Free The Beast by Anders Roslund, Börge Hellström Page B

simply. Freely, away from the damned camera. That's all. Talk to
you, Nils. You're so sane. Please help me. Explain things to me.'
        Nils
stroked his temples, then his hair.
        'My
beloved.'
        Lennart
closed his eyes, feeling Nils's breath as he spoke.
        'Listen,
it's over now, done. Finished. No one can hope to understand people like Bernt
Lund and that's what makes him so dangerous. To us, but also a danger to
himself too. Sometimes it's impossible to defend oneself against another human
being. They are there. Man is the only species of mammal capable of such acts
against itself, of cold-blooded killings, to the point of extinction. We're
worse than animals, more like demons, uniquely prepared to self-destruct. It's
incomprehensible, but true.'
        They
held each other.
        Someone
was walking along the path, and was about to pass the shed without noticing
them, tricked as usual by the wall of spiky conifers. Lennart clung to Nils,
who hugged him tight, and was overwhelmed by a sudden wave of longing, of
desire for Karin, of wanting her body. He could see her thighs, her breasts. He
felt for her, and missed her.
        
        
        They
both wanted to tug at the foil wrapping, their probing fingers colliding,
fumbling.
        Inside
the foil was a square piece of blackish-brown, glassy resin. They had ordered
top-class pressed kif. It gave best sucks, each single drag kicked like a
fucking horse.
        It
had been hard putting up with waiting for it, and once they knew it was there,
they had longed to telescope the empty spaces of Aspsås, the hours of waiting.
        They
had ordered from the Greek, pooling enough dough to pay for half the order,
which meant owing more than was really healthy. They should've kept their heads
down and stuck to ordinary compressed Moroccan or even green mix, but Hilding
had been eager, nagged and pleaded and brown-nosed until Dickybird caved in.
When the pure hashish order had been placed all they could do was sit around
waiting for three days.
        The
Greek had delivered. Glowing with satisfaction, they held the piece of hash
close to the shower-room lamp and admired the shiny fragments.
        'Hey!
Spot the glass?'
        'Course
I fucking spotted it.'
        'Looks
like good shit.'
        Hilding
produced a lighter and handed it to Dickybird, who used the flame to heat the
foil from underneath. About one minute usually did the trick. The flat brown
lump softened enough to be kneaded and shaped with his fingertips. Hilding had
brought tobacco. Three-quarters baccy to one Turkish worked just fine.
        'Smells
good.'
        'Fucking
well does.'
        Hilding
made himself tall, stood on tiptoes and pushed on one of the ceiling tiles, the
one nearest the lamp. It gave easily and he pulled out a corn-pipe. He handed
it to Dickybird, who scraped the bowl, packed it, lit the mix and dragged to
heat it through. Then he had another drag before handing the pipe to Hilding,
who put it in his mouth in a hurry.
        Every
round they had two drags each, handing the pipe over in silence. The only
sounds came from a couple of dripping taps. One of the lamps kept blinking.
Drip blink drip blink drip blink. It was great stuff, better than last time.
        'Fuck
it, Wildboy Hilding. Fuck it.'
        Dickybird
inhaled a couple more times, then held out the pipe and giggled.
        'D'you
know, Wildboy? We're in this fucking shower- room and smoking great pot and
don't think about this place. Like that it's the best place for doing the
nonces.'
        Dickybird
kept giggling. Baffled, Hilding looked at him.
        'What
are you on about?'
        'We
didn't ever check it out.'
        'The
fucking shower-room, is that what you're on about? So what? Fuck's sake, we've
whipped any number of nonces and rapists and faggots in here. They say that in the
States the cons set on each other in the shit-houses, right there