CELL 8 by Anders Roslund, Börge Hellström Read Free Book Online Page B

he stopped.
    Cell 8.
    He looked in, as he had so many other times before.
    Empty.
    A prisoner had died there and they had chosen to keep it empty ever since. Superstition, really, that’s all it was. But prisoners were not supposed to die in their cells before their time; they were to be kept healthy and alive until they were executed.
    Vernon Eriksen searched the emptiness. For better or for worse. The light on the ceiling that was always on, the bunk without bedclothes.
    Until death do us part. He rested his eyes on the dirty walls that no longer incarcerated anyone, heard sounds from the toilet that was no longer used.
    He felt the energy return to his legs, his headache lifted.
    He smiled.

    HE HAD BEEN AT HOME ON HIS OWN AND SHOULD PERHAPS HAVE TIDIED up and cleaned the place and he should have made supper and he should have collected Oscar from day care only two buildings away.
    He had tried to sleep. All morning he’d lain on their bed and tossed and turned with a cushion over his face, but the light from the bedroom window had forced its way in through the blinds and bounced off the pale-colored walls, and his headache was now so intense that he felt sick.
    John sat up, his feet on the soft rug by Helena’s side of the bed. He was sweating. He had kicked him in the face. He could feel his hands shaking, placed them firmly on his thighs and pressed his arms down, but they continued to shake, even when he increased the force.
    Helena would be back any minute. She had sighed silently when he called and asked her to get Oscar, when he explained that he was tired, that it had been a long night and he needed a few hours’ sleep on his own.
    Whatever you do, John, no trouble with the police, ever, his dad had whispered, and then held him tight before turning around and disappearing forever.
    He heard the elevator laboring out in the stairwell, someone on their way up. It stopped, two pairs of feet got out, the high voice that shouted and whipped up an echo outside and the small fingers that pressed insistently on the doorbell, while Mommy looked for her keys in a chaotic fabric bag.
    “Daddy!”
    Oscar ran down the hall, tripped over the doorframe into the bedroom, fell on the floor, and then a short silence reigned until he decided he wasn’t going to cry, and got up instead, the final steps over to the bed with his arms stretched out in front of him.
    “Daddy! You’re home again!”
    John looked at his son; his whole face was one big smile. He leaned forward, lifted him up, held him close until the thin body started to wriggle, already tired of being still and wanting to break free. He followed the five-year-old, who continued to run through the apartment as if he was discovering it for the first time. He heard her steps too, looked toward the door, at Helena who was standing there.
    “Hi.”
    She was beautiful, red hair, eyes that made him feel loved.
    “Hi. Come over here.”
    He held out a hand, pulled her in toward him and hugged her, her cold coat against his cheek.
    He had tried to do the normal things. He’d seen the way Helena looked at him when she thought he wasn’t looking, she’d been able tell that he was different, not that she’d said anything, but he knew. If he just went on as normal there would be no reason for her to ask.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing.”
    “John, I can tell something’s wrong.”
    Oscar was at Hilda’s on the fourth floor. Hilda was six and had the same amount of energy as her guest. As Oscar would be there for a while, he could talk.
    “It’s nothing. Maybe just a bit tired.”
    He was doing the dishes. Washing the dishes was normal.
    She came and stood beside him. Some half-full glasses of milk in her hand, which she put down in front of him, under the running water.
    “You’ve been away for three days. It’s the middle of the day. Oscar isn’t at home. You normally touch me, John. You normally can’t get close fast enough. ‘Nothing.’ You can do better