THE DINING HALL’S GRAY WALLS, THE LONG SHABBY TABLES and the bleached, grayish-green curtains in the windows felt very 1950s and weren’t a bit homey. But in the high-security prison, interior decoration wasn’t a priority; what counted here was incarceration. Some of Sweden’s most dangerous prisoners were locked up here and money was spent on alarms and barbed wire rather than comfort.
It was time for today’s lunch and some of the inmates went up to the counter and helped themselves to fried herring and mashed potatoes. Others chose venison steak and cranberry sauce, while most of them took pizza. The fluorescent lamps flashed and the sound of silverware and scraping chairs mixed with expletives and laughter. There was more noise than usual. Sweden had just won a qualifying match in soccer and they all tried to talk above the noise.
Kenta Udd glanced at the TV and looked around at the others in the hall. Jeans, tattoos and grim countenances. They had long criminal records, every one of them. He himself had been in and out of prison many times and was beginning to tire of life behind bars. He always thought like that when he was inside, but unfortunately he had a tendency to end up in bad company when he was released, and soon he was back in again. Because he was a large and muscular man, he was popular in criminal circles. He was good at fighting and he made people pay their debts. The problem was that he sometimes hit too hard and then he would be sentenced for serious bodily harm. But now he had got to know a girl on the Internet. She seemed really decent and they had met a few times when he had been out on day leave. If only he could break free of the criminal world and lead an ordinary everyday life instead . . . open a workshop to repair cars, or a pizzeria or something like that. The girl knew her way around a kitchen and the idea of a pizzeria was attractive. Perhaps they could open one together. A roar could be heard from the TV and Kenta looked up.
“Fucking hell, what a goal! Zlatan’s overhead kick, wow!” was heard from one of the gang.
“Not bad, but he’s getting really lousy passes,” ventured a guy Kenta didn’t recognize. A newcomer.
“Well, what of it, he can’t just stand there waiting for the ball. He’s got to make a bit of an effort too!” Kenta chipped in, burping loudly as he got up. He liked food, and waddled across to the counter for a second helping. He glanced at the trays and even though he knew it would be better to down some meat or fish, he took the pizza. Two large calzones to round off his lunch, nice one. He was just about to sit down again when he felt an elbow dig into his ribs.
“Hey, mate, Zlatan’s great, don’t groan about him!” The newcomer, a weasel-like guy in his thirties, gave him a penetrating look. The inmate, who had only been there a few days, had a muscular body and was tattooed so far up on his throat that you could see it above his T-shirt.
“But he’s fucking lazy, right?”
“Nope, he’s one of the best soccer players in the world. OK?”
“OK, OK. All right he is,” muttered Kenta and sat down again. The weasel followed and sat down next to him. The guy had a sharp, inquisitive gaze. Short hair, blonde and sticking out, and he had a ring in his ear.
“I’m Johan. Johan Tanto,” he said and held out his hand. “But most people call me Weasel. I used to play soccer.”
“Oh, fuck. I’m Kenta, Kenta Udd,” Kenta responded and looked at the newcomer. Yes, the guy had a very suitable nickname, that was for sure. Weasel was so thin and wirey that he could have slithered through any concrete pipe. But he had plenty of muscles, too.
“Been here long?” he asked.
“A few years, release in a month.”
“Why did the cops lock you up?”
“Fucking bad luck.”
“Ah, come off it. What did they get you for?”
“Coke and drugs, well, you know,” Kenta answered evasively.
“The usual, then. We get the cola for the upper classes, but we are the ones who pay for it.” Weasel wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“And you?”
“Roughed up a guy a little too much. He didn’t pay, the bastard—a restaurant thing . . .”
“Ah, extortion and protection racket?”
“If you don’t fork out, you’ve only got yourself to blame. But the guy refused and I lost it.” Weasel gobbled up his food and went on talking with his mouth full. “The guy started getting belligerent so in the end I gave him a free facelift. Didn’t notice the camera.”
“Shit happens.”
“You should’ve seen him. I thought the fucking bastard had died.” Weasel suddenly looked serious. “I’ll fucking have to cool it a little.”
Kenta gave him an inquisitive look, sliced up a large wedge of a calzone and opened wide. But the piece was too big and he started coughing. “How many years did you get, then?”
“Four, but no way am I fucking sitting here that long.”
“Hard to get out of the place.” Kenta Udd tried again with the pizza and took a smaller bite this time.
“There’s day leave, isn’t there? Not a snowball’s chance in hell that I’m going to rot away inside. But you’ll be out soon, right? Got anything lined up?”
“Thought I’d open a pizzeria. Launder money. But difficult getting the permits and all that.”
“Pizzeria?” Silence reigned for a few moments while Weasel observed him. “So, restaurant and protection?” He got up to fetch some more food but stopped with the plate in his hand. “Tell you what, if you can get me out of here, then I’ll help you. There won’t be any incendiaries or any of that shit. I promise. Think about it.”
Kenta eyed him a long time. Weasel seemed to be a man of action who knew what he wanted, a guy who got things to happen. Perhaps he was a mate you ought to stay on good terms with. If he helped him get out of the clink, he himself might be able to return to a normal life at last. Because as an ex-con it wasn’t easy to return to a life among ordinary folk; certainly not if you wanted to go into the restaurant business. If he kept on the right side of Weasel, then he might get protection.