To the Top of the Mountain Read Free Page B

since he had seen it?
    In Sweden, there are fifty-seven prisons with over four thousand places. They are divided into six security classes, of which class F prisons are open institutions and classes A to E are closed. Of these, class A prisons are the most secure, with the most dangerous inmates, and in Sweden there are two: Hall and Kumla.
    Now he was looking directly at the sky, actually looking, not from behind bars. He glanced back to the gates which had closed behind him, and for a moment it felt as though he had left his body and become one with the sky; he saw the flat landscape below him, the whole of southern Närke county with its square green, brown and golden fields. The prison looked like nothing more than two square fields among all the others.
    He couldn’t see the walls.
    Dissolved by perspective.
    Then he was down again.
    Back to earth.
    His feet on the ground.
    He turned round once more. The walls were completely bare. Nothing behind them, nothing sticking up. Only walls. Grey. Grey walls.
    He moved off. A smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
    He walked towards the van that stood waiting. Ticking over. The sound of freedom. Freedom was a metallic-green van.
    He stopped. Stood for a moment. Gentle, warm summer wind against his newly shaved cheeks. The sun. Morning heat. Asphalt quivering in the distance.
    He glanced towards the van. Hands protruding from it. Waving. No sound yet. The sound didn’t reach him. The movements within. Like a foetus. An egg about to hatch. Preserved movements. Future events. Many quick steps coming together at one point.
    Step one. Wallet out. Pitiful banknotes. Three forty an hour basic pay. Also a small device which looked like a miniature calculator.
    He took it out. Weighed it in his hand. Held it up towards the van.
    The waving stopped. The sound disappeared before it had reached him. Future movements were put on hold.
    A single button, slightly raised. Red. Almost luminous.
    He pressed it, smiled faintly and climbed into the van.
    A fiery blaze rose up behind the walls.
    High, high up towards the sky.
    No longer only walls behind him.
    As the van gathered speed, the sound still hadn’t reached him.

3
    ‘ SO YOU’RE ON the committee for the Bajen Fans club?’
    The man was in his thirties, and squinting as though the light in the darkened interrogation room was blinding. Behind his hangover, something else was going on. Watchfulness. The feeling that they would always be the accused.
    ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘Committee member.’
    ‘What is the Bajen Fans club, exactly?’ Kerstin Holm asked.
    ‘Not a violent organisation if that’s what you’re getting at.’
    ‘No one’s suggesting that, not by any means. But a Hammarby supporter committed a terrible act of violence in a known Hammarby haunt, in the presence of at least one committee member from Bajen Fans. So it’s relevant for us to ask.’
    He looked sullen. Remained silent. Glanced over to Hjelm, who was trying to look as though he was awake.
    ‘I know roughly what it is,’ said Hjelm. ‘An independent supporters’ group. Something that grew out of the Hammarby tribe in the early eighties.’
    ‘There you have it,’ said the man, with obvious pride. ‘We organise trips to the away games and our clubhouse on Grafikvägen is open on Thursdays and before every home game. We’re the ones making sure it doesn’t degenerate into violence. We stand for the only bloody bit of carnival colour in this monochrome country, and that’s why suspicion automatically falls on us.’
    ‘The club isn’t suspect. You are, Jonas Andersson from Enskede, you . You’re suspected of withholding the identity of the Kvarnen Killer.’
    ‘The Kvarnen Killer . . .’
    ‘The papers’ name for you-very-well-know-who.’
    Jonas Andersson from Enskede met Hjelm’s eye without hesitation.
    ‘I was bloody well sitting there pressing a jumper to the guy’s mashed head. I knew right away it’d be us who’d get