The Beast (42 page)

    They
had taken their clothes off as soon as the front door closed behind them and
made love as if they would never stop, holding on to each other, hot and sweaty,
their bodies slippery, sticky, not letting go of the other for the rest of that
day and the night that followed. Both behaved as if they feared that somebody
would step into the room to take their nearness away and then they would die,
as if feeling the other's bare skin on your own was not simply comforting but
the only way to survive. Fredrik had never taken a woman in this needy way; he
had to have her and stay close to her, she was a human being he must unite with
absolutely. He inhaled her smells, caressed her, bored into her with his penis,
but nothing satisfied him, she wasn't enough. He tried everything to get closer
to her, bit her a few times, her buttock, thigh, shoulder. She laughed, but he
was serious about wanting all of her, in him.

    Fredrik
stayed in the house that week, while the journalists were waiting outside with
their eager smiles and cameras and questions. He was determined to hide until
they'd gone away. Twice Micaela went out to shop for food and they stayed glued
to her side all the way to town and back. They followed her into the
supermarket, pursuing her up and down the aisles and asking her questions about
how he felt. Micaela kept her promise to say nothing. When she got home and
closed the door behind her, loud voices were calling her name.

    He
avoided Marie's room. Yes, she was there. Though she wasn't, not for real. The
room kept demanding his attention, he couldn't put it out of his mind, even
though he didn't want to think about it. They must move, sooner or later; if there
was any life worth living it must be somewhere else, not here, among the
remains of the past.

    He
was free, but still captive. He didn't read the papers or watch TV, it was all
too much. A girl had been killed and a father had killed the killer; surely
that was all there was to it. He could not see why the public interest should
demand yet more publicity.

    He
had had a life once, but not any more. And they were trying to rob him of the
tiny existence he claimed by making it public.

    He
had clung to Micaela as fiercely on the second day as on the first. They made
love many times, mingling energy and grief and comfort and guilt and fear with
their love- making. The last few times the act had become almost mechanical
intercourse; they were pressing and squeezing in ways which they had learned
would please the other and bring on an orgasm quickly. Too tired to look at or
truly feel each other, the whole thing had become tense and nervous. In the end
they both felt like crying as they looked together at his penis entering her,
powerless to change what they were doing and too exhausted to do it again,
although they knew that the driving, suffocating anxiety would still be there
when they lay back, drained.

    On
the third day he started to drink. He felt like dying, the way he always
imagined he would feel when his body had weakened and death came close. Surely
dying is easier if your body has given in? He tried to keep such thoughts away
and the alcohol did its job, paralysing his will and separating him from the
day, his hovering fears and his damned loneliness.

    Since
then he had stayed in bed most of the time, though sleep was not to be even
thought of. When she was there he held her. Sex was beyond him; he was too
fatigued even to go and get a bottle, even to eat. Micaela wanted to call a
doctor, but could not persuade him however hard she tried. Fredrik had said no
to bereavement counselling and a session with a psychologist, and he wouldn't
see a doctor either.

    Maybe
that was why he hardly reacted when Kristina Björnsson phoned at half past
eleven in the evening. They had exchanged a glance saying 'journalists' when
the phone rang, but in the end Micaela had answered.

    Once
she had understood what Kristina was saying she began arguing hysterically. The
lawyer seemed to be reassuring, in a legal way, but as Fredrik listened he felt
unresponsive, dulled. He could not take an interest in all this emotion.
Nothing was and nothing mattered.

    The
main message from Kristina was that the prosecution had appealed and the case
would be tried again in a higher court. One consequence was that he would be
arrested again the next day and put in a remand prison cell. He took this in,
with a sudden sense of relief.

    So they
would take his daily existence away from him.

    They
would take his days and nights, hour by hour, turning time into a process that
bypassed him and therefore lacked reality for him. Of course, he would still be
forced to participate. It would help him to avoid seeing what was really going
on here, at home. Afterwards was another matter.

    When
the call ended, he went back to bed. He kissed Micaela intensely, and knew he
would try to make love to her again.

    It
was a black car. Their cars were always black, and had double rear-view mirrors
and tinted glass that you couldn't see through from the outside. Three
plainclothes policemen had picked him up early in the morning. He recognised
two of them, the older one with the limp and his younger, polite companion. The
third one was a big young man, who drove the car.

    The
police didn't harass him and waited quietly while he held Micaela until he
finally felt he could bear to let go of her. No one spoke as the car travelled
at speed towards Stockholm with an officer on a motorbike in front and another
black car following them.

    After
a while Grens told the driver to lower the radio volume and play a CD he'd
brought. Sundkvist asked if that was really necessary and Grens mumbled
irritably. He carried on grousing until the driver said
oh, hand over the
fucking disc.

    Grens
had closed his eyes and was rocking slowly to and fro.

