Two Soldiers (3 page)

“
Stop fucking smiling
.”

There were people like Smackhead who smiled every time they finished a sentence, tense, ritualized, maybe because they were uncertain, maybe frightened, most of them didn’t even realize, just stood grinning and wanting to be liked.

He hated that grin.

“When will you be ready?”

Even bigger grin, the body that was at cross-purposes with itself moved uneasily as the water continued to run over it, the twitches between the eyes and cheeks and eyes and forehead more frequent, more exaggerated. Leon grabbed hold of his straggly hair and held it tight, the only thing there was, if you wanted to pull up a wet and naked body with a wet and naked hand.

“I said,
when will you be ready
, Smackhead?”

That smile.

The spasms in his cheek.

The body that tried to hide.

“Soon. Soon. My Gs?”

Leon’s fingers even tighter around the long straggles.

“Soon?”

“Fuck’s sake, I’ve got everything, except the ink! And I want my ten Gs.”

The other hand on the skinny shoulder, thumb and index finger around the collarbone that stuck out.

Smackhead screamed like he always did.

“
Soon
?”

“Today. Today, for fuck’s sake. After lunch. A guard who—”

The fingers and the collarbone in, around, again.

“I don’t give a shit who. It’s ready, isn’t it? It’ll be ready when I come tomorrow.”

He shoved the frail body down in front of him, pressed it against the tiles until it started to bleed and that bastard grin disappeared.

twenty-five days to go

Afternoon.

He was certain of it.

The sun was no longer forcing its way farther in through the gap between the red, yellow, and white blanket and the window frame; he guessed it was about half past two—three, maybe even half three. He was woken by the dog’s foul-smelling tongue on his cheek and neck, he didn’t like it, black and white and much heavier than it looked; a couple of times he’d tried to get hold of it and push it away, but each time forgot that a body barely half a meter long could be as heavy as a sack of stones that refuses to leave the floor.

Gabriel pushed away the tongue and snout, a knife-like pain in his shoulder; the wound had turned into a wide, swollen gash overnight, on top of old scar tissue—despite two stones and a long metal pole, the window at the back of the shop had still had sharp teeth that were hard to see in the half light and sank into the flesh of those who tried to pass. He had pulled himself into a small, tight ball on his way into the shelves of goodies, but had still managed to get caught and only freed himself on the third attempt. They’d sat in the kitchen afterwards, Jon had held a short needle over a lighter flame until it glowed and then doused both the needle and the wound with Finnish vodka; he’d sewn eleven stitches through the already partially dead skin with nylon thread. Gabriel gingerly touched the wound, which had stopped bleeding, and lifted his arm up and down—the pain eased with the slow movements but was replaced by a dull, silent ache.

Wanda was still asleep.

He yawned, sat up on the edge of the bed, looked at her naked back and bum and thighs, his cock swelled, and

he clenched his eyes tight until things calmed down, looked at the clock, nearly three, half an hour to go. The white tube, he quickly rubbed the cream on his skin all the way up to his neck, his clothes were lying on the red carpet that was so thick and soft, his hoodie stained dark brown from the right shoulder to halfway down the back by dried blood, he picked it up and pulled it over his head then scraped off what he could reach with his nails, couldn’t find his pants and one of his socks, two pairs of track pants and bare feet in his sneakers.

Her ears. He leaned over, his fingertip gently touching the soft skin and her earrings, two crosses with a small diamond in the middle. From the jewelers on Kungsgatan. He’d emptied the trash bag on the floor and let her choose two things before they sold the rest to the Chinamen down by Odenplan—one hundred and ninety-four thousand for a window and five display cases. She had chosen the earrings and a ring with a red pearl that was too big really, but fit if she wore it by the knuckle on her middle finger.

He looked at her naked body, she moved uneasily when he opened the door, said something he didn’t catch, and then turned over.

Big Ali was lying on the sofa in the sitting room, the cut on his forehead, from when he’d smashed the window with his fist wrapped in a jacket then leaned in to reach the lock on the door, was now a straight, dark gash from his eyebrow to his hairline. Gabriel shook his sleeping shoulders hard, rapped Jon’s feet at the other end of the sofa, and punched Javad Hangaround, who was asleep in the armchair with his mouth open, in the chest.

The red—or maybe it was orange—front door was unlocked, this was Råby after all, no one would ever come into their apartment without permission.

