The Beast

SOME FOUR YEARS EARLIER, PROBABLY

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.

'Yes, I do.'

'You can keep it.'

'Thank you.'

She curtseys.

That's rare these days. Girls did things like that in the past, but not now. Everybody is equal these days, meant to be anyway, so no curtseys to anyone. Nobody bows properly either.

The brunette has been silent for much longer than she's used to. Now she grabs hold of the slightly plump blonde's hand, hard. She tugs at it and both of them stumble.

'Come on, let's go now. He's just a crappy cap-man.'

The slightly plump blonde turns to the brunette and then to him, looks back at her friend; obviously she's feeling stroppy.

'Hang on. We'll go soon.'

The brunette speaks more loudly.

'No, now. Right away.'

Then she turns to him, pulling at her long ponytail.

'And that cap's ugly. Like, it's the ugliest ever.'

She points at the cap, then jabs it with her finger.

An animal. A cat. A dead cat? They're nine, at most ten years old. A cat should be fine.

'You never said what you were training at.'

The brunette looks accusingly at him with her hands on her hips, she's like an old woman in a bad mood. He faced one once, in Säter secure that first time; she was a nosy bitch hammering on about Reform. Change. He can't change. He doesn't want to change. He is who he is.

'Gymnastics. We've been training gym. We do it lots, all the time. We're off now.'

They walk away, the dark-haired girl in the lead, the slightly plump blonde one following, less confidently. He watches their backs, sees their backs naked, bums naked, feet naked.

He goes after them quickly, passes them and stops, holding up his hands.

'What are you doing, crappy cap-man?'

'Where?'

'Where what?'

'Where do you train?'

Two elderly women are strolling down the slope, getting close to the flowers that may or may not be roses. He glances at the women, looks at the ground and counts to ten quickly before looking up again. They're still there, but about to turn off down the other path, the one that leads to the fountain.

'What are you doing, crappy cap-man? Praying?'

'Where do you train?'

'Not telling.'

The slightly plump blonde is staring angrily at her friend. Maria is speaking for both of them again. And she doesn't agree. There's no need to be rotten.

'We train in the Skarpholm Centre. You know. It's over there, kind of.'

The blonde points in the direction of the hill they have just come walking down.

The cat. The dead cat. Bugger that. Bugger all animals.

'Is it any good?'

'No.'

'It's yuckier than you.'

Not even the brunette could keep her mouth shut for long. Both are biting on the bait now.

He's still standing in front of them, but lowers his arms. One of his hands slips across his black moustache, pats it a little.

'I know where they got a new leisure centre, a brand- new one. Not far from here. Look over there, near the big block of flats, there's a white house next to it. See it? I know the guy who owns it. I hang out there a lot myself. Would you prefer training there? All of your mates, the whole gym club, I mean.'

He's pointing eagerly, they look in the direction of his arm, the slightly plump blonde curiously, the dark whore with that attitude of hers.

'There's no leisure centre in that house. You're a crappy cap-man. It's not true.'

'Have you been there?'

'No.'

'So what do you know? It's there, brand new, that's for sure. It's not nasty at all.'

'That's what you say. You're fibbing.'

'Fibbing?'

'You're telling fibs.'

Maria just talks. Talks and talks, all the time. She shouldn't do that. Not for her. And she shouldn't be so beastly. She's just cross because she didn't get his cap. He gave Ida his red and green cap and she trusts him. He knows the man who owns that new gym. She doesn't like the Skarpholm Centre, not one bit, it's smelly and old, the mats smell like vomit.

'I believe you. Marwin said there's a new centre once. It's got to be better to train there.'

Ida believes there's a new centre over there. She believes such a lot. Anyway, it's just because he gave her that horrid cap.

Maria knows what a new leisure centre should look like. She saw one once in Warsaw when she went there with her mum and dad.

'I know there isn't a new gym there, silly cap-man. It's a lie. I know that. And if there's no new centre there I'll tell on you to my mum and dad.'

It's a nice day in June, sunny and warm. A Thursday. Two little whores are walking ahead of him on the path through the park. The brunette is everyone's whore. The slightly plump blonde is his own whore, nobody else's. Whores whores whores. Long hair, thin jackets, tight trousers. He shouldn't have wanked.

