Let the right one in (56 page)

"Shouldn't we?..."

"No. If that's what he wants we should respect it." But they came out into the hall to see him off. Hugged him clumsily. Morgan took him by the arms and bent down to look him in the eyes, said: "You're not going to do anything stupid now are you? You have us, you know that."

"Yes, I know. Of course I won't."

+

Once he was outside the high-rise apartment building he came to a standstill, looked up at the sun resting in the top of a pine tree.
Will never again be able to ... the sun ...

Virginia's death, the way she had died, hung like a lead weight in his heart, in the place his heart had been, made him walk doubled over, compressed. The afternoon light in the streets was a mockery. The few people moving around in it... a mockery. Voices. Speaking about everyday things as if.. . all over, at any moment.. .
It can happen to you, too.

Outside the kiosk a person had leaned up against the window, was talking to the kiosk owner. Lacke saw a black lump fall from the sky, attach itself to the person's back and . ..
What the hell. ..

He stopped in front of the rows of headlines, blinked, tried to focus properly on the photo that nearly filled the available space. The Ritual Killer. Lacke snorted. He knew better. What this was actually about. But...

He recognized that face. It was . . .

At the Chinese restaurant. The man who..
.
bought him the whisky. Could
it. ..

He took a step forward, looked more closely at the picture. Yes. It was. The same closely-set eyes, the same . . . Lacke put his hand to his mouth, pressed his fingers to his lips. The images whirled around, attempted connections.

He had let him buy him drinks, the one who killed Jocke. Jocke's killer had lived in the same building complex as him, only a few doors down. He had greeted him a couple of times, he had ...

But he wasn't the one who did it. That must have been ...

A voice. Said something.

"Hi Lacke. Someone you know, or what?"

The owner of the kiosk and the man outside were both looking at him. He said:

". . . Yes . . ." and started to walk again, toward his apartment. The world disappeared. In his mind's eye he saw the doorway the man came out of. The covered windows of the apartment. He was going to get to the bottom of this. He was.

His pace quickened and his spine straightened out; the lead weight was a pendulum now that beat against his chest, making him tremble, his resolve thundering through his body.

Here I come. By Jove... here I come.

+

The subway train stopped at Racksta and Oskar chewed his lips, impatiently, with a touch of panic, thought the doors stayed open too long. When there was a click on the speaker system he thought the driver was about to announce a delay but—

"Step away from the doors. The doors are closing."

—and the train pulled away from the station.

He had no plan beyond warning Eli; that anyone, at any time could call the police and say they had seen the old guy. In Blackeberg. In that building. In that stairwell. In that apartment.

What happens if the police... if they break down the door... the bath-
room.

The train rattled across the bridge and Oskar looked out the window. Two men were standing down at the Lover's newsstand and, halfcovered by one of the men, Oskar could still discern the row of hateful front-page headlines blown up and printed on yellow fliers. The other man walked quickly away from the kiosk.

Anyone. Anyone can recognize him. He could know.

Oskar was already up and standing by the doors when the train started to slow down. He pushed his fingers through the rubber lips between the doors as if that would make them open faster, and leaned his forehead against the glass, cool against his hot skin. The brakes started to squeal and the driver must have been distracted because only now did he announce:

"Next stop. Blackeberg."

Jonny was standing on the platform. And Tomas.

No. Nonono. Not them.

When the train, rocking, pulled to a halt, Oskar's eyes met Jonny's. They widened, and at the same time as the doors slid open with a hiss, Oskar saw Jonny say something to Tomas.

Oskar tensed, threw himself out through the doors, and started to run. Tomas' long leg flicked out, hooked his, and he fell headlong onto the platform, scraping the palms of his hands when he tried to break his fall. Jonny sat on his back. "In a hurry to get somewhere?"

"Let me go! Let me go!"

"Why should we?"

