A Nearly Normal Family(47)
“That’s not all Stella had to say.”
I filled my lungs with air.
“She was there,” said Agnes Thelin. “Stella was there on the playground at Pilegatan when Chris Olsen died.”
“No,” I said. “No, that’s not true.”
“She has confessed to being there, Adam.”
My vision flickered again. The air caught in my throat.
“No,” I said over and over. “No, no, no.”
“She has confessed.”
PART TWO
THE DAUGHTER
What do you think, would not one tiny crime be wiped out by thousands of good deeds?
FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY, CRIME AND PUNISHMENT (TRANS. CONSTANCE GARNETT) He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months, and years gloomily and implacably waiting for him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him.
éMILE ZOLA, THéRèSE RAQUIN (TRANS. EDWARD VIZETELLY)
42
The worst part about this cell isn’t the rock-hard bed you can hardly flip over in. It’s not the dim light. It’s not even the disgusting rings of old piss in the toilet. The worst part is the smell.
I have to confess that I was one of those people who thought the Swedish correctional system was a straight-up chain of decent hotels. That it was hardly punishment to be locked up in this country. I believed it was more or less like an after-school program where you could just chill, lie in bed and binge TV series, get fed pretty good stuff, and not have to care about anything.
I said in school one time that I didn’t understand why there were homeless people in Sweden, and that I would much rather be in prison than live on the street.
After six weeks in jail I will never again say I want to be locked up, or that I think it’s like a hotel.
My room is under one hundred square feet. They call it a room because cell sounds more depressing. One hundred square feet is like the size of a horse’s stall. It’s smaller than most Swedish backyard greenhouses. It has a bed, a desk, a chair and a shelf, a toilet and a sink.
I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. I’m in here for a reason, and I’m not a victim. I ache all over, I’ve lost weight, and my thoughts plague me like tinnitus. But there’s no reason to pity me. Hell no. Back in middle school I had a favorite expression that I used all the time, and it feels more fitting than ever these days: Don’t play with fire if you can’t handle the heat.
* * *
Once a day, you’re let out for some fresh air. If you’re lucky. Sometimes there’s not enough staff, and sometimes they can’t come up with an escort to the elevators. Sometimes they mostly don’t give a shit which it is.
There’s something like a dog park on the roof. All you can do is walk around, back and forth, in small circles. But so what? It’s a change. It’s something different. You get away from the smell and the trapped feeling for a while. But it doesn’t make your thoughts or the sinking feeling in your stomach go away.
One night, rain was pelting down like giant nails, but I trotted around on the roof anyway. Back and forth. It didn’t matter that I was freezing my ass off, that the rain stung my cheeks. Anything that is not just flat-out sitting or lying down is gold around here.
Radio, TV, internet? Not a chance. I have full restrictions. I’m not allowed to see, hear, or read anything that isn’t directly linked to my case, like detention documents or memos from the court and fun stuff like that. No binge-watching shows, no music, not even a single text. I’m not allowed to make or receive phone calls, and the only person who can visit me is my lawyer.
Three times a week, the commissary cart comes by and I stuff myself with two thousand calories of chocolate and Coke. Sugar is a super-underrated drug, and it’s the only one you can get your hands on in here.
Actually, it’s incredible how much you can long for the moment when two strangers turn the lock and bring in a tray of food. For the first few days I almost started bawling each time. Just getting to see another person made my whole body rejoice. I darted out of bed and was about to throw my arms around their necks, and then I peppered them with at least fifty questions about everything under the sun just so they wouldn’t leave again.
As soon as I’m on my own, my mind starts buzzing. The smell comes back.
* * *
I had been here for two days when they sent me to the psychologist.
“I didn’t ask to see a shrink,” I told the guard.
He stared at me like I was a speck of dirt the janitor had missed.
“It can’t hurt.”
I think his name is Jimmy. He’s got one of those gross goatees that looks like wiry pubic hair on the end of his chin, and his eyes are ice-blue. I one hundred percent recognize him, probably from étage or some other club.
The guards can be divided into two categories, no problem. Number one: the ones who see this as just a job, something that puts money into their account once a month. Maybe the jail is just a temporary stop on their search for a more rewarding or better-paying career. Number two: the ones who get off on the power. The ones who came here on purpose. Maybe they were rejected from the police academy, probably thanks to the psychologist. They’re the ones who like bullying and violence and consider the inmates to be vermin.