Anders Roslund - The Beast

This evening they had spent some time playing the gaming machines in the bar and then wandered off to sit at their usual table, before they lost too much of their hard-earned money. Everyone had a beer, enjoyed being there and toasted Baxter, who had made them laugh.

They were only halfway through the first pint; a warm- up, there was more to come, at least another three or four.

The discussion would take off, alcohol stimulated the flow of words.

Bengt drank more slowly than usual. He had made up his mind during the week and prepared himself properly by reading a lot of deadly dull law handbooks. He had the evening all worked out in his head.

He raised his glass to his companions.

‘Drink up, boys and girls. I’ve got something to say afterwards.’

They drank. Bengt signalled to the barman to bring another round, and then he began.

‘I’ve been thinking. Drawn up a plan of action, you might say. We had better get some law and order round here.’

The others moved closer, stopped drinking and sat still. Elisabeth clenched her jaw and stared down at the tabletop. Her face was flushed.

‘Remember last time we were here? Remember what Helena said?’

He smiled at Helena.

‘Right at the end, before closing time, she stood up and asked us to listen. The late-night news was all about the killing of the paedophile, the father who shot that sex maniac. Afterwards Helena said something that stayed with me. She said, that man is a hero. A hero of our time. He wasn’t going to let a fucking pervert get away with murder. He didn’t hang about waiting for the police. They had messed up before, so he took it in his own hands to act.’

Helena beamed.

‘I meant what I said. That man is a hero. Good-looking, too.’

She pushed playfully at her Ove, smiled at him. Bengt nodded impatiently. He had more on his mind.

‘The trial will start soon. It will take five days and the sentence will come at some point during the last couple of days. We’ll be around when it is.’

He looked around triumphantly.

‘The defence is pushing for something called “reasonable force”, and so are ordinary folk all over the country; they’ll fucking riot if the court comes out in favour of locking him up. I bet it won’t take the risk. The set-up will be the usual, only the judge has law training and the rest are magistrates, not trained in the law so they won’t stick to paragraphs. See what I’m saying? He might well go free, and that’s when we strike. Then it’s our turn.’

The rest of the group round the pub table still didn’t see the point, but figured Bengt had checked things out, as he usually did.

‘Yeah? If the girl’s dad is let off, that’s it. The moment we hear, we have a licence to act, to deal with that perv once and for all. I, for one, won’t put up with having a paedophile around this place. Not as a neighbour, not any- fucking-where in this community. We’ll let him have it and then claim that we acted with reasonable force.’

The overweight barman, ex-owner of one of the defunct grocer’s shops, brought them another round, carrying three glasses in each hand. They got stuck in, feeling good, but then Elisabeth spoke up.

‘Bengt, listen. You’re going over the top.’

‘Christ, we’ve been over this before. Go home if you don’t like it.’

‘How can you think it’s right to kill someone just to solve a problem? That dad is not a hero at all. He’s setting a bad example.’

Bengt slammed his glass down on the table.

‘So what does madam think he should’ve done then?’

‘Well… talked to the man who did it.’

‘What?’

‘You can always get somewhere by talking.’

‘Now I’ve fucking heard it all!’

Helena turned to face Elisabeth, her eyes narrowing with dislike.

‘I must say I don’t understand you, Elisabeth. Do you have a problem with seeing things the way they really are or what? Exactly what are you supposed to talk about with a crazy sex killer who’s just murdered your own child? Maybe his tragic childhood? Maybe he had the wrong kind of toys? Lousy potty training? You must tell us.’

Ove rose and put his hand on his wife’s shoulder.

‘Fuck’s sake, what do you think he was there for, outside that school? Well, I can tell you one thing, it wasn’t the time and place for some kind of psycho session about what-a- very-sad-upbringing-blah-blah.’

Helena had put her hand over Ove’s and started to speak when her husband stopped to draw breath.

‘You can say the dad had no right to shoot that paedophile. But he would have been even more wrong not to kill him. That’s obvious to me, anyway. OK, life is precious, I agree with that, but circumstances alter cases. If I’d been where he was and had a gun I could handle, I would’ve done just the same. What is it you don’t understand about that, Elisabeth?’

She made up her mind as she left the restaurant. This was the end for her and Bengt, she had given up on her husband for good.

She walked straight back home and told her daughter, the one child she was responsible for, to pack just what she could carry. Then she filled two suitcases with their clothes and put everything in the car; she had to take that.

The summer evening was darkening, turning into night, when she left Tallbacka for ever.

The cell was one hundred and seventy centimetres wide, two hundred and fifty centimetres long, and contained a narrow bed, a small bedside table and a washbasin handy for pissing at night and washing in the morning. He was wearing a greyish, sagging suit, with the prison initials stamped on the sleeves and trouser-legs. Full restrictions applied, which meant no newspapers, no TV or radio and no visitors, except the chief interrogator, the prosecutor, the defence lawyer, the prison chaplain and prison officers. Fresh air was permitted for one hour daily; it amounted to a supervised stroll in a steel cage on the roof. Just now the heat up there was suffocating and he had asked to be let off the last half-hour every day so far.

He was lying on the bed. There was not a thought in his head. He had tried to eat and given up after a few mouthfuls. It tasted like shit, all of it. The tray with the plate and the glass of orange juice stood on the floor. He hadn’t eaten since Enköping. Anything he tried had come back up, as if his stomach wanted to be left in peace.

The walls around him were grey, empty. His eyes had nothing to look at and nothing to look away from. The harsh light from the fluorescent tube in the ceiling somehow got behind his closed lids, coating his eyeballs with a bright membrane.

The observation panel on the door squeaked; someone was looking in at him.

‘Steffansson, you wanted to see the chaplain, right?’

Fredrik met the staring eyes.

‘Call me Fredrik. I don’t like being a surname.’

‘OK, start again. Fredrik, do you want to see the chaplain?’

‘Anyone, as long as he or she doesn’t wear a uniform.’

The officer sighed.

‘Make up your mind. Yes or no. She’s right here, next to me.’

‘That’s news. I’m stuck in here to isolate me from everybody else, some motherfucker’s decided that I’m a danger to society, isn’t that so? Or is everybody else a danger to me? Tricky. Do you know who I am, anyway?’

He sat up on the edge of the bed abruptly. Then he kicked the tray. Bright yellow orange juice spread all over the floor.

The officer sighed, he had seen this so often. The prisoners who broke down started by being aggressive, irrational, threatening, then they collapsed and pissed their pants. Steffansson was cracking up, obviously.