Roslund Hellstrom - The Beast

The Beast

AndersRoslund and Brge Hellstrm

ABACUS

First published in Sweden byPiratforlaget in 2004

First published in Great Britain in 2005 by Little,Brown

This paperbackedition published in 2006 by Abacus

Copyright Anders Roslund & BrgeHellstrm 2004

Translation copyright Anna Paterson

The moral right of the authors has beenasserted.

All characters in this publication,other than those

clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any

resemblance to real persons, living or dead,

is purelycoincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may bereproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any

form or by any means,without the prior

permission in writingof the publisher, nor be

otherwise circulatedin any form of binding or

cover other than thatin which it is published and

without a similarcondition including this

condition beingimposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library.

ISBN-13: 978-0-349-11849-9

ISBN-10: 0-349-11849-3

Typeset in Linotype Sabon

by Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Grangemouth,Stirlingshire

Printed and bound inGreat Britain by

Clays Ltd, St Ivesplc

SOME FOUR YEARS EARLIER,PROBABLY

Heshouldn't have.

They'recoming now. There they are.

Walkingdown 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 Stersecure unit, near the front door. He guessed they were roses. Or whatever.

Heshouldn't have.

Itdoesn't feel the same afterwards. Not so strong, it's like the sensation'sgone.

Therenow. Two of them, walking along, their heads close together, talking. They'refriends, it's easy to spot. Friends talk in a special way, using their hands aswell.

Itseems the dark-haired girl is in charge. She's a live wire, wants to geteverything said in one go. The blonde one is mostly listening. Maybe she'stired? Maybe she's a quiet one, who never talks much. Quiet ones don't needtheir own space to feel sure they're alive. Maybe one is dominant and the otherone dominated. Isn't that always the way?

Heshouldn't have wanked.

Still,that was then, this morning, twelve hours ago. It mightn't matter now. Theeffect might've gone.

He'dknown it first thing, as soon as he woke up, known that everything would workout tonight. It's Thursday today, and it was Thursday the last time.

It'ssunny and dry today, and it was sunny and dry the last time.

They'rewearing the same kind of jacket. White, thin material, like nylon, a hooddangling at the back. He's seen lots since Monday. Both have small rucksackshooked over one shoulder. They all carry rucksacks, all their stuff's in a messinside, they've just thrown it in. What's the point? Weird.

They'reclose, so close he can hear them talking and laughing. They're laughingtogether now, the one with dark hair laughs the loudest, the blonde is morecautious, not anxious or anything, she just doesn't need the space.

Hehad dressed with care. Jeans, T-shirt, baseball cap worn back-to-front, that'ssomething 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.

'Hithere!'

They'restartled and stop. It's suddenly very quiet, the kind of silence you get whenan ordinary noise ceases and your ears are forced to listen out. Maybe heshould've done an accent, like he was from down south. He's good at accents andsome of them pay more attention. It sounds important somehow. Three days hespent collecting local voices. People here don't have a southern accent. Or a northernone; folk are into proper Swedish in this place. No drawly vowel sounds,nothing like that, not much slang either. A bit boring, actually. He fiddleswith his cap. Turns it right round, pushes it down more firmly over the back ofhis neck, still back- to-front.

'Hithere, kids. You allowed out this late?'

Theylook at him, then at each other. Ready to move off. He tries to relax, leaninglightly against the back of the bench. What's it to be? An animal? A squirrel,or a rabbit?

Or acar? Or even sweeties? He shouldn't have wanked. He should've prepared himselfbetter.

'We'regoing home, if you must know. And we are allowed to be out this late.'

Sheknows she mustn't talk to him. She has been told not to talk to grown-upswho're strangers.

Sheknows it.

Buthe's not a grown-up, not really. He doesn't look like one. Not like most ofthem, anyway. He's got a cap on. And he doesn't sit like a grown-up, they don'tsit like that.

Hername is Maria Stanczyk, the surname is Polish. She's from Poland, or rather,her mum and dad are. She's from Mariefred.

She'sgot 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, itused 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'soff to and who she's seeing and when she'll be back home.

Theyshouldn't fuss so. She is nine, after all.

Thebrunette 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 hernose at the blonde, who's a bit tubby. The brunette makes the decisions, herealises that, feels it.

'Idon't believe it. You're too young. What's so important you've got to be out atthis time?'

Helikes the slightly plump blonde best. Her eyes have a sneaky look. Eyes with alook he's seen before. By now she dares, she steals a glance at her dark-hairedfriend, then at him.

'Actually,we've been training.'

Mariakeeps talking, always. She fancies herself. She's the one who says what theythink.

Butit's her turn now. She wants to say something too.

This guyisn't dangerous. Not angry or rough or anything. His cap's nice, just likeMarwin's.

Marwinis her big brother. She's called Ida. She knows why, it's because Marwin was sokeen on that book about Emil and Ida. So her mum and dad figured her name shouldbe Ida. It's ugly. She thinks it's horrid. Sandra is nicer. Or Isidora. Imaginebeing called Ida. It's like, you're the one they play silly tricks on, perchingyou on top of a flagpole. Stuff like that.

She'shungry, 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 ahurry to get home to supper, not like now, Maria has to talk and talk and theguy 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 thatmeans everything is fixed. When they talk, it's fixed. He looks at the slightlyplump blonde. She, who dared to speak, and he hadn't thought she would. She,who's naked.

Hesmiles. They like it. If you smile, they trust you. When you smile, they smileback.

Onlythe blonde. Only her.

'You'rekidding. Have you been training? Training for what? I'm just curious.'

Theslightly plump blonde smiles. He knew it. She's looking at him. He grabs holdof his cap, twists it round half a turn until the visor is in front. Then hebows to her, pulls the cap off, raises it, holds it in the air above her head.

'Hey,do you like it?'

Sheraises her eyebrows, glancing upwards without moving her head. As if fearingthat she might hit her head against an invisible ceiling. She pulls herself in,makes herself small.