The air was afternoon warm and without smells and seemed to kind of pack itself into the space between the concrete wall of the balcony and the railings, through the door onto the main stairwell, the elevator down to the basement, and the metal door, heavy key in the lock.
They went into the garage that had been dug out under the six-story concrete building that constituted Råby Allé 1 to Råby Allé 214, past the rows of cars, down around the bend to the next level and the two shiny cars at the far end, one silver and one black. Gabriel carried on when the others stopped, waited, watched while he walked slowly around each one in turn,
Mercedes CLK 500, cabriolet, eight cylinder
, no scratches, no damage,
Audi R8, four-by-four, six gears
, he opened the driver’s door,
three hundred and six horsepower
, started the engine, listened,
four hundred twenty horsepower
, checked the trunk, the tires, the lights, the wheel rims. Two parking spaces away was a rental trailer from OKQ8. He looked around, then opened two padlocks and lifted off the plastic hood. Twelve small cardboard boxes with pictures of laptops on the sides and two considerably larger ones with eighty-inch screens and four yellow, oblong boxes with something in them that looked like loudspeakers.

Gabriel calculated, one hundred and twenty thousand, a quarter of that if they sold it to the man in Tumba.

He could feel the nylon thread pulling in his shoulder—eleven stitches and Big Ali’s forehead, thirty thousand, it hadn’t been worth it.

They walked toward the automatic doors that opened without a sound and marked the end of the underground concrete space, carried on across the square to the metro, passed the station manager and ticket attendant, who turned their heads and looked the other way as the four young men with no tickets went straight through the barrier and up the steps and onto the 3:25 train to Norsborg, the next and final station on the line.

They got off, had a smoke, waited.

Ten dead minutes while a short man in a Stockholm transport uniform walked down through the eight cars to change driver seat, from one end of the train to the other, and the journey back along the red line through the southern suburbs to stations in central and northern Stockholm. Gabriel stood on the platform by one of the middle cars as the driver passed through, a spliff still between his fingers, while Jon, Big Ali, and Javad Hangaround went in and out the open car doors, checking who was sitting where, explaining to those necessary
who had chosen the wrong places and how long they had to switch seats.

They caught his attention, gave a thumbs-up, and disappeared into their planned cars.

He stayed where he was. Waiting.

Any minute, there,
there
, he heard feet rushing up the steps and crossing the platform, jeans, a jacket, twenty-five, the sort who stuck out when he sat down at the back of the now empty car.

Gabriel got on.

A minute from Norsborg to Råby.

Plenty of time, they’d done it so many times before.

The doors slid shut, the train started to roll, he sat on one side right at the back, the Jacket sat opposite, looked at someone who looked back. Gabriel took off his hoodie, opened the window, then closed it again with his shirt caught in it. They were now hidden between the gray concrete wall and the gray shirt.

The guy sitting opposite took two white ICA supermarket bags from his inner pockets, and placed them on the empty seat. Gabriel put his hand on the thin plastic-wrapped metal shapes, hard and angular; he lifted them up and weighed them with small movements, close to his body.
Lahti
. They contained what they were supposed to contain.
Glock
. He raised his arm and watched Big Ali in the car in front and Jon in the car behind open the end doors into his car with their allen keys, hurry in and pick up a plastic bag each, then disappear out again the way they came.

One minute. Plenty of time. When the metro train stopped at Råby station, they all stepped out from their cars and walked toward the exit and a deserted center with the eerie glow of fluorescent lighting. They passed two empty shops and waited as a young boy stood up from a bench some distance away, gold chain around his neck and slicked-back hair, he looked for acknowledgment from Gabriel—
Eddie’s the name
—and nearly caught his eye, that was enough, he grew, the mark from a ring still visible on his cheek. He took one of the white ICA bags and carried it to the supermarket and the lockers just inside the main entrance where you could pay five kronor and store your bags while you were shopping. They watched the kid put in a coin and stuff the bag in, then lock it, and Gabriel knew that he was perfect—twelve years old, illegal possession of a weapon, a minor.

The sun was shining when four boys, teenagers, young men, left an empty shopping center and walked through a summer slightly warmer than the last. Råby was seldom beautiful to anyone who didn’t belong there and on days like this the bright light peeled the last layer of color from the high structures and the concrete buildings became, even for Gabriel, Jon, Big Ali, and Javad Hangaround, a gray, airless place and none of them said anything as there was nothing much to say. The automatic door into the underground garage opened as silently as it had thirty minutes earlier and they walked into the cool darkness, a vast cavity that stretched the length of Råby Allé, to an exit in the middle of the garage, a door that said number 34, and then took the lift to the third floor, the door by the rubbish chute.