The slightly plump blonde whore turns to look at him.

'We've got to go home soon. It's time to eat. Mum and Marwin and me. I'm really hungry, I get that hungry after training, every time.'

He smiles. It's what they like. He reaches for the cap on her head, pulls gently at the visor.

'Listen, it will be super-quick. I promised, didn't I? We're practically there. Then you can check it out, see if you like it. If you want to do your training there. It smells new, know what I mean? You know what new places smell like, don't you?'

They step inside. He's slept there the last three nights. Breaking in was no trouble, he did the lock easily. A shared basement with storage pens, one for each flat. Lousy pickings, though. Cardboard boxes full of household kit and books, that sort of crap. Prams, IKEA shelving, a standard lamp or two. Fuck all. Except for the kid's bike, black with five gears, in Flat 33's pen at the far end. He'd flogged it but only got Z50 smackers. A whole block, and no goods except a fucking kid's bike.

He grabs hold of their arms as soon as they are in the basement corridor, one girl in each hand. He grips hard and they scream the way they all scream, so he tightens his hold. He's in charge, makes the decisions. Whores scream. After sleeping in this dump for three nights running he knows that not a fucking soul comes down there after dark. Twice he's heard someone in the morning, moving along the basement corridor and shuffling about in one of the storage pens. Afterwards, silence. The little slags might as well scream. Whores should scream.

She's thinking of Marwin. She's thinking of Marwin. She's thinking of Marwin. Marwin's room. Is he there now? She hopes he's there, in his room. At home. With Mum. She thinks of him lying on top of his bed, reading. That's what he likes doing in the evenings. Mostly Donald Duck, the small pocket books, they're still his favourites. He read a bit of Lord of the Rings once, but it's the pocket Donald Ducks he likes best. She feels sure that's what Marwin is doing.

Horrid crappy cap-man. Horrid crappy cap-man. Horrid crappy cap-man.

She mustn't speak to men like him. Mum and Dad keep nagging about it, go on and on at her and she swears she never speaks to them. And she doesn't. Or anyway, only to tell them off. Ida doesn't dare do that. But she dares. Mum and Dad will be furious if they hear that she's talked to one of them. She doesn't want them to hear that, they mustn't be angry with her.

Number 33 is best. That's where he nicked the bike. And where he slept.

They've stopped screaming. The fat little blonde whore is crying, red-eyed, snot running from her nose. The dark slag looks obstinate, staring at him, challenging him, hating. He ties their hands to one of the pipes running along the cement-grey wall. It's hot, must be a hot water pipe. It will burn their arms. They both kick, trying to hit him. Every time, he kicks them back. They get the message soon enough and don't try kicking any more.

They're sitting still now. Whores should sit still. Whores wait for what's coming to them. He calls the shots. He takes his clothes off. T-shirt, jeans, underpants, shoes, socks. In that order. He undresses in front of them. If they don't look at him, he kicks them until they do. Whores should look. He stands naked in front of them. He's handsome. He knows that he's handsome. Trained body. Muscular legs. Firm buttocks. No belly. Handsome.

'What do you think?'

The dark slag is crying now.

'Horrid horrid cap-man.'

She's crying, she took her time, but she's just like all the whores.

'What do you think? Handsome or what?'

'Horrid horrid cap-man. I want to go home.'

His cock is hard. He calls the shots. He comes up close, pushes his penis at their faces.

'Looks good, eh?'

He shouldn't have wanked. He did it twice this morning. He can only manage two more times, probably. He does it in front of them, his breathing quickens. He kicks the fat blonde when she looks away for a moment, empties himself in their faces, on their hair, it gets messy when they shake their heads.

They're crying. Whores always cry, all the fucking time.

He undresses them. Their tops have to be cut first, now that their hands are tied to the hot pipe. They're younger than he'd thought, no sign of tits.

He pulls everything off except their shoes. Not the shoes. Not yet. The fat blonde slag has got pink shoes, shiny, like patent leather. The brunette is wearing white trainers, like for playing tennis in.