Oskar shut his eyes, balled his hands into fists. Took a couple of deep breaths, as deep as he could with Jonny's weight on his chest, and said into the concrete:

"Do whatever you want. Then let me go."

"Okie-dokie."

They grabbed him by his arms and pulled him to his feet. Oskar caught a glimpse of the station clock. Ten past two. The second hand hacked its way around the face. He tensed the muscles in his face, in his stomach, tried to make himself like a rock, impervious to blows.

Just let it be over fast.

It was only when he saw what they were planning to do that he started to struggle. But as if by silent agreement both of them had twisted his arms around so that every movement made it feel as if his arms were going to break. They forced him toward the edge of the platform.

They wouldn't dare. They can't.. .

But Tomas was crazy and Jonny . . .

He tried to brace himself with his feet. They danced across the platform while Tomas and Jonny led him up to the white line that marked the start of the drop down toward the tracks.

Some hair on his left temple was tickling his forehead, fluttering from the gust of wind coming out of the tunnel as the train from the city approached. The tracks started to hum and Jonny whispered:

"You're going to die now, you understand."

Tomas giggled, gripped him even harder by the arm. Oskar's head went dark:
they're really going to do it.
They forced him out so his upper body was hanging out over the tracks.

The lights on the approaching train projected an arrow of cold light over the tracks. Oskar jerked his head to the left and saw the train come hurtling out of the tunnel.

The train's signal sounded and Oskar's heart leaped in its deaththrows at the same time as he wet his pants and his last thought was—

Eli!

—before he was pulled back, his field of vision filled with green when the train rushed past, a few centimeters in front of his eyes.

+

He lay on his back on the platform, his breath coming in puffs of smoke from his mouth. The wetness in his groin grew colder. Jonny squatted next to him.

"Just so you get it. How things are going to be around here. Understand?" Oskar nodded, instinctively. Put an end to it. The old impulses. Jonny gingerly touched his injured ear, smiled. Then he put his hand across Oskar's mouth, pushed his cheeks together.

"Squeal like a pig if you get it."

Oskar squealed. Like a pig. They laughed. Tomas said: "He was better at it before."

Jonny nodded. "We'll have to start training him again." The train on the other side arrived. They left him.

Oskar lay where he was for a while, empty. Then a face came floating through the air in front of him. Some lady. She was holding her hand out to him.

"You poor dear. I saw the whole thing. You have to report them to the police, that was ..."

The police.

"... attempted murder. Come, I'll help ..."

Oskar ignored her hand and jumped to his feet. While he was limping toward the doors, up the stairs, he could still hear the lady's voice:

"Are you sure you're alright?"

+

The cops.

Lacke winced when he walked into the courtyard and saw the patrol car parked in the corner. Two police officers were standing outside the car; one was writing something on a pad. He assumed they were after the same thing as him, but that their information source was not as good. The officers had not noticed his hesitation, so he kept going to the first entrance in the row of buildings, walked in.

None of the names on the wall told him anything, but he knew which one it was anyway. Ground floor, to the right. Next to the basement door there was a bottle of T-Rod. He stopped, looked at it as if it could give him a clue as to what he should do next.

T-Rod is flammable. Virginia went up inflames.

But the thought stopped at that point and he only felt that dry, screaming rage again, continued up the stairs. A shift had occurred.

Now his mind was clear and his body clumsy. His feet slipped on the steps and he had to steady himself with the railing in order to maneuver himself up the stairs, while his brain clearly resonated:

I go in. I find it. I drive something through its heart. Then I wait for the
cops.

In front of the door with no name plate he remained standing.
And how the hell am I going to get in.

As a kind of joke he tossed out one arm and felt the door handle. And the door opened, revealing an empty apartment. No furniture, rugs, paintings. No clothes. He licked his lips.

It's gone. There's nothing for me here. . . .

There were two more bottles of T-Ro on the floor in the hall. He tried to decide what that meant. That this creature drank... no. That...
Only means that someone has been here recently. Otherwise that bottle
back there would be gone.

