Anders Roslund: The Beast

He shouldn’t have.

They’re coming now. There they are.

Walking down the slope, past the climbing frame. Twenty metres away now, maybe thirty. They’ve reached the plants with red flowers. They’re like the ones at Säter secure unit, near the front door. He guessed they were roses. Or whatever.

He shouldn’t have.

It doesn’t feel the same afterwards. Not so strong, it’s like the sensation’s gone.

There now. Two of them, walking along, their heads close together, talking. They’re friends, it’s easy to spot. Friends talk in a special way, using their hands as well.

It seems the dark-haired girl is in charge. She’s a live wire, wants to get everything said in one go. The blonde one is mostly listening. Maybe she’s tired? Maybe she’s a quiet one, who never talks much. Quiet ones don’t need their own space to feel sure they’re alive. Maybe one is dominant and the other one dominated. Isn’t that always the way?

He shouldn’t have wanked.

Still, that was then, this morning, twelve hours ago. It mightn’t matter now. The effect might’ve gone.

He’d known it first thing, as soon as he woke up, known that everything would work out tonight. It’s Thursday today, and it was Thursday the last time.

It’s sunny and dry today, and it was sunny and dry the last time.

They’re wearing the same kind of jacket. White, thin material, like nylon, a hood dangling at the back. He’s seen lots since Monday. Both have small rucksacks hooked over one shoulder. They all carry rucksacks, all their stuff’s in a mess inside, they’ve just thrown it in. What’s the point? Weird.

They’re close, so close he can hear them talking and laughing. They’re laughing together now, the one with dark hair laughs the loudest, the blonde is more cautious, not anxious or anything, she just doesn’t need the space.

He had dressed with care. Jeans, T-shirt, baseball cap worn back-to-front, that’s something he has noticed, he’s been watching the kids in the park every day. They wear caps like that, with the visors round the back.

‘Hi there!’

They’re startled and stop. It’s suddenly very quiet, the kind of silence you get when an ordinary noise ceases and your ears are forced to listen out. Maybe he should’ve done an accent, like he was from down south. He’s good at accents and some of them pay more attention. It sounds important somehow. Three days he spent collecting local voices. People here don’t have a southern accent. Or a northern one; folk are into proper Swedish in this place. No drawly vowel sounds, nothing like that, not much slang either. A bit boring, actually. He fiddles with his cap. Turns it right round, pushes it down more firmly over the back of his neck, still back- to-front.

‘Hi there, kids. You allowed out this late?’

They look at him, then at each other. Ready to move off. He tries to relax, leaning lightly against the back of the bench. What’s it to be? An animal? A squirrel, or a rabbit?

Or a car? Or even sweeties? He shouldn’t have wanked. He should’ve prepared himself better.

‘We’re going home, if you must know. And we are allowed to be out this late.’

She knows she mustn’t talk to him. She has been told not to talk to grown-ups who’re strangers.

She knows it.

But he’s not a grown-up, not really. He doesn’t look like one. Not like most of them, anyway. He’s got a cap on. And he doesn’t sit like a grown-up, they don’t sit like that.

Her name is Maria Stanczyk, the surname is Polish. She’s from Poland, or rather, her mum and dad are. She’s from Mariefred.

She’s got two sisters, Diana and Izabella. They are both older than she is, practically married. They don’t live at home any longer. She misses them, it used to be good having two sisters around. She’s alone with Mum and Dad now, it’s like they’ve only got her to worry about, and they keep asking where she’s off to and who she’s seeing and when she’ll be back home.

They shouldn’t fuss so. She is nine, after all.

The brunette speaks for them both. Her long hair is tied back with a pink ribbon. She sounds quite bossy, foreign too. She’s got attitude. She’s looking down her nose at the blonde, who’s a bit tubby. The brunette makes the decisions, he realises that, feels it.

‘I don’t believe it. You’re too young. What’s so important you’ve got to be out at this time?’

He likes the slightly plump blonde best. Her eyes have a sneaky look. Eyes with a look he’s seen before. By now she dares, she steals a glance at her dark-haired friend, then at him.

‘Actually, we’ve been training.’

Maria keeps talking, always. She fancies herself. She’s the one who says what they think.

But it’s her turn now. She wants to say something too.

This guy isn’t dangerous. Not angry or rough or anything. His cap’s nice, just like Marwin’s.

Marwin is her big brother. She’s called Ida. She knows why, it’s because Marwin was so keen on that book about Emil and Ida. So her mum and dad figured her name should be Ida. It’s ugly. She thinks it’s horrid. Sandra is nicer. Or Isidora. Imagine being called Ida. It’s like, you’re the one they play silly tricks on, perching you on top of a flagpole. Stuff like that.

She’s hungry, it’s ages since she had something to eat. The food was yucky today. Stew, with meat in it. Training always makes her hungry. Usually they’re in a hurry to get home to supper, not like now, Maria has to talk and talk and the guy with the cap keeps asking her things.

No animal. No car. No sweeties. No need for any of that. They’re talking to him and that means everything is fixed. When they talk, it’s fixed. He looks at the slightly plump blonde. She, who dared to speak, and he hadn’t thought she would. She, who’s naked.

He smiles. They like it. If you smile, they trust you. When you smile, they smile back.

Only the blonde. Only her.

‘You’re kidding. Have you been training? Training for what? I’m just curious.’

The slightly plump blonde smiles. He knew it. She’s looking at him. He grabs hold of his cap, twists it round half a turn until the visor is in front. Then he bows to her, pulls the cap off, raises it, holds it in the air above her head.

‘Hey, do you like it?’

She raises her eyebrows, glancing upwards without moving her head. As if fearing that she might hit her head against an invisible ceiling. She pulls herself in, makes herself small.

‘It’s great. Marwin’s got one like that.’

Only her.

‘Who’s Marwin?’

‘My big brother. He’s twelve.’

He lowers the cap. That invisible ceiling, he’s pushed through it. He strokes her pale hair quickly. It’s quite smooth, soft. He places the cap on her head. On that smooth softness. The cap’s colours, red and green, suit her.

‘It’s good on you. You look great.’

She doesn’t say anything. The brunette is just about to speak, so he’d better be quick.

‘It’s yours.’

‘Mine?’

‘Yes, if you want it. You look pretty with it on.’

She looks away, gets hold of the brunette’s hand. She wants to pull them both away from the park bench, away from the man who had been wearing the red and green cap.

‘Don’t you like it?’

She stops, lets go of her friend’s hand.