Free Box 21 by Anders Roslund, Börge Hellström Page B

nothing.
     
It made him laugh out loud. Two old bags stared at himand he gave them the finger. He was nothing. Had to get more kit. Then he could carry on being nothing and shut them all out and have no feelings.
     
He got up. He smelt of piss, his hair was greasy and matted and the wound on his nose was coated in dried blood. He was thin and filthy and twenty-eight years old, closer to the other side than ever before.
     
Hilding walked slowly towards the escalator that wasn’t working. When it rocked too much he clung to the black rubber railing. The left-luggage lockers were down a concrete corridor. The door was opposite the johns, where some cow demanded five kronor every time you needed to take a leak. Not fucking likely. Stood to reason you pissed in the metro tunnel instead.
     
Olsson was tucked away at the back as usual, somewhere between boxes 120 and 150. He was asleep. One foot was bare, no sock, no shoe. The fucker could afford shoes, no problem, but who cares about fucking shoes.
     
He was snoring. Hilding pulled at his arm and shook him a little.
     
‘I want some cash.’
     
Olsson was still half asleep and stared vacantly at him.
     
‘You hear? I need cash. Now. You were going to settle last week.’
     
‘Tomorrow.’
     
Olsson wasn’t his real name. Hilding had no idea what it was, but he knew it wasn’t Olsson. They had been stuck in the same drug rehab place once, down in Skĺne.
     
‘Olsson, you heard. One fucking thousand, right now! Or did you take all the shit yourself?’
     
Olsson sat up, yawned, stretched.
     
‘Hilding, lay off. I haven’t got any!’
     
Hilding scratched the wound. The bastard didn’t have any money. Just like that cow at the Social Services. Like his sister. He’d phoned her and begged for money again, like he had a few days ago from the metro platform. Sameagain: she’d stuck to the same old tune, like It’s your choice, it’s your problem, don’t try to involve me .
     
He started on the wound again, the crust came off and it bled quite a lot.
     
‘Got to get some cash, you fucking cunt. Get it?’
     
‘I haven’t got none. Tell you what I’ve got. Information, well worth a thousand.’
     
‘What fucking info?’
     
‘Jochum Lang is looking for you.’
     
Hilding couldn’t leave the wound alone. He sighed and tried to make out that he didn’t swallow.
     
‘So what? I don’t give a shit.’
     
‘What does he want you for?’
     
‘I don’t know. Meet up? We did some time together in Aspsĺs.’
     
Olsson’s cheek twitched upwards, over and over, making his eye open and close. He was caught in his junkie tic.
     
‘Worth a thousand, wasn’t it?’
     
‘I want my cash.’
     
‘Haven’t got it.’ Olsson patted his anorak pocket. ‘But I have got some smack. Powder.’
     
He pulled the plastic bag from its hiding place and held it up for Hilding to see.
     
‘One gram, what about it? Take it and we’re even.’ Hilding stopped scratching.
     
‘A gram?’
     
‘Fucking strong too.’
     
Hilding reached out, waved his hands around, slapped Olsson.
     
‘Let’s see.’
     
‘Pure heroin. Real strong.’
     
‘I’ll take a quarter now. I’ll just shoot up a quarter. OK?’
     
The train to Malmö and Copenhagen was late, the loudspeakers in the ceiling filled the hall, fifteen minutes more to go, sit down on your seats, keep waiting. From somewhere else, café noises, the smell of brewing coffee andgreasy pastries sneaked about and clung to everything. They didn’t notice, didn’t notice the great space around them filling up with commuters hurrying to their platforms – young people with rover tickets and huge, flag-covered rucksacks, families travelling at inconvenient times on the special saver tickets that the businessmen despised. All that passed them by. Jerkily they walked to the photo booth near the main entrance. Olsson stood guard; he was to stop anyone wanting to get in and make sure that Hilding didn’t OD and flake out. Hilding sat on the low folding seat and drew the