Part 38 (2/2)

'You mean this is really happening?' he says sceptically.

'Yes.'

'An alibi,' Rocky repeats to himself.

'Olivia Toreby is living a different life these days, and she's sure of what she says. You were together at the time of the murder.'

Rocky focuses his eyes on Erik's.

'So I didn't murder Rebecka Hansson?' he says quietly.

'I don't think so,' Erik replies, without looking away.

'How sure is she?' Rocky asks, and his jaw muscles tense.

'She knows, because you were high on the night of the murder ... and it was the same night her son died of sudden infant death syndrome.'

Rocky nods and stares straight up at the white sky.

'And that matches the register of deaths,' Erik concludes.

'So all this c.r.a.p has been for nothing,' Rocky says, taking a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

'She was a drug addict, and I don't think the court would have believed her testimony at the time,' Erik repeats.

'I might still have ended up here, but I'd have felt completely different if I'd known ...'

The air currents between the buildings are picking up dust and loose particles in the sunlit park. The man who shouted is walking towards them across the yard. Erik looks at his face, swollen with medication, at the clumsy tattoos on his cheeks and forehead, as he pa.s.ses them, whispering to himself.

'It's time for you to give your consent to the application for permission to leave the hospital ...'

'Maybe.'

'What are you going to do when you get out?' Erik asks.

'What do you think?' Rocky smiles, pulling a half-smoked cigarette from the packet.

'I don't know,' Erik says.

'I'm going to fall to my knees and thank G.o.d,' he says sarcastically.

'You'll be free, but your alibi also means something else that I need to talk to you about.'

'Nice.'

'The reason why I've been coming here is that the police are hunting a serial killer whose methods are reminiscent of what Rebecka Hansson was subjected to.'

'Say that again ...'

A gentle breeze fills an empty plastic bag with air and sends it tumbling across the exercise yard, as if it were unfettered by time itself.

67.

Rocky clenches his teeth and leans back against the fence, so that the light s.h.i.+ning through the links changes.

'The police are hunting a serial killer,' Erik repeats. 'And the murders are reminiscent of that of Rebecka Hansson.'

'I'm trying to take in the fact that I'm innocent,' Rocky says in a loud voice. 'I'm trying to understand that I haven't killed another person ...'

'I can appreciate that ...'

'I've been living with a f.u.c.king killer for nine years now,' he concludes, pointing to his own heart.

'Rocky?' the guard calls as he approaches.

'Isn't a person allowed to be happy?'

'What's going on?' the guard asks, stopping in front of them. 'Are you going back inside?'

'Do you know, I've been wrongly convicted,' he says.

'Then we're back to one hundred per cent innocent here at Karsudden,' the guard says, and goes in.

Rocky watches him with a smile, and puts his packet of cigarettes in his pocket.

'Tell me why I should try to help the police,' he says, cupping his hands around a match.

'Innocent people are dying.'

'That's debatable,' he mutters.

'The real murderer was responsible for you ending up in here,' Erik says. 'You understand? He did this to you, no one else.'

Rocky inhales the smoke and wipes the corners of his mouth with his big, nicotine-stained thumb. Erik looks at his worn face and deep-set eyes.

'You could end up getting a complete pardon in the Appeal Court,' Erik says tentatively. 'And maybe get your job as a priest back.'

Rocky smokes for a while, then flicks the cigarette towards another patient, who thanks him and picks it up off the ground.

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