He didn't have many friends, not now and not ever, really. The ones he remembered lived far away now, in other towns, and didn't share his daily life. If he did time in prison, it would not change his relationship with them that much.
One hour.
His parents were gone. He had no brothers or sisters.
One hour.
He had Micaela. He loved her, surely he did? But she was still young and it wasn't right for her to have to be with someone in endless mourning for his lost child.
One hour.
Micaela said that she wanted to be with him, always. Of course he believed her when she said that, but it could so easily change in the future. One day she would have to go on, to leave him behind. No one could bear having a violated five-year-old pushed down her throat every day.
One hour.
That ceiling really was just the same colour as urine.
One hour
So strange.
One hour.
He had been running all his life, trying to pack every minute with significance, fearful of facing emptiness and of not existing any more.
One hour.
He had kept his days fully booked, from restlessness and fear of being alone.
One hour.
Back then, when he depended on people near him, and sought them out.
One hour.
Then it all changed. He had no need for the fucking here and now. He had what he needed here. That piss- yellow ceiling. Time on his hands. His thoughts. He was powerless to influence or change anything and it made him calm, calmer than he had ever been, like someone dead.
The court took almost a week to arrive at his sentence. It was postponed twice; every note mattered and every word was charged with meaning. This was a judgement that would be exposed to media scrutiny from the word go. The broadsheets would print the statement in full and legal experts with screen savvy would analyse it on TV. The case of the dad who shot the murderer of his five-year-old daughter would be followed by people who shared his grief over the loss of a child by people who thought murder was murder, never mind who was killed by people who celebrated his courage, which removed a threat from society which its forces of law and order had been unable to cope with by people who saw his act as an indefensible vengeance and felt only a long prison sentence would be sufficient warning against private militias by people who had tormented and killed presumed sex offenders, on the basis of the sentence reached in the first instance.
On the Saturday, at fourteen minutes past nine in the morning, the court's deliberations were complete. Copies of the sentence in its entirety were available from the porters' room outside the secure courtroom in Stockholm Old Court.
The journalists were queuing early, mobile phones at the ready to contact the editors and with photographers in tow to record images of the bundles of paper from every angle. The prosecutor was there, and the defence lawyer, and a handful of curious onlookers.
Fredrik was told through the observation panel he hated so much. The officer who had favoured him with extra coffee and exercise time opened the flap and whispered loudly to him that it was a fucking disgrace, there would be a riot, that was for sure. A ten-year stretch.
The Court of Appeal had sentenced him to ten years in prison.
Dickybird felt depressed about beating up Hilding like that; the guy was dead meat now. Why had Hilding been such a stupid bastard? It was fucking idiotic, doing all that stuff. He'd had it coming to him. Nicking all the kif, for a start, then hanging out with that bloody hard man and getting rat-arsed on the brew from the fire extinguisher. Hilding must've known he'd get a working over, had to. Fuck's sake, what would the lads say if Hilding got away with the lot and kept farting about as usual, without being taught a lesson? No way. No way! But he shouldn't have smashed the little shit up, not like that. Hilding had looked a right misery. They'll stitch him back together again, that's for sure, but he won't come back here. He'll transfer to Tidaholm, maybe. Or to Hall. That's how they always handled it.
And that fucking peddo Axelsson got away when he was warned off. He's hiding in seg now.
Not many of the gang left. Hilding off to the sick wing. Bekir on release. Skane is still around, and Dragan, but that's no fucking company. Then there's the Russian and all the other useless sods.
He felt bad about it. He shouldn't have kept hitting the poor guy, just stopped when he'd got a bit hurt.
He looked out though the window.
Still pissing out there. No change for weeks. The weather's gone from bad to worse, first weeks and weeks when it's so hot your dick sags, and then more weeks of raining too hard to stick your nose outside. Bloody awful.
The rain was pouring off the tall wall and the goalposts were cracking.
Two men were out in the yard, trudging round the track. He couldn't make out who they were, in their raincoats with hoods pulled down over their foreheads.
In here four of the lads were playing pool. The Russian wandered about, grunting from time to time, chalking his cue and sinking some balls. Then Janoz, more grunting; he sank the black and lost.
Dickybird had never liked pool, strictly for the birds, all that poking about with a long stick on a green tablecloth. Cards now, that was different. But not today. Didn't feel like it. Besides, Jochum was at the table playing poker with Skane and Dragan, dealing and bluffing. It wasn't the same when Hilding wasn't around.
Nothing else to do, he had to get out, some fresh air, never mind the fucking rain.
When he reached the exit, he slowed down to check out the three prison officers, who were chatting inside their cubicle, the lazy bastards, sitting on their arses all day and getting their dough monthly, what an easy life.
He couldn't see them, but their voices were loud, excited. The sound was muffled and hard to make sense of, but now and then words and phrases were clear enough.
One word got to him.
Fuck's sake. What were they on about? Not another one, hadn't the screws got the point when Axelsson ran, because they'd traced his ID and got hold of his indictment and would've killed the bastard if he hadn't got the wind up?
Usually the screws went about like zombies, rattling with their fucking keys and saying fuck all, but now they were pissing themselves, nobody shut up for a second.
Dickybird could hardly stand still. One more mother- fucking peddo. Here!
His face had become flushed and angry, rage filled his whole body.
Then he heard a chair being pulled back and moved quickly away from his listening point, but he was still close enough to hear their last sentences as they came out, waving their hands about, clearly very agitated. One of them asked,
They turned to enter the unit, and the Russian shouted, 'Screws!'
Dickybird went to pick up a raincoat and a pair of welly boots and went off into the streaming rain. Rage was bubbling up from deep inside him; it felt as if he was suffocating. He was shaking.
Now they'll fucking see! That's final! Trying to push another peddo into his unit, no way, they'd better think again; if that kidfucker came here he wouldn't leave alive.