    Siw
Malmkvist. Frederik was sure of it.

    
For
all your cheating talk about cars and stuff,

    
I
might as well walk and leave you in a huff…

    Fredrik
shuddered. The text was so stupid, and Siw's jolly-hockeysticks voice belonged
to the past, the '50s and early '60s, to a less knowing, more naive Sweden with
high hopes for the future. Or maybe that lost innocence was just a growing
myth. For him at least those years had meant his father and the beatings and
his mother smoking her eternal Camels, while she looked the other way. No Siw
then, to help
sing the sorrows away,
and she was no good now either; her
world was all lies and escapism. It was on his tongue to ask the old Siw fan
next to him what he was escaping from, and what stone had he been living under
all this time.

    Siw
sang all the way, all the fifty minutes it took to get to Kronoberg remand
prison. Grens didn't open his eyes once. The other two were staring into the
distance, obviously lost in their own thoughts.

    Then
the car turned into Berg Street and they saw the crowd.

    Many
more demonstrators this time. If it had been about two hundred then, outside
the Old Court, it was more like five hundred now.

    They
were facing the prison, shouting in unison, waving placards and hitting out
with them, screaming abuse, spitting, throwing stones towards the gate from
time to time. It only took a few seconds for someone to spot the outrider and
the two black cars, and a few seconds more for an advance guard to start
running in their direction. The first arrivals grabbed each other's hands and
lay down on the ground in an uninterrupted ring round the three vehicles,
preventing them from driving anywhere.

    The
large young driver looked around for a moment and grabbed the radio.

    'Urgent
assistance required! Repeat, urgent! More units to Berg Street.'

    A
voice came back almost immediately.

    'How
many?'

    'Hundreds!
Demonstrators, outside Kronoberg prison.'

    'Units
on their way. With you any moment now.'

    'Risk
of prisoner escape!'

    'Drive
on! Drive on!'

    Fredrik
stared at the people outside the car windows, heard their shouting and read their
placards. What was all this in aid of? He didn't understand. He didn't know
these people. What did they want with his name and his story? It was none of
their business what he had done, it had been his battle, and his very own hell.
Lots of these people were lying on the ground, risking life and limb. For what?
Did they really know? Did they think he was grateful? He hadn't asked for this.

    There
was no difference between the demonstrators and the journalists camping outside
his gate. They extracted life from the lives of others; now they were using him
for their own purposes, it was his turn. Why this need? It wasn't as if they
had all lost their only child, or aimed a gun at another human being and shot
to kill. He wished he had the courage to wind the window down, ask them about
these things and force them to meet his eyes.

    But
the four of them inside the car sat as if paralysed, under siege. The big young
man at the wheel was obviously stressed, breathing heavily and making
meaningless gestures, alternately releasing the handbrake and shifting through
the gears. Grens and Sundkvist seemed utterly calm and still, just waiting
patiently.

    Then
the voice came over the radio.

    'Alert
all cars. Assistance required! Go to Kronoberg prison, Berg Street entrance.
Demonstrators, about five hundred. Stone-throwing. Please disperse. Nothing
else. And take your personal opinions home with you.'

    Fredrik
realised that Grens was observing him, watching for his reaction. Nothing
doing. Fredrik had heard what they'd all heard; he was astonished, but showed
nothing and said nothing.

    The
young driver changed gear to reverse. Raced the engine. Released the brake and
let the car move back ten- odd centimetres, as if to test the courage of the demonstrators.

    They
stayed put. And they screamed.

    He
shifted to first gear and let the car crawl forward for a metre, no more, again
racing the engine. They stayed, and instead of screaming they shouted out their
contempt in sing-song voices. Fucking cops. Filthy pigs.

    Suddenly
some of them got up and walked towards the car. One had a stone. He threw it at
the rear window. The glass broke and the stone bounced against the seat between
Fredrik and Ewert. It fell to the floor after hitting the driver's seat.
Fredrik felt splinters of glass cutting the back of his neck. It hurt. He
looked at Grens and saw blood flowing down his cheek.

    The
driver shouted
what the fuck what the fuck,
pulled out his handgun and
wound down the window. Directing it skywards, he fired a warning shot. The
people close to the car threw themselves to the ground. He kept the gun in
place for a little longer and then something struck his arm, making him lose
his grip on it. It fell, and a young man, maybe twenty, not much older, picked
it up, held it with both hands and pointed it towards the driver's face.

    'Drive!
Fuck's sake! Drive!' Ewert howled.

    The
driver had a gun held to his head. In front of him were people lying on the
ground.

    He
hesitated.

    The bullet
passed close to his left ear and went through the windscreen in front of him.
Now he heard nothing any more. He focused on a tree at the end of the street
and put his foot down. Voices cried out and the car bumped as he drove it over
human bodies. He left Berg Street at the same moment as the police buses
arrived.