Anders Roslund: The Beast

David, who was holding the empty Mr Men bottle upside down, making more bubbles. He felt he lacked a picture of himself at the age of five, and tried placing his own head on Marie’s shoulders. People said that they were strikingly alike, they enjoyed pointing it out. This baffled him and embarrassed Marie. His five-year-old face on her body. He ought to recall something, have a recognition of the way he’d felt then, but all he remembered was the beatings. He and Dad in the drawing room, that fucking awful big hand hitting his bottom, this he did remember, and he remembered too Frans pressing his face against the pane of glass in the drawing room door.

‘The foam’s finished.’

David held out the bottle to show him, shook it with the spout touching the water.

‘I noticed. Now, could that be because you’ve poured it all out?’

‘Wasn’t I meant to?’

Fredrik sighed.

‘Oh, sure. Of course.’

‘You must buy another one.’

He had used to do it too, watch through the pane when Frans was beaten. Dad never noticed either of them, how they’d be observing what happened through the glazed panel in the door. Frans was older. He got hit more times, the beating took longer, at least that was how it felt from a couple of metres away. Fredrik had not remembered any of this until he was an adult. The beatings hadn’t happened for over fifteen years and then, suddenly, it all came back, the big hand and the pane of glass. He was almost thirty by that stage and ever since then he’d had to haul his thoughts away from the memory, away from the drawing room. Not that he felt angry, oddly enough not even vengeful; instead he grieved, or at least, the nearest thing to what he felt was grief.

‘Dad. We’ve got more.’

He stared vacantly at Marie. She chased that hollow feeling away.

‘Hey! Dad!’

‘More what?’

‘We’ve got more Mr Men bath foam.’

‘Do we?’

‘On the bottom shelf. Two more. We bought three, you see.’

Frans had felt a greater grief. He was older, more time had passed, more beatings. Frans used to cry behind the pane of glass. He cried only when he was watching. Only then. He lived with his grief, hid it, carried it with him, until it became all he was, savagely threatening his self. Its last, conclusive blow struck him that morning, backed by a thirty- ton carriage.

‘Here it is.’

Marie had clambered out of the tub and padded over to the bathroom cabinet.

‘Look. Two more. I knew that. ’Cause we bought three.’

She pointed proudly.

The floor was awash, foam and water had been pouring off her body but she didn’t notice, of course, just climbed back into the tub clutching the Mr Men figure. She got the top off with less trouble than he’d expected. David grabbed the bottle and instantly, unhesitatingly turned it upside down, shouting something that sounded like ‘Yippee!’ And they did their high-five handclap again.

He hated nonces. Everyone did. Still, he was a professional. A job was a job. He kept telling himself that. A job a job a job.

Åke Andersson had transported criminals to and from assorted care institutions for thirty-two years. He was fifty- nine now, but his greying hair was still thick, well looked after. He carried a kilogram or two more than he should, but he was tall, taller than all his colleagues, and any villain he’d driven. He admitted to 199 centimetres. Actually 202 was nearer the mark, but if you were over two metres tall, folk took you for a freak, one of nature’s misfits, and he was fed up with that.

He hated nonces. Perverts who used force to get pussy. Most of all he hated the beasts who forced kids. His feelings were strong and therefore forbidden, but his hatred grew in intensity with each nonce job, the only times in his daily round when he responded emotionally. The aggression he felt frightened him. He had to control his urge to stop, shut down the engine, take a long stride between the front seats and fix the bastard by pushing him against the rear window.

He showed nothing.

No question, he’d had worse scum in the van, or, at least, scum with heavier sentences. He’d seen it all, put handcuffs on every fucking hard man in the headlines, walked them to the bus and driven them, staring vacantly into the mirror. Many of them were complete cretins. Loonies. Only a few had got their heads round the idea that there’s a cost. If you buy, you’ve got to pay, it’s that simple. Never mind the suckers outside, with their sermons about care and concern and rehabilitation. You buy and you pay. That’s all.

He could spot the perverts, pick them out every single time. There was something about them, which meant he didn’t need to know the charge. No paperwork required. He saw and hated. Now and then he had tried to explain it over a beer in the pub, tried to convince people that it was possible to spot them and that he knew how. Trouble was, when his mates asked for details he couldn’t say and they reckoned he was prejudiced, possibly homophobic or even anti-everybody. Now he kept his mouth shut: it was too much hassle and not worth the effort. Still, he knew who was who, and the scumbags sensed it, looking away shiftily when his eyes sought theirs.

This nonce in the back had done the rounds. Åke had driven him at least six times. Back in ’91, a couple of round- trips between trial court and the cells, then again in ’97, after he’d done a runner and been caught once more. Another trip in ’99, from Säter secure to wherever it was. Now he was off to the Southern General Hospital, in the middle of the night. He looked at the face in the mirror and the beast looked back, it was like some pointless competition about who could keep staring the longest. As ever, he seemed normal enough. At least, he would’ve, to most people. A bit shortish, 175 centimetres, say, medium build, close-cropped hair. Calm. Normal. Except, he was a repeat child rapist.

Red lights at the start of the uphill run along Ring Street. Not much traffic at this time of night. Blue lamps materialised behind him. An ambulance, its sirens blaring. He stayed where he was to let it overtake.

‘That’s it, Lund. You’ve got thirty seconds now, then out. We phoned ahead, a doctor is seeing you straight away.’

Åke didn’t talk with nonces. Never did. His colleague knew that. Ulrik Berntfors felt very much the same way, it was just that he didn’t hate.

‘This way we don’t have to wait for our breakfast. And you don’t have to sit in the waiting room with all that kit on.’

Ulrik gestured at Lund, at the chain across his stomach. It was part of a transfer waist-restraint, complete with leg- irons. He had never had to use one before. Body-belts, yes. Still, it was an order. Oscarsson had phoned up about it, made a special point. Told to undress, Lund had smiled and waggled his hips. He was fitted out with a metal belt round his waist, joined to the leg-irons with four chains running down his legs and to the handcuffs with two chains along his torso and arms. Ulrik had seen these things on TV and once for real, during a study visit to India. Never in Sweden. Here, the main idea was to control offenders by outnumbering them. More guards than villains. Sometimes handcuffs, of course, but not chains inside shirt and trousers.

‘How caring. Thanks a lot. You’re great guys.’

Lund was speaking quietly. He was barely audible. Ulrik had no idea if what he said was meant to be ironic. Then Lund shifted position, chains clanking against each other, until he was leaning forward with his head resting on the frame of the glazed hatch separating the front seats from the back of the van.