Yes.

He stepped in, stopped in the hall and listened. Heard nothing. Did a quick round of the apartment, saw there were blankets hanging in the windows in several rooms, understood why. Knew he was in the right place.

Finally he ended up standing in front of the bathroom door. Pushed the door handle down. Locked. But this lock was no problem; all he needed was a screwdriver or something like that.

Again he concentrated entirely on his movements. To perform the movements. He shouldn't think beyond that. No need to. If he started thinking he would hesitate and he wasn't going to hesitate. Therefore: movements.

He pulled out the kitchen drawers, found a kitchen knife. Walked to the bathroom. Inserted the blade into the handle and turned it, clockwise. The lock gave way; he opened the door. It was pitch black in there. He groped around for a light switch, found one. Turned it on.

God help us. Damned if it isn't. . .

The knife fell out of Lacke's hand. The bathtub in front of his feet was half-filled with blood. On the bathroom floor were several large plastic jugs whose translucent plastic surfaces were smeared with red. The knife clattered against the tile floor like a little bell.

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he leaned forward to . . . to what? To . . . investigate it... or something else, something more primal; the fascination of such quantities of blood ... to dip his hand into it, to—

bathe his hands in blood.

He lowered his fingers against the still, dark surface and ... plunged in. His fingers appeared to be severed, disappeared, and with a gaping mouth he lowered his hand until it felt—

He screamed, pulled back.

He quickly drew his hand out of the bathtub and drops of blood flew in an arc around him, landing on the ceiling, walls. In a reflex motion he put his hand over his mouth. Only realized what he had done when his tongue, lips registered the sweet stickiness. He spit, dried his hands on his pants. Put the other, clean hand over his mouth.

Someone's lying... down there.

Yes. What he had felt under his fingertips had been a belly. That had yielded under the pressure of his hand, before he pulled it out. In order to stave off the feeling of revulsion, he scanned the floor, found the knife, picked it up and squeezed the shaft.

What the hell am I...

If he had been sober he would perhaps have left at this point. Left this dark pool that could be concealing just about anything under its once more still, polished mirror surface. A butchered body, for example.
The stomach is maybe. .. it mayhe is just a stomach.

But the intoxication made him merciless even to his own fear so when he saw the thin chain that led from the edge of the bathtub down into the dark liquid he stretched out his hand and pulled on it.

The plug was pulled out down there, there was a filtering, clucking sound from the pipes and a faint whirl formed on the surface. He kneeled in front of the bathtub, licked his lips. Felt the harsh taste on his tongue, spit on the floor.

The surface became gradually lower. A sharply delineated dark red edge became visible along its highest level.

It must have been here a long time.

After a minute the contours of a nose appeared at one end. At the other a set of toes that, as he watched, became two half feet. The vortex on the surface became narrower, stronger, positioned exactly between the feet.

He crept with his gaze along the child's body that was gradually being revealed on the bottom of the bath. A couple of hands, folded across the chest. Knee caps. A face. A muffled slurp as the last of the blood drained out.

The body in front of his eyes was dark red, blotchy and slimy like a newborn. It had a navel, but no genitals. A boy or a girl? It didn't matter. When he looked closely at the face with its closed eyes he recognized it only too well.

+

When Oskar tried to run, his legs froze up. Refused.

During five desperate seconds he had really believed that he was going to die. That they were prepared to push him. Now his muscles were having a hard time getting past the idea. They gave out in the passageway between the school and the gymnasium. He wanted to lie down. Tip back into those bushes, for example. The jacket and his lined pants would protect him from sharp twigs; the branches would provide gentle support. But he was in a hurry. The second hand; its staccato progress along the clock face. The school.

The red-brown sharp-edged brick facade of stone laid against stone. In his thoughts he swooped like a bird along the corridors, into the classrooms. Jonny was there. Tomas. Sat at their desks and smiled mockingly at him. He bent his head, checked his boots.