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. Skåne 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 Skåne 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. Sex offender. That came again several times, and then there was more. Long sentence… with Oscarsson… pervs' unit.
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. Hero. Murdered. Sex offender.
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, why send the hero here? Someone agreed; he didn't get it either, cons with sentences that long didn't usually come to Aspsås. First one said that anyway the guy had done his thing, he wouldn't attack anyone else.
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.
Fredrik decided to pee in the basin, rather than asking the guard out there to take him to the toilet. He'd just have to deal with their questions about his sentence.
Ten years.
He couldn't get his mind round it. Kristina had visited him yesterday afternoon, wanting to go through the sentence, explain the motivations and persuade him that they should appeal again, take his case to the Supreme Court. She wanted to test the limits of the plea of 'reasonable force' and set up a precedent. He had refused, said he simply wasn't interested. He had had enough. Chewing over past events was meaningless to him. Prison, no prison, what the hell, it didn't bother him.
Ten years from now he'd be almost fifty.
He washed his hands and went to stand in the middle of his cell.
His little girl had been fouled, torn to pieces by a sadistic killer, who would have done what he wanted with other little girls if Fredrik hadn't killed him. The consequence for him was ten years of solitude, isolated from the world. He had to laugh.
He kicked the bed, laughing until his chest hurt.
The prison officer, still the man who had made Fredrik his favourite, pulled back the flap in the door.
'Hey! What's going on here?'
'Why worry?'
'You're making a fucking din.'
'Is laughing forbidden?'
'Laugh away. I just don't want you to do something stupid.'
'Leave me alone. I won't do anything I shouldn't.'
'It's that sentence of yours. Hearing they've got a long stretch can make people do all sorts. Wrong things.'
'I'm fine, honestly. Just laughing.'
'Good. Anyway, I'll be back soon. Time to pack.'
'How do you mean, pack?'
'Your placement has come through.'
He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked around. Ceiling, walls, floor, all grimy and familiar. Now he had to leave.
Pack what? His soap, toothbrush and toothpaste went into a plastic bag. There, done.
The officer knocked and opened the door. He was young, about twenty-five, with hair like a shaving brush and a ring in one nostril. He was a musician, or, at least, a wannabe. He spoke about this quite a lot, to show that guards weren't just official bodies, but real human beings with dreams of their own. He was just hanging on in here, he'd explain, while he and his mates in the group were plotting to get a recording contract. He'd keep waiting, at least until he was thirty. Then he'd be too old.
Now he put his hand on Fredrik's shoulder.
'Listen. I'm sorry. You know what I think.'