crowd inside the school.
Micaela was standing next to the coat-hangers in the hall. She kissed him, asked if he was properly awake now, and had he missed her? He said yes, he'd missed her. Had he? At night when he couldn't sleep and sought out her soft body, then he would've missed her if she hadn't been there; he needed her so much and felt less frightened when he could stay close to her and borrow her warmth. Daytime was different. Looking at her, he saw how young she was, too young and too lovely. He didn't deserve her. Surely her lover should match her youth and beauty? Or did he actually believe all that crap?
These were things he mulled over all the time. These and, deep inside, the beatings.
The first time he had sought her out was after the divorce. She greeted the children when he brought Marie to school, and she was there morning after morning. Then, one day, they walked together for a while, long enough for him to tell her about the pain and loss of separation. She listened. They took more walks together, he kept confessing and she kept listening. Then the day came when they went to his house and made love all afternoon, while Marie and David ran around playing on the other side of the closed bedroom door.
He helped Marie to change into her indoor shoes, white fabric slip-ons. He took off the red shoes with the shiny buckles and put them on her shelf. Her sign was an elephant. The others had chosen bright red fire engines and football stars and Disney figures, but she had wanted an elephant and that was that.
She grabbed his arm.
'Daddy, you mustn't go.'
'But… you wanted to come, didn't you? Micaela is here. And David.'
'Please stay. Please, nice kind Daddy.'
He held her in his arms, lifted her up.
'My little sweetheart. But… Daddy must work. You know that.'
Her eyes met his, her forehead wrinkled. Her whole face pleaded with him.
He sighed.
'Right you are, I will stay. But just a tiny little while.'
Marie stayed close to him while she gave her elephant a kiss and followed the contours of its body with her finger: its legs, along its back and all the way down its trunk. Fredrik made a what-can-I-do gesture to Micaela. This was how it had been ever since Marie had started at the nursery almost four years ago, after Agnes had moved away. Every time he had hoped that this would be the day he could leave easily, just say goodbye and go without having a bad conscience about it.
'And how long are you staying today?'
This was the only thing they really disagreed about. Micaela wanted him to go, to establish that even if he did, he would still be back in the afternoon to pick Marie up. Never mind a few tears, the crying would pass. He always
told her that since she didn't have children herself she couldn't possibly know what he felt like.
'Quarter of an hour. At most.'
Marie heard him and tightened her grip on his arm.
'Daddy must stay. Stay with me.'
Then David came along, running, his face covered in warpaint stripes in garish poster paints. He ran past Marie, but called to her to come along. She let go of Fredrik's arm and followed him.
Micaela smiled.
'Look how easy it is! It's the best I've seen. She's forgotten about you already.'
She stepped closer, very close.
'But I haven't.'
A light kiss on his cheek. Then she turned and went away too.
Fredrik was at a loss. He watched her go, then went into the play-room. Marie and David and three other kids were piled up together, painting each other's faces, shouting about Sioux Indians or something. He waved at Marie, she waved back. When he left, their war cries followed him to the door.
The sun hit his face. What about a coffee in the shade? After picking up a paper from the newsagent at the main square? But he made up his mind to go to his writer's den on Arno Island, just, to sit there and wait. He'd start the computer, read his notes, probably write nothing but at least be prepared.
He opened the gate, nodded again to the father on the bench, who must be waiting for someone, and went to get his car.
He liked this nursery. It had looked just the same four years ago. The little gate, white-painted wooden walls and blue shutters.
He had been sitting on this seat for four hours. There must be at least twenty kids in there. He had watched as the children came and went, always with a mother or a father, no kids on their own. A pity, it was easier then.
Three of the girls had gym shoes on. Two had weird sandals with long straps tied round their legs. Some were barefoot. So the heat was fucking unbearable, but he didn't like this going barefoot thing. One of them had worn red leather shoes, shiny, with metal buckles. They were the best, really beautiful. She had turned up late, her dad had brought her. A blonde little whore. Her hair had natural curls, she tossed them about while she was speaking to her dad. Not much on, just shorts and a plain T-shirt, she must've dressed herself. She seemed happy. Whores were always happy. This one had hopped and jumped all the way to the front door and her dad had nodded to him, a kind of greeting, and he had returned it, it was only polite. The dad had taken longer to come back out than the rest of them, and when he passed, he had nodded again. What a weirdo.
He tried to spot the blonde whore through the window. Lots of heads came past but not the blonde with curls. She'd come looking for cock; whores like plenty of hard cock. She was hidden in there, only shorts and T-shirt on, and her red shoes with metal buckles, bare legs. Good. Whores should show skin.
Dickybird was holed up in the TV corner. He felt knackered, like he always felt after he had smoked pot, and the classier the shit was the more dog-tired he got. Pure kif had the biggest effect and this lot had been the fucking best ever. The Greek, who flogged it, had spoken nothing but the truth when he said he'd never sold better, no argument with that, it was good shit and Dickybird knew what he was talking about, he had been through some in his day.
He looked at Hilding in the chair opposite. Wildboy Hilding wasn't so wild now, that was for sure; he looked shagged, with that spaced-out look on his face, and he didn't even scratch that fucking awful sore of his, his hand that was usually somewhere at nose height was resting on his knee. Dickybird bent over and tapped his mate on the shoulder, Hilding's eyes opened and Dickybird signed, one thumb up and index finger pointing towards the showers. Good stuff, and more in there, behind the tile next to the strip-light. Enough for at least two more goes. Hilding got the message, his thumb went up and he smiled, before sinking deeper into his armchair.
Plenty of tramping about in the unit today, no peace for the wicked. First the new one, the skinhead who didn't have a fucking clue about what went and what didn't round here, seemed to fancy that he could just hang out doing his own fucking thing. Name of Jochum Lang, apparently, what kind of piss-awful name was that? But that was what the nice new young screw had said when he asked. One of them hitmen, seemingly, a bloody bailiff, long list of GBH and manslaughter, but a shortish sentence because of all the sad tossers out there who didn't dare to witness against him. Still, he had to learn, no messing about in this unit, he'd have to get used to it.
And then Hitler, who had been pissing himself on the telly, but was thick enough to show his face on the unit afterwards, sneaking a short cut to his sex hellhole. Pissed his pants on-screen, knew he should keep his head down, so he had said fuck all when he ran into them; they had been zonked then and Hitler must've smelled the hash fumes but kept going, trotting along to his bunch of perverts. They should be terminated, the whole lot of them.
To top it all, Grensie. What next? Marched through the unit by Hitler, limping as always; the old copper was a fucking cripple and had been around for longer than was good for him, so maybe he got a hard-on thinking about the old times, but he should be dead by now. He had been one of the Stockholm cops sent down to Blekinge in 1967, he had seen Per's bleeding goolies and escorted the bawling thirteen-year-old to a young offenders' prison.
Bekir shuffled the cards, cut and dealt. Dragan put two matches in the pot and picked up his hand. Skane did
