Suicide would make no difference.
The only thing the infection seemed to fear was sunlight. The pale light on her hand had hurt more than the deepest cut.
For a long time she sat curled up in a corner of the living room, watching how the dawn light through the slats of the blinds laid a grate over the soiled rug. Thought about her grandson Ted. How he had crawled over to that place where the afternoon sun shone in onto the floor and fallen asleep in the pool of sunlight with his thumb in his mouth.
The naked, soft skin, the tender skin that you would only have to…
WHAT AM I THINKING!
Virginia flinched, staring vacantly into space. She had seen Ted, and she had imagined that she…
NO!
She hit herself in the head. Hit and hit until the picture was crushed. But she would never see him again. Could never see anyone she loved ever again.
I am never again to see anyone I love.
Virginia forced her body to straighten up, crawled slowly over to the sun-grate. The infection protested and wanted to pull her back, but she was stronger, still had control over her own body. The light stung her eyes, the bars of the grate burned her cornea like glowing-hot steel wire.
Burn! Burn up!
Her right arm was covered in scars, dried blood. She stretched it into the light.
She could not have imagined it.
What the light had done to her on Saturday was a caress. Now a blowtorch started up, directed at her skin. After one second the skin was chalk-white. After two seconds it started to smoke. After three seconds a blister formed, blackened and burst with a hiss. The fourth second she pulled her arm back and crawled sobbing into the bedroom.
The stench of burnt flesh poisoned the air, she didn’t dare look at her arm as she slithered up into her bed.
Rest.
But the bed…
Even with the blinds drawn there was too much light in the bedroom. Even if she pulled the covers over her she felt too exposed on the bed. Her ears perceived every smallest morning noise coming from the apartments around her, and every noise was a potential threat. Someone walked over a floor above her. She flinched, turned her head in the direction of the sound, listened. A drawer was pulled out, the clinking of metal one floor up.
Coffee spoons.
She knew from the delicateness of the sound that it was…coffee spoons. Saw before her the velvet-clad case with silver coffee spoons that had been her grandmother’s and that she had been given by her mother when she moved into the nursing home. How she had opened that case, looked at the spoons and realised that they had never been used.
Virginia thought about that now as she slid down out of bed, pulled the covers off with her, crawled over to the double closet, opened its doors. On the floor of the closet there was an extra duvet and a couple of blankets.
She had felt a kind of sadness, looking at the spoons. Spoons that had been lying in their case for perhaps sixty years without anyone ever picking them up, holding them, using them.
More sounds around her, the building coming to life. She didn’t hear them any more when she pulled out the duvet and the blankets and wrapped them around her, crawled into the closet and shut the doors. It was pitch-black in there. She pulled the duvets and blankets over her head, curling up like a caterpillar in a double cocoon.
Never ever.
On parade, standing at attention in their velvet bed, waiting. Fragile little coffee spoons of silver. She rolled over with the fabric of the blankets tight over her face.
Who will get them now?
Her daughter. Yes. Lena would get them, and she would use them to feed Ted. Then the spoons would be happy. Ted would eat mashed potatoes from the spoons. That would be good.
She lay completely still like a stone, calm spreading through her body. She had time to formulate one last thought before she sank into rest. Why isn’t it hot?
With the blankets over her face, wrapped in heavy cloth it should be hot and sweaty around her head. The question floated sleepily around a large black room, finally landing on a very simple answer.
Because I have not been breathing for several minutes.
And not even now when she was conscious of the fact did she feel any need to. No feeling of suffocation, no lack of oxygen. She didn’t need to breathe any more. That was all.
The mass started at eleven o’clock but Tommy and Yvonne were already on the platform in Blackeberg at a quarter past ten, waiting for the subway.
Staffan, who was singing in the choir, had already told Yvonne what the theme of today’s mass was going to be. Yvonne mentioned it to Tommy, cautiously asking if he wanted to go, and to her surprise he had accepted.
The theme was about the youth of today.
Taking their starting point from a place in the Old Testament that described the Israelites’ exodus from Egypt, the ministers had— with Staffan’s help—crafted a series of texts around the idea of guiding stars. Something a young person in today’s society could, so to speak, hold up before him, something he could use to guide him through his desert wanderings, and so forth.
