related?”
“Correct.”
He got up, was heading toward the window when he suddenly stopped. Not yet. He liked to stand there alone.
“And her?”
“Like most of them. No convictions. A bit of flesh and a container.”
They looked at each other again, they had also seen this so many times: young, easily manipulated girlfriends with no criminal record who first opened their legs for boys who wanted to be what they thought men were like and then wider for those who wanted to be what they thought high-status criminals were like.
“I want to get an extra dog here, from Hall prison.”
Her voice was calm and matter-of-fact and sounded much older than twenty-one, it was easy to like.
“Search every cell with a dog after lockup. D1 Left and D2 Right. Every cell, common rooms, and the wardens’ room.”
The prison governor was still standing in the middle of the floor, halfway over to the window; it looked like it would rain.
Dogs.
The prison service had increased the number of dogs from two to twenty-five. It wouldn’t make any difference if they increased it to one hundred and twenty-five. Someone who needed drugs, who screamed for more methamphetamine or heroin or subutex, always found new ways to get it.
“And tomorrow, general UA.”
UA.
Piss analysis.
Lennart Oscarsson knew, just as Martin Jacobson knew, just as anyone who had spent their life in a blue uniform in a Swedish prison knew, that an inmate who pissed positive would have problems when the eyes and ears of the authority focused on his unit and he would be punished harshly by his fellow inmates who wanted to take drugs in peace. They knew that inmates would therefore rather refuse to piss and accept the prison punishment of more days behind bars, than test positive and end up with a broken arm.
She wanted something. She believed in something.
“Dogs. UA.”
He wasn’t going to destroy it. Time would do that.
“Of course. We’ll organize that.”
He’d stopped halfway over to the window. Now, as they closed the door behind them, he went over and looked out at the gray, heavy clouds that were thicker, darker.
Jensen.
Block D. D1 Left.
He remembered the face that had stared at him two days ago, the wild, darting eyes, the dry lips, the persistent smacking sound.
Like all the others. Like every other young man in every other high security prison. No father in the picture. Serious crime from the age of twelve. Like all the others who knew nothing about the society they didn’t belong to.
Like all the others who knew nothing about the society they didn’t belong to .
He had read every file, compared all their stories and every time been astounded by the very simple knowledge test that they were asked to take on arrival.
None of them had ever been able to answer even one question.
Not one.
They knew nothing about the Swedish state and Europe and the world. They had no knowledge of anything outside their own community, which would never become too big.
He couldn’t understand it. They were eighteen years old. And going nowhere.
Criminal network of young men who have grown up in different Stockholm suburbs, with Råby as the hub.
Down there—through the glass and light rain, on the benches by the fence in the middle of the prison yard—they always sat there, right now he counted four, five, six, seven of them from different places and various groups, but each with a cigarette in hand, the same age, the same pose, part of a posse that protected, shut out everything else.
Fraternity, family, bound together by loyalty, friendship. Commit crimes together or with other criminals.
He crossed over to his desk and the pile of white A4 sheets that were lying stapled together, two by two, on the brown, empty surface, pulled the top one over.
Eight, maybe nine full members. All previously convicted of serious crimes. Four, possibly five are currently in prison serving long sentences.
He held the two sheets of paper firmly in his hand,
“Correct.”
He got up, was heading toward the window when he suddenly stopped. Not yet. He liked to stand there alone.
“And her?”
“Like most of them. No convictions. A bit of flesh and a container.”
They looked at each other again, they had also seen this so many times: young, easily manipulated girlfriends with no criminal record who first opened their legs for boys who wanted to be what they thought men were like and then wider for those who wanted to be what they thought high-status criminals were like.
“I want to get an extra dog here, from Hall prison.”
Her voice was calm and matter-of-fact and sounded much older than twenty-one, it was easy to like.
“Search every cell with a dog after lockup. D1 Left and D2 Right. Every cell, common rooms, and the wardens’ room.”
The prison governor was still standing in the middle of the floor, halfway over to the window; it looked like it would rain.
Dogs.
The prison service had increased the number of dogs from two to twenty-five. It wouldn’t make any difference if they increased it to one hundred and twenty-five. Someone who needed drugs, who screamed for more methamphetamine or heroin or subutex, always found new ways to get it.
“And tomorrow, general UA.”
UA.
Piss analysis.
Lennart Oscarsson knew, just as Martin Jacobson knew, just as anyone who had spent their life in a blue uniform in a Swedish prison knew, that an inmate who pissed positive would have problems when the eyes and ears of the authority focused on his unit and he would be punished harshly by his fellow inmates who wanted to take drugs in peace. They knew that inmates would therefore rather refuse to piss and accept the prison punishment of more days behind bars, than test positive and end up with a broken arm.
She wanted something. She believed in something.
“Dogs. UA.”
He wasn’t going to destroy it. Time would do that.
“Of course. We’ll organize that.”
He’d stopped halfway over to the window. Now, as they closed the door behind them, he went over and looked out at the gray, heavy clouds that were thicker, darker.
Jensen.
Block D. D1 Left.
He remembered the face that had stared at him two days ago, the wild, darting eyes, the dry lips, the persistent smacking sound.
Like all the others. Like every other young man in every other high security prison. No father in the picture. Serious crime from the age of twelve. Like all the others who knew nothing about the society they didn’t belong to.
Like all the others who knew nothing about the society they didn’t belong to .
He had read every file, compared all their stories and every time been astounded by the very simple knowledge test that they were asked to take on arrival.
None of them had ever been able to answer even one question.
Not one.
They knew nothing about the Swedish state and Europe and the world. They had no knowledge of anything outside their own community, which would never become too big.
He couldn’t understand it. They were eighteen years old. And going nowhere.
Criminal network of young men who have grown up in different Stockholm suburbs, with Råby as the hub.
Down there—through the glass and light rain, on the benches by the fence in the middle of the prison yard—they always sat there, right now he counted four, five, six, seven of them from different places and various groups, but each with a cigarette in hand, the same age, the same pose, part of a posse that protected, shut out everything else.
Fraternity, family, bound together by loyalty, friendship. Commit crimes together or with other criminals.
He crossed over to his desk and the pile of white A4 sheets that were lying stapled together, two by two, on the brown, empty surface, pulled the top one over.
Eight, maybe nine full members. All previously convicted of serious crimes. Four, possibly five are currently in prison serving long sentences.
He held the two sheets of paper firmly in his hand,
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