She looked about thirty-five, dark hair that had been dyed even darker when gray wisps had displaced time, quite beautiful really, but a pale face, a mouth that didn’t want to smile and eyes that were older than her years.

“You’re to keep this.”

She looked at the other white plastic bag with an ICA logo on it, which had recently been on an empty train seat.

She didn’t answer.

She pulled the door hard to, but a foot was in the way, she couldn’t close it as long as the one they called Big Ali, who was tall and square, was stopping her with his foot.

“Five hundred a day. You’re to keep it for twenty-five. Until he comes to get it.”

“Go to hell!”

She pushed his shoulder with one hand and pulled the door with the other.

He stayed where he was.

She looked at the others, half a step behind, the same clothes, the same arrogant tilt as they glared at her.

She met Gabriel’s eyes. He would look away. And he did.

“Gabriel?”

It wasn’t long, but he looked at the floor for a moment, which triggered more words, louder.

“Gabriel? Listen. Him, get him . . .”

Then the moment was gone, he looked up, met her eyes, he wasn’t going to look away again.

“You’ll keep it, bitch, because we want you to keep it.”

She took a step forward, he didn’t move, her open hand struck his cheek.

“Don’t you threaten me.”

They were standing close looking into each other’s eyes without blinking and they knew each other so well and not at all.

She had struck his cheek.

He wasn’t quite sure why it was to be kept here, Leon must have his reasons, but he hadn’t moved, hadn’t looked away, hadn’t answered.

“Don’t you threaten me, Gabriel, you—”

“
Keep it
.”

He caught her arm and pulled it, not hard, but enough for her to move so that Big Ali could get into her apartment and leave the white plastic bag on the hat shelf.

He stood, as he normally did, by the window next to his desk
and the armchairs and the photograph of a daughter who had flown the nest, who he never saw anymore. If he stood on his toes, he could see the upstairs and a tiny bit of one of the bedrooms in the house where he’d lived for the greater part of his life. Lennart Oscarsson spent his days in alternate worlds that were separated by a brisk two-minute walk and he had never wanted to be anywhere else. The town of Aspsås, with its low white- and slightly higher red-terraced houses, and the big detached houses up by the woods, had two thousand six hundred and forty-seven inhabitants. Aspsås prison, with its twelve three-story concrete buildings inside a fence, inside a wall, inside two protective barriers, had two hundred and nineteen inhabitants and it felt like he knew every face out there and in here. He still woke up every morning with the realization that he was someone who would rather be big in a small world than small in a big one.

The windowpane caught the sun; he moved so he could better see the people sitting down there in the warmth, waiting, groups of inmates, sentenced to days, months, years. They never thought about time, never allowed themselves to, they knew that anyone who counted their breaths in prison could not bear to draw air for much longer.

This morning—three were leaving. At around five o’clock, transfers, 0342 Gorgis and 2415 Lang from Block F, on their way to Kumla prison and Tidaholm prison, respectively. Around seven o’clock, a release, 0221 Jacobs from Block C, on his way to the Bommen hostel in Gothenburg.

Part of life. That would continue elsewhere.

This morning—three who were due to arrive. From Härnösand prison, six and a half years, aggravated rape, A3 Right. From Huddinge remand, four and a half years, armed robbery, F2 Left. From Kumla, transferred because he was a bad influence on other inmates, life for murder, segregation unit, Block H.

Part of life. That would continue here. And could not be counted.

But he did it himself.

Counted.

Four and a half years, plus six and a half, plus life, expected to be the full twenty-five years. Thirty-six years more in a morning.

Half an average life to waste away.

He studied the dusty prison yard again, looked at the men sitting on a simple wooden bench just inside the concrete wall, who were so different from those who had sat there when he started; they were younger, angrier, more broken, more violent—what once had been a life of crime that petered out when exhaustion replaced energy, was now conscious career choice:
I will be successful. I will be someone. I will be a criminal, and you know, if I’m really good, I’ll even go to prison
. He had walked back and forth between the terraced house and the wall all his working life and somewhere along the way he had failed to see the change and no longer had any idea of how he would recognize it. In Aspsås there had been the community inside that you could long to leave and a community outside where you could long to be, but now there was a third one and he had never been there because he had no idea where it was.

There was a knock on the door.

He waited, turned toward the other window, which was wider with a view of the main gate, which opened just then, and the roof of the white prison service transport bus that drove in and parked near the central security entrance.