He bends over the fat blonde whore. He kisses her pink shoes on top, near the toes. He licks both of them, starting at the toe, all along the shoe, the heel too. He takes them off. Her little whore's feet are gorgeous. He lifts one of her feet, she almost tips over backwards. He licks her ankle, her toes, sucks a little on each one. He glances up at her face, she's crying quietly.

He feels an urgent desire.

She always wakes when the newspaper arrives. Every single morning. It falls on the wooden floor with a sodding awful thump. Then there're two more thumps, next door, and then the next one along. She has tried to catch him, tell him to stop, but has been too late every time. She caught sight of his back quite a few times. He's young, with his hair in a ponytail. If she gets hold of him she'll explain how people feel at five o'clock on Sunday mornings.

She can't go back to sleep now. She twists and turns, she's sweating. Must go back to sleep, should sleep, but no, it can't be done. She never used to have this problem, it's different now, her thoughts attack her at once and by six o'clock she's really tense, to hell with the paperboy and his ponytail.

The Sunday version of Dagens Nyheter feels as weighty as the Bible. She starts reading part of it in bed, looking at the words and then more words; there are too many. Nothing makes sense to her. Lots of in-depth reports about interesting people, she ought to read them but feels too tired to get her mind round it all. She makes a careful pile, she'll tackle it later. She never does.

She is restless. All these hours. Read DN, then coffee, do teeth, breakfast, make bed, wash up, teeth again. It's not even half past seven yet, a Sunday morning in June with beams of sun piercing the Venetian blinds. She turns her head away, can't face the light yet, too much summer out there, too many people holding other people's hands, too many people sleeping close to other people, too many who're laughing, making love. She can't face any of them, not just now.

She walks down the steps to the basement, to the store. It's dark down there, lonely and untidy. She knows she's got at least two hours of work ahead, sorting and packing. It'll take her to half past nine. Not so bad.

The first thing she notices is that the padlock has been forced. And the padlocks on either side as well, on both 32 and 34. She'd better find out who owns them; after seven years in the house she wouldn't even recognise her neighbours. But now they've got forced padlocks in common. Now they can talk to each other.

The next thing she notices is the bike. Or rather, that the bike isn't there. Jonathan's expensive five-geared black mountain bike. And to think that she was going to sell it; it should have been worth at least 500 kronor. Now she's got to phone him, he's with his father, but better tell him now so he'll have time to calm down before he comes to stay with her.

Afterwards she cannot explain why she didn't see them. Why she was worrying about the owners of pens 32 and 34, about Jonathan's bike. As if she did not want to see, was unable to see. When the police asked what she had noticed first on entering the pen, wanting her crucial first impressions, she started laughing hysterically. She laughed for a while, started to cough and then explained, with tears flowing down her cheeks. Her first reaction had been that Jonathan would be upset, because his black mountain bike was gone and he wouldn't be able to spend the money he'd get from-selling it on the PlayStation game he wanted. It cost at least 500 kronor.

Of course, she had never seen death before, never come across anyone so still, looking at her without breathing.

That's what they did. They looked at her. They were lying on the cement floor with their heads propped up on upturned flowerpots, like rigid pillows. Two little girls, younger than Jonathan, no more than ten years old. One blonde, one dark. There was blood all over them, on their faces, chests, thighs, between their legs. Dried blood everywhere, except their feet; their feet were so clean, almost as if they had been washed.

She had never seen them before. Well, maybe. They lived nearby, after all. Sure, she might have seen them. In the shop, maybe, or in the park. Always so many children in the park.

They'd been on the floor in her storage pen for three days and two nights, that's what the police doctor said. Semen had been sprayed all over them, in vagina and anus, on chest and hair. Vagina and anus had received what the doctor called sharp trauma. A pointed object, probably made of metal, had been repeatedly forced inside, causing severe internal haemorrhaging.

They might have been in the same school as Jonathan. Crowds of girls there, all looking alike, girls do, alike as a thousand sisters.

They were naked. Their clothes had been arranged in front of them, just inside the door of the pen. One piece of clothing after another, lined up like exhibits. Jackets folded, trousers rolled up, T-shirts, panties, tights, shoes, a hair- ribbon, everything was very neatly and precisely placed with about two centimetres between each item. Just about exactly two centimetres apart.

The girls had been looking at her. But they had not been breathing.