Fredrik looked at the officer.
'You were kept waiting in reception for quite a long time. Now, do you want to shower? I'll get you a towel if you do.'
'Why not? OK, yes.'
'Hang on then. I'll be back.'
Fredrik held out a hand.
'Wait. Is it safe?'
'Safe?'
'I mean, safe to shower. Or will somebody have a go? You know.'
The officer grinned.
'Take it easy, Steffansson. No fear. No poofs or pervs in straight Swedish prisons. Nobody will try to fuck you in the shower.'
Fredrik stopped making the bed, sat down on it to wait, counting the lines in a long row that someone had drawn with red biro on the skirting board. He had got as far as one hundred and sixteen when the officer came back with a towel and a pair of plastic flip-flops.
Outside his cell two men shook hands with him and said they lived next door. From the card table voices were raised in an argument. The junkie was nagging about how there was one king too many in the deck and the man with the gold chain told him to shut it. Then he noticed Fredrik standing there and stared at him; his eyes were looking mad. He hated, and Fredrik could not work out why he should.
Then he was alone in a large tiled room with four showers. He closed the door to shut out all sounds and turned on the water, which would help him to absent himself for a while.
Dickybird checked out the new one. He remembered what the screws had been saying, how excited they had been. When the perv came out with his towel, he suddenly put his hand down in mid-game.
'Got to go to the john. Fucking nuisance. Hey, Skåne!'
'What's that?'
'You play, but don't miss a trick.'
He gave Skåne his cards and went off towards the toilets. A quick glance to make sure the players were staying put, the coast was clear, then he went on to the shower-room. He stayed there for a minute maybe, not much longer.
It had sounded like a blow against the door. At least that was how the first prison officer on the scene described it afterwards. As if someone had struck the closed door to be heard, to be let out. When he saw Fredrik come out, or rather fall out, the first thing he noticed was that the prisoner was holding his hand pressed against his lower stomach area. That was where the knife had cut most deeply, where the heaviest flow of blood was coming from. The officer rang the alarm and ran towards the injured man, who was lying on the floor trying to say something, with blood being expelled rhythmically from his mouth. When words would not form, he had looked towards Dickybird Lindgren with fear in his eyes. That was how the officer described it; he called the look in the dying man's eyes fearful, or frightened. Two colleagues had turned up on the run and together they had stopped the bleeding. Then someone felt for his pulse.
They pulled him up from the floor, all agreeing that they were lifting a dead body.
The cards were in untidy piles on the table. The game ended immediately when the new prisoner fell to the floor bleeding. They knew enough about what the blade of a sharp knife could do to a man's insides, realised this one was a goner and that there'd be trouble.
Jochum hovered at the far end of the corridor. He was sweating. His shaven skull was glistening. He had just welcomed the new inmate, shaken the guy's hand and said that he had followed the whole thing on TV, felt bad about it and would willingly help with whatever. And now there was the brave dad, dead on the floor.
He walked quickly past the officers and across to the card-players. With his face centimetres away from Dickybird's he hissed out the words.
'What was that in aid of?'
Dickybird licked his lips.
'Mind your own fucking business.'
'You stupid bastard… do you know who that was? The guy you did in?' Jochum had raised his voice.
Dickybird was smiling now, and turned to face the other man.
'Course I fucking know. Another peddo. A beast. But now he won't fuck about with little kids no more.'
The unit door was pulled open. Fifteen officers in full riot gear. Helmets with visors down, shields, black overalls. The emergency squad almost encircled the unit inmates.
'You all know the score!'
Jochum pushed Dickybird to the side and looked at the screw, who was shouting at the top of his voice and banging on the table with his truncheon.
'We want no hassle! You know what to do. Bugger off into your cells! One at a time!'
The prisoners in the furthest cells filed away first, followed by two officers. Each cell door was locked. Next, two men who had been in the kitchen were sent off. Everyone left quietly. The whole unit was silent.
The officer in charge pointed to one of the card-players on the sofa.
'You next.'
Skåne rose, glaring at the screws. He hated them, always, and gave them the finger before he moved off.
It was Dickybird's turn.
'You.'
He stayed where he was.
'Forget it.'
'Move!'
Dickybird stood up, but instead of walking towards the cell corridor he bent over, grabbed the table and tipped it so that it fell against the line-up of guards, showering their black-booted feet with cards. Then he turned, leapt over the back of the sofa and, in a few strides, got to a large aquarium along the wall.
'Fucking fascist pigs! No peace for a game of cards! Now you're gonna get it!'
As he howled this he placed his hands on either side of the aquarium and pushed. The panes of glass gave. The entire glass box disintegrated and four hundred litres of water gushed towards the emergency squad.
As the helmeted men ran to get him, he had already managed to grab one of the pool cues and waved it about crazily, hitting out and striking the first officer to get near him hard on his neck. Then he made a dash to the duty guards' cubicle, locked the door and set about wrecking it. Everything was kicked and beaten to pieces, the TV set, the communication mikes, the fridge. Lamp, flowerpot, mirror. When they managed to break the door open, his long weapon forced them to attack behind raised shields. They formed a circle, walling him in.
The senior officer had stayed in the corridor.
'Bag him there. Off to solitary,' he commanded.
The four prisoners who had not been marched off to their cells were watching Dickybird's attack of manic rage and its inevitable end. Jochum checked out the situation wearily, the unbreakable glass cubicle walls, the scattered screws. He mumbled something in Dragan's ear.
Dragan got the message and suddenly ran towards one of the officers outside the cubicle and kicked him hard between the legs. The man fell with a scream and his nearby colleagues turned to see. The momentary confusion was all Jochum needed. He crashed his fist into the temple of a man blocking his way, broke through the ring outside the cubicle and strode in to stand by Dickybird's side.
'Now, Jochum, tjavon ! We'll make the pigs work! Let's beat the hell out of them!'
Dickybird felt strong again with the big man at his side, and started waving the cue towards the hated uniforms. He didn't notice Jochum's arm moving, only felt the fist that struck his face, then his midriff.
'What the fuck…?' He was bending over, whimpering.
Jochum grabbed the crouching body next to him and ran it into the wall, head first. By the time the officers got to him, Dickybird was unconscious.
Ewert Grens slammed the car door shut and turned to Sven.
'No end to it. All fucking summer, and they're still at it.'
Sven stared at the ground. A stone. He wanted to kick it.
'I told Jonas my case was over. Done with. The dad had been locked up. Do you know what Jonas said? He said it was brill. Totally brill that the dad was in prison, because it was only fair. But it was fair that he would get out sometime soon, too. His girl had been murdered first, after all. Now I don't know what I tell him. Not that he doesn't know; the telly news people won't stop broadcasting this.'
They had reached the small door next to the main gate. Ewert rang the bell.