The door again, harder, longer.

He opened.

“Have you got a minute?”

“Come in.”

An older man, tall, slim, a friendly face, lines that had lived. Martin Jacobson. Lennart Oscarsson looked at one of his few friends. Both here and out there.

“We’ve got a problem.”

“We do?”

“Him.”

The prison governor turned back to the wide window. A young man, no more than a teenager really, was being led out of the side door of the white bus.

Handcuffs. Body cuff.

Four prison guards, in front and beside and behind.

“From Mariefred prison. Six years and four months. Relocated following threats to the staff and suspected of beating up two other prisoners, crime classification perverting the course of justice.”

One more.

Six years and four months.

A morning with thirty-six years had become a morning with forty-two years and four months. More time not to be counted.

“Marko Bendik. He’s on his way over to me. But I can’t have him.”

“Why not?”

“Sentenced in the same case as someone who’s already there. Aggravated assault and attempted murder in central Stockholm. Plus the public prosecutor is preparing another case for
other
crimes that the two of them have committed together.”

The prison service bus had red stripes running along the white. The young man pulled forward for a moment, hit his handcuffs against one of the side windows; it sounded and looked like it broke.

“Never two accomplices at the same time. Never in isolation.”

Lennart Oscarsson nodded and sat down at his desk, straightened the keyboard, looked at the screen.

“Block D.”

He changed his glasses; it was difficult to differentiate the letters and boxes when the sunlight reflected his own face on the dusty glass.

“D1 Left. Cell 12. It’s been empty since yesterday.”

One careful step at a time down the spiral staircase to administration and the reception area. Lennart Oscarsson kept his eyes on his friend’s neck until their ways parted, Martin Jacobson continued down the passage toward the isolation unit and Oscarsson opened the door and stepped into a bright and cramped space that was the first place to greet newly arrived prisoners. In the middle of the floor, surrounded by the four uniformed guards, stood a muscular and extremely pale boy who had been a child until very recently. Eyes that looked past him, through him, over him, anywhere other than at the person who held out his hand and wished him welcome.

“Lennart Oscarsson.”

And that didn’t answer.

“I’m the governor here.”

The eyes that neither saw nor answered, narrowed.

“Good for you.”

Recently strip-searched, now with new clothes.

Recently a child, now a man with a long sentence.

Oscarsson turned toward the prison guard who was standing closest, lowered his voice.

“He’s to go to Block D.”

“But it says here—”

“I know. It was me who wrote it.”

It wasn’t very often that he went through the underground passage, a square concrete body that stretched the length of the prison yard, with straight arms and legs that headed off in different directions and then turned into locked doors and security cameras, the way in when days were no longer to be counted and the way out when there was less of life left. He glanced at the prisoner who had lived only one adult year in freedom and would now live the next six years and four months inside these walls. He looked like all the others, hated like all the others. He was about to be let into the unit and would sit on the bunk in his cell and immediately get stuck in the quagmire of antisocial behavior. They always came from another time zone, they had committed crimes and filled their veins with drugs at night and slept and mustered strength during the day, and now the metal door
they sat staring at would be locked at half past seven every evening and opened again at seven every morning, they would wake up, get up, piss, shower, and then walk either to the workshop to make red wooden blocks or to the classroom to read out loud.

“Guard in the unit!”

Oscarsson hadn’t even opened the door yet.

The child, who only had a matter of minutes to prove that he was a man with a long sentence who knew exactly where he was at and so should be treated with respect, yelled at the sleepy unit in the way that he’d learned to yell, from now on one of thirty young people who were placed in various units at Aspsås alongside the older prisoners. Never more than that. Because the group then grew into a gang. And then the gang grew in power. And the prison governor had several times recognized only too late the moment when a group no longer needed to be fed recognition from the outside as an enemy and a threat, but had simply become an enemy and a threat, the moment when it was sufficiently big and sufficiently strong to feed itself.

Lennart Oscarsson stayed standing in the doorway,
guard in the unit
, saw the first peer approach the new inmate and hold out his hand.

“
Ey
.”

Then another, and another.

“
Ey
.”

Always the same. The youngsters always knew each other. It didn’t matter whether they came from Fittja or Råby or Södertälje or Gävle. They
always
knew each other. Every time a young man took his first steps into one of the prison units, the others were standing there in a row ready to welcome him.

