Box 21 by Anders Roslund, Börge Hellström

away.
     
‘Oldéus and Lang, eh? I don’t think so. They exist in parallel worlds. Oldéus is hooked on heroin. It’s all he wants. Lang is a criminal, not a junkie, even if he has pissed classified substances at Aspsĺs once or twice. And that’s that. They have nothing in common, not outside.’
     
Sven shifted about in the visitor’s chair, then leaned back and sighed. Suddenly he seemed tired.
     
Ewert looked intently at his friend.
     
He recognised what it was: resignation, hopelessness.
     
He thought about Oldéus. He had no time for people like that, small-time junkies who picked holes in their noses. Life was too short and there were too many idiots.
     
‘OK. What the fuck. One nutter more or less. We can always ask him about Lang. Can’t do any harm.’
     
     
     
     
     
A shiny brand-new car crept towards the large gate in the grey wall. The kind of car that would smell of leather upholstery and pristine wooden dashboard if you opened one of the front doors.
     
Jochum Lang spotted it as soon as he had passed through central security and started to cross the yard. He hadn’t talked to them and hadn’t asked for a car, but he understood all the same: they would be waiting outside, that was part of the deal.
     
He nodded a greeting and the man at the wheel nodded in response.
     
The engine ticked over while Jochum gave the finger to the security camera and pissed against the concrete wall. No hurry, the car was waiting and nothing disturbed his ritual. All the time in the world to finish having a piss, show the finger again and drop his trousers down, as the gate slowly swung shut behind him. Somehow, he wasn’t really free until he’d done it, pissed on the wall, shown the guards his arse. He knew it was childish and pointless, but with his freedom came the urge to prove that none of those bastards could humiliate him any more and that, after two years and four months, he was the one who’d do the humiliating.
     
He walked over to the car, opened the passenger door and got in. They stared at each other in silence, without knowing why.
     
Slobodan looked older. At thirty-five his long hair was already going grey at the temples, he’d grown a thin moustache that was also tinged with grey, and there were new wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
     
Jochum tapped lightly on the windscreen.
     
‘New car. Traded up, I see.’
     
Slobodan looked pleased.
     
‘Sure thing. What do you think?’
     
‘Too flash.’
     
‘It’s not mine. It’s Mio’s.’
     
‘Last time you were driving one you’d just nicked. Started it up with a screwdriver. Suited you better.’
     
The car moved off smoothly, just light pressure on the gas.
     
Jochum Lang took the train ticket from his trouser pocket, tore it up and threw it out the window, shouting abuse loudly in a broad Uppsala dialect, roaring about what he thought of the prison service’s parting gifts, not fit to wipe the shit off your arse, and let the pieces blow away in the strong wind. Slobodan was talking on his mobile, which had been ringing for a while. He accelerated, leaving the gate and the high, grey wall behind them. Then, after a minute or two, the rain started up, the windscreen wipers going slowly at first, then faster.
     
‘I’m not picking you up because I wanted to. Mio asked me to do it.’
     
‘Ordered you.’
     
‘Whatever. He wants to see you as soon as.’
     
Jochum was a big man, broad-shouldered, who took up a lot of car space. Shaved head, a scar from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. Some poor sod had tried to defend himself with a razor. Jochum talked with his hands, waving them about when he was upset.
     
‘Look, last time I did something for him, I ended up here.’
     
They left the narrow prison drive and moved out on to a wider road that was quite busy already, people on the way to work.
     
‘You took the rap, sure. But we looked after you, and your family. Right?’
     
Slobodan Dragovic turned to Jochum smiling, showing off