The Beast by Anders Roslund, Börge Hellström Page A

happened to be him. Now Ewert didn't seem
dangerous any more. Big and grey and intense, but not dangerous.
        He
was sad, grieving over the two girls. He didn't cry, not tears yet.
        'I
did the questioning. I kept trying to look Lund in the eye: No way. No fucking
way. He stared above me, past me, through me. I interrupted the session several
times to demand that he look straight at me.'
        Grens,
you don't get it.
        Grens,
listen.
        I
thought you were one of the guys who'd get it.
        I
don't get the hots for all kids.
        You've
no reason to say that.
        I
only go for some of them, the ones who're a bit… bigger.
        Like
that blonde, plump one.
        You
know the kind.
        That's
important, Grens.
        They're
whores.
        Little
slags with small feet.
        Who
think about cock.
        They
fucking well shouldn't do that, you know.
        Fucking
little slags with tight cunts, they shouldn't be thinking about cock all the
time.
        Human
beings looked at each other when they talked. But no, not him. No way.
        He
looked at Sven. Sven looked at him. They were human.
        'I
understand. And I don't. If he's one of those who don't look at you, then why
wasn't he locked up in a special psycho institution? Like Säters secure? Or
Karsudden? Or Sidsjön?'
        Ewert
bent to pick up the bin. He pulled out the tobacco from under his upper lip.
        'That's
what used to happen. His first time inside he got three years in Säter. But
last time he was caught his mental disorder was diagnosed as minor. And then
it's off to the jug like everyone else. These days. Sex offenders' unit, not a
secure madhouse.'
        Ewert
swallowed whatever it was. Not quite tears.
        Then,
back to normality.
        He
changed the tape. More of Siw's singing, of course. 'Jazz Bacillus, 1959'. He stood in front of the loudspeaker for a moment with his eyes closed. He
turned the volume up, crouched to pick up the rubbish, returning it to the bin.
Then he straightened, took three steps back to get maximum impact, aimed and
kicked the bin again. This time it went further, hitting the wall by the
window.
        He
started speaking again.
        'Sven,
get this fucking message. -Understand it if you can. Minor mental disorder, that's
what this man has. He gets his kicks from torturing and killing two little
girls. He carves them up. So he's suffering from a minor mental disorder, is
he? Are you hearing me, Sven? Tell me then, what the fuck is a major mental
disorder?'
        
         
        It
was still morning, but already hot, twenty-four degrees in the sun. Another
summer's day that would maybe reach thirty degrees in the afternoon, for the
third week in a row. 'Augustin'. Time: 2.08. The Swedish entry for the
Eurovision Song Contest 1959.
    ----
        

        
        He caught
him in his arms. Held him close. They were of the same height and it was easy
to reach him, to caress his shoulders, the back of his neck, his cheeks. To
kiss him. His lips were soft.
        'I do
need you.'
        'I'm
here for you.'
        Lennart
Oscarsson kissed him again, out of lust and out of habit. He was so glad that
they were together this morning, trusting each other, this fucking awful
morning.
        'Nils.
Did you close the door?'
        'Yes,
sure.'
        'Thanks.'
        He
looked at Nils, at his colleague who was his lover and his appalling secret,
the man he could not look at without being reminded of Karin, his wife who was
his lover and his whole life.
        Nils
sat down in the senior-status leather armchair and tugged at Lennart to make
him sit down in his lap. They hugged.
        'Come
on. Take your clothes off.'
        'I
want to. Believe me, my whole body wants to, but it's not on. Not now. I can't,
I must be at that press conference, ready to answer their questions. I've no
choice.