Lennart Oscarsson was just about to leave when he saw one of them approach—he couldn’t remember his name, tall, short hair, long sentence for a serious crime—hand in the air.

His eyes, darting restlessly here, there, and everywhere.

His mouth, dry lips, smacking sound.

“Marko.”

Oscarsson was certain. The boy who said hello was seriously under the influence.

“Leon.”

First the hand, then the embrace; they smiled at each other.

“Welcome, my friend.”

———

Leon watched the older man who was standing there in the doorway, who he knew was the governor. The uniform stayed watching for slightly too long, he’d seen that they were high and Leon had made sure to smack with his lips in the way people do when speed has stolen their saliva. He raised a hand to Marko, then embraced him, they’d known each other since he was twelve and Marko was thirteen—Örkelljunga secure children’s home, Sirius Paragraph 12 home, and then Bärby juvenile detention center. Marko from Rotebro was one of the ones who had always been there and who wanted to belong, and maybe he would one day.

They walked down the corridor, past the TV corner, past the cells with low numbers toward the one that had been empty since the day before, the guy who’d hanged himself in the narrow space between the wardrobe and the sink, Cell 12. Marko had his stuff, washed-out prison clothes and towels and bed linen in his arms, and Leon left him sitting on an unmade bunk in a bare room with pockmarked walls.

“Cell 2.”

The face that nodded to him.

It was older now, nineteen, but just there, just then, the look of abandonment, he’d seen it before.

In Vemyra.

Fourteen years old. Juvenile detention center.

They had lain on their backs on a desk each in the classroom, it was night and they had been sniffing strong glue and were off their faces, and had smashed the reinforced glass—a pot of boiling water and a cross scratched with a coin in a corner of the window—which they’d only ever come across before at a child psychology unit; they had forced their way into the teachers’ corridor, to the head’s wife who was on duty that night, and they had fractured her skull and broken her right thumb and stolen the keys.

Forty-eight hours. Then they were back again.

Marko had sat there just like he was sitting there now, when they were separated and forced into their rooms, his face, that expression, abandonment.

“Cell 2, if there’s anything.”

On the opposite side of the corridor, the cells with uneven numbers, number 9. Leon knocked.

“One love, brother.”

“One love.”

Alex had waited, someone who already belonged; for so long it had only been Leon and Gabriel, Leon and Gabriel, then with Alex there was one more, and then one more with Bruno and one more with Jon and Reza and Uros and Big Ali and now there were eight of them and there weren’t going to be many more, a core that was hard, and that fucking longing to be part of it was for those who were outside, who were prepared to do anything to get in.

He looked at Alex, dropped his hand as they walked over to Cell 10.

They stood side by side in front of the closed door.

Never open a door and go into a cell on any corridor in any prison without knocking.

Because it’s not just a door. Because it’s not just a cell.

Because most of them had lived longer here than they’d lived there, outside.

He didn’t knock.

This wasn’t a home. It was a junky den.

“Oi.”

The skinny bugger was sitting on the only chair by the only table, with his back to the door, looking out of the window. He hadn’t heard him come in, started, and turned around.

The smile.

Stiff lips, slightly apart.

“Smackhead.”

A hard fist to his shoulder.

“Don’t
ever
smile at me.”

Leon couldn’t understand why, he never had, but that bastard smile still annoyed him, it kind of got hold of you and was ugly and
exposed all those yellow dirty teeth that somehow sank into the feeling of being in the way, that fucking drawn-out apology, a reflex that stared at whoever was staring.

Another fist, the other shoulder, knuckles on skin and bones.

“D’you understand?”

“My deal.”

“Later.
Do you understand
?”

The scrawny body got up.

“I want my hit.”

“When you’re done, Smackhead.”

“My name’s Sonny. And you can hit me as much as you like. Whenever you like.”

Desperation. A surprising strength.

“But I want my payment.
Before
. I want my ten grams.”

He pointed at the table, at what was lying there, all lined up.

Electric shaver, ballpoint pen, spoon, needle, tape, pipe cleaner, nail clippers, cotton thread, piece of metal
.

His high voice, his stammer, it was worse now.

“I’ve got everything. Even the ink. But I’m not going to put it together. Not until I get my pay.”

Leon saw the punctured feet that couldn’t stay still on the hard floor, cheeks that twitched around the eyelid, his tongue constantly running over his yellow teeth trying to wash them clean.

But the lips. They weren’t open anymore, weren’t smiling.

Leon opened the cell door, nodded to Alex who was standing outside, keeping an eye on the whole corridor.