The Beast

'Yes, yes. But I'm not really that interested.'

'It's a crazy world, but locking you up is the worst.'

'Never mind.' 'We all agree, you know. And I mean all. Officer or prisoner, it makes no difference. I don't think we've agreed on anything before.'

'Look, I've packed,' Fredrik said and held out the plastic bag.

'True, it can't be much comfort to you that we're all rooting for you.'

'I'm ready to leave.'

'You should've been freed.'

'Let's go.'

'You'll see, there are quite a few people out and about. Lining the roads to where you're going.'

'I don't know where that is.'

'There's enough of us who do, don't you fear. Word gets about. There'll be protests, loud and clear.'

'You know, all this is no comfort. You were right about that.'

Then he was handed back his own clothes and left alone again. He changed into what he would wear for a couple of hours at most. Then his things would be locked into a cupboard for ten years and he would be given the other kind of gear, the prison suit that hung loosely on him.

The door opened; no one knocked this time. Two uniformed police, two prison officers, and behind them Grens and Sundkvist.

'What's this? Why?'

Grens looked blank, pretending not to understand.

'Why the crowd?'

Sven, who wasn't into pretending, told him.

'We can't take any risks. We're escorting you to Aspsås prison. There might be some trouble on the way.'

'Aspsås?' Fredrik was startled. 'Isn't that where… he was there, wasn't he?'

'Yes, but you'll go to another unit, a normal one. Lund was kept in a special unit for sex offenders.'

Fredrik took a step towards Sven and the two policemen moved forward, grabbing his arms. Fredrik backed into the cell, shaking his arms until they let go.

'You mentioned risks? Do you think I'm going to try to escape?'

'Your transport will have a police escort. That's all I can tell you at present.'

It was still early in the morning. It was raining, the drops tapping insistently on the loose piece of guttering. That sound had accompanied his thoughts for several days now.

He might even miss it.

It rained so hard that Fredrik got practically soaked walking the short distance to the prison transfer van that was waiting with its engine running outside the Kronoberg gate. He took longer to get there because his leg-irons cut him when he tried to lengthen his stride.

He was considered unlikely to repeat his crime or to try to escape, but nonetheless his transfer had been classified as a maximum security operation. Two police cars with rotating blue lamps drove ahead of the prison van and behind were two uniformed officers on motorbikes. The violent demonstration outside Kronoberg had taken place only a few weeks ago and was remembered vividly and fearfully. Police guns in the wrong hands, demonstrators being run over, overturned buses, humiliated police. It was too much, no more of that.

Fredrik sat in the back seat, flanked by Sundkvist and Grens. He had begun to feel close to these two men, who knew so much about him. They had turned up at The Dove and interrogated people there, stood by Marie's body in the forensic mortuary and attended her funeral, decently dressed in black. They had collected him for his retrial, played Siw for an hour and delivered him back to remand prison. And now again on this journey, the last one. Afterwards they'd be finished with him.

He ought to make contact with them. Say something, anything.

But it was too hard.

There was no need.

But they might have felt something similar, because Sundkvist, always the more forthcoming, started speaking.

'I'm forty years old. My birthday was on the day your daughter was murdered. I had wine and a cake in the car, but I still haven't celebrated.'

This baffled Fredrik. Was this man pulling his leg? Did he want to be pitied? He couldn't think of anything to say.

But Sundkvist didn't seem interested in starting a dialogue.

'I've been in the force for twenty years, that is, for my entire adult life. It's a weird job, but it's all I know. All I'm trained to do.'

They had a fifty-kilometre drive ahead, maybe thirty-five or forty minutes of sitting side by side, but Fredrik had had enough. No more talk. He wanted to close his eyes and start counting the hours. Ten years to go.

Sundkvist was on a roll. He sat turned towards Fredrik. His face so close, his breath was almost palpable.

'I used to believe I was doing something useful. Even good. The right thing. And maybe I have, on the whole. But this is different. You'll understand, of course you do. I'm ashamed that I'm sitting here, pretending to guard you so we can take you off to an institution and lock you up. It's a bloody miscarriage of justice! I don't swear, not normally, but this… Steffansson, it's a fucking disaster.'

Ah, he was being sympathetic. Fredrik didn't give a fig for sympathy.

Sundkvist leaned forward, grabbing Fredrik's damp shirt.

'Lund sat right here, not long ago. Now it's you, on a straightforward murder charge. And I'm on duty. But

Steffansson, regardless, I want you to know I'm sorry. Truly sorry.'

Grens had been silent throughout all this, but now he cleared his throat.

'Sven, look. You've said enough.'

'Enough?'

'Quite enough.'

The transport continued in silence. It was still raining and the wipers beat regularly, sloshing the water away from the windscreen.

The small convoy left the dual carriageway via a roundabout, passed a couple of garages and then went on to a smaller road through a built-up area. Here they saw the first rows of demonstrators. They formed an unbroken chain, kilometre after kilometre. Some sang, some had brought placards, some shouted in unison when the transport drove past.

Fredrik felt as ill at ease as he had outside Kronoberg. More people who made use of his name and his fate, unknown people who had nothing to do with him. What right did they have? What they did they did for themselves and not for him. It was their outlet, for their fears and their hatred.

The crowds grew the closer they came to Aspsås and especially along the last bit, a gravelled road leading up to the prison gate. Fredrik kept looking down at his lap. The waiting demonstrators were calmer than last time and the atmosphere was less threatening and less aggressive. Even so, he could not bear to look at them. A strong aversion filled him, as if he detested them all.

The van had to stop before it reached the big gate. It simply could not get any closer. Grens estimated quickly that the crowd was a couple of thousand strong. The demonstrators simply stood there, blocking the way.

Grens took charge.

'Sit still. Wait. This isn't like last time. They're here to make a point. Don't provoke them. We'll shift them soon enough.'

Fredrik kept looking away. He felt tired and wanted to go to sleep. Get away from the people out there, leave the van and put on the shapeless prison kit. Lie down on a narrow prison bed and stare at the ceiling in his cell, its light fitting. Let the hours pass, one at a time.

They were surrounded by demonstrators, who didn't sing or shout, just stood shoulder to shoulder, forming a solid human wall. Twenty minutes later, the riot squad arrived, sixty policemen carrying sidearms and shields. But since the crowd stayed passive and unthreatening, the police set about shifting the inert bodies methodically, heaving them aside one by one. Everyone stayed put where he or she had been placed. When a large enough gap had been created, the van inched forward. Straight-backed, the demonstrators watched as the bus finally reached the prison gate and drove inside the walled compound.

Fredrik was marched to the reception entrance, with Sundkvist and Grens holding him by the arms. They handed him over to the guard, nodded briefly and walked away. They had completed their task. From now on the prison system was responsible for Fredrik's care.