes,
what?'

    'You've
got a mission.'

    'What
fucking mission?'

    'You've
got a six-hour leave coming up. Right?'

    'Right.'

    'No
supervision?' 'Right.'

    'You
know what you've got to do, then. Like, check out Axelsson's sentence.'

    'That's
not on. I've got business to see to. Like, I've got a bird, and only six shitty
hours.'

    Dickybird
laughed.

    'Forget
the bird. Shitheads who double the pool after a drawn first half shouldn't push
their luck.'

    He
pointed at them, first Skåne, then Hilding, then Skåne again.

    'Wildboy,
you get Axelsson's ID number somehow and tell Skåne. He'll clutch it in his
shaky junkie hands and use his leave tomorrow to get the boys at Stockholm
registry office to hand over the beast's indictment. And then we'll fucking
see. Oh, yeah.'

    Hilding
scratched his sore until he bled. Then he cleared his throat, for too long.
Dickybird interrupted before his lackey could speak.

    'Don't
even think of arguing. Just do it.'

    Lennart
Oscarsson stood by the window in his room. It looked out over the exercise yard
and football pitch. He observed grown men, offenders who had threatened, beaten
up and killed other men, lying on the ground behind the goals, gasping for air.
He watched Dickybird and his harem, noted that they stared and pointed at
Axelsson, who was walking along the jogging track. It made him gulp with
anxiety; he had warned Bertolsson that to place someone with a child porn
sentence among the normals could only end one way. In bloodshed. He had seen it
before, and only someone unfamiliar with his strange reality could imagine
anything different.

    He
was dying. Another small death with every moment that passed.

    His
two lives did not mean that he lived more, but that he lived less. Somehow his
separate worlds cancelled each other out, consumed each other, so that loving
two people, being embraced by two lovers, did not make him feel richer, but as
if he'd lost out twice over.

    Now
Nils was sitting opposite him. They had been holding each other, had agreed
that they needed each other. And then Nils had stated his ultimatum.

    Lennart
understood why. It wasn't that he did not see how living alone, just being
somebody's second best, someone who didn't really exist for those who knew them
both, would lead up to a point, like now, when they faced each other with an
ugly either-or dividing them.

    He
turned back toward the window, scanning the row of uniform villas just beyond
the wall. He lived in one of them. His whole life was in one of those houses,
and his wife, whom he had always loved.

    The
man who stood close behind him now offered him a new life. He could grow old
with Nils.

    He
did not have the strength to keep carrying the lie.

    He
knew that.

    Tomorrow
must be the day when he stopped lying.

    The
whore had been screaming when he pulled off her red shoes. He'd pushed her down
then, into the grass, little whores should scream, that was part of it, but
there were too many outdoor types about, joggers and strolling OAPs. She hadn't
liked it when he kissed the shiny red leather and the metal buckles, she'd
screamed a lot, louder than the rest, true, but put it this way, she'd screamed
real beautiful. He had to kiss her feet afterwards, maybe he was a bit rough
then, more than he needed to be, he had pushed her face into the dry ground for
a bit too long. It's hard to handle the little whores, if you're nice to them
they just want more cock. This one was just the same.

    She'd
had lovely feet. Pale pale skin, tiny toes. He had almost forgotten how it was
to be with little whores. Four years it had been, how he'd longed for it,
wanking wanking wanking, but now there was no need, he'd got at them again.

    They
acted bad later on. When they had got what they wanted, cock, a hard seeing-to.
And when they were silent.

    He
had hidden this one. A big fir tree, its bottom branches reached the ground and
she fitted in underneath. She'd been too mucky, shame to push her down so hard,
but he had licked her feet clean. They had tasted of earth.

    He
had been sitting here for three hours. A useful seat this, not too near but
with a good view of everybody who was going in and out. This seemed a proper
nursery, he had checked it out before and the children always looked happy.

    True,
there were the guards. Ordinary baby cops, but always in the way. He'd have to
work round them. Same types, in pairs, parked outside every place he'd tried in
Strängnäs. But this was Enköping, thirty kilometres down the road, still, here
they fucking well were.

    Little
tiny whores.

    He
had seen lots already.

    Lots
with white-blonde hair, that's what he liked best, the pale ones because they
were always so soft, their soft pale skin had blood vessels showing through and
when he pressed hard with his fingers it left kind of reddish spots.