Tommy had read this particular passage in the Bible and then said he was happy to attend.
So when the subway came thundering out of the tunnel from Iceland Square this morning, propelling a pillar of air in front of it that caused Yvonne’s hair to fly around, she was completely happy. She looked at her son who was standing next to her with his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his jacket.
It’s going to be all right.
Yes. Simply the fact that he was willing to come to church with her was big enough. But this also meant that he had accepted Staffan, didn’t it?
They got on the subway car and sat down next to an old man, across from each other. Before they got on the train they had been talking about what they had heard on the radio this morning; the search for the ritual killer in the Judarn forest. Yvonne leaned forward to Tommy.
‘Do you think they’re going to catch him?’
Tommy shrugged.
‘Probably. But it’s a big forest and all that…have to ask Staffan.’
‘I just think the whole thing is so horrible. What if he comes here?’
‘What would he do here? But, sure. What’s he going to do in Judarn? He might as well come here.’
‘Ugh.’
The older man stretched, made a movement like he was shaking something off his shoulders, said, ‘You have to ask yourself if someone like that is even human.’
Tommy looked up at the man, Yvonne said: ‘Hm,’ and smiled at him, which the man clearly took as encouragement.
‘I mean…first those terrible…deeds, and then…in that condition, a fall of that magnitude. No, I tell you, he can’t be human, and I hope the police shoot him on sight.’
Tommy nodded, pretending to agree.
‘Hang him in the nearest tree.’
The man was getting excited.
‘Exactly. That’s what I’ve been saying this whole time. They should have given him a lethal injection or something while he was in the hospital, like you do with crazy dogs. Then we wouldn’t have to be sitting here in a state of constant terror and be witness to this panicky search paid for with taxpayers’ money. A helicopter. Yes, I went by it on the train right by Åkeshov and they had a helicopter up there. Oh, they can afford that all right. But when it comes to paying out pensions large enough to live on, after a lifetime of service to society, that they can’t do. But to send a helicopter up there circling around, scaring the animals out of their wits…’
The monologue continued all the way to Vällingby where Yvonne and Tommy got off, while the man stayed on. The train was going to turn here, so he was probably going back the way he came to get yet another glimpse of the helicopter, maybe continue his monologue with a new audience.
Staffan was waiting for them outside the brick heap that was the St Thomas church.
He was wearing a suit and a pale yellow-striped tie that made Tommy
think of the picture from the war: ‘A Swedish Tiger’. Staffan’s face lit up when he saw them and walked forward to greet them. He embraced Yvonne and held his hand out to Tommy, who shook it.
‘I’m so glad both of you wanted to come. Especially you, Tommy. What made you decide?’
‘I just wanted to see what it was like.’
‘Mmm. Well, I hope you like it. That we’ll get to see you here again.’
Yvonne stroked Tommy’s shoulder.
‘He read that part in the Bible…the passage you’re going to be talking about.’
‘Has he, indeed? Well, that’s very impressive. By the way, Tommy, I haven’t found that trophy yet. But…I think maybe we should just write it off, what do you say?’
‘Mmm.’
Staffan waited for Tommy to say something but when he didn’t, turned back to Yvonne.
‘I should be out in Åkeshov right now, but…I didn’t want to miss this. But as soon as it’s over I’ll have to go, so we’ll have to…’
Tommy walked into the church.
There were only a few older people with their backs to him sitting in the pews. To judge by their hats they were all old ladies.
The church was lit up by a yellow light coming from lamps that were suspended along either wall. In the walkway down between the pews was a red carpet woven with geometric figures, which went up to the altar; a stone bench with some flower arrangements. Above all that there was a large wooden cross with a modernist Jesus. His facial expression could easily be interpreted as a taunting smile.
At the very back of the church, by the entrance where Tommy was, there was a stand with brochures, a box to put money in and a christening font. Tommy walked up to the font and looked in.
Perfect.
When he first saw it he thought it looked too good to be true; that it was probably filled with water. But it wasn’t. The whole christening font was carved out of one large piece of stone, that reached up to Tommy’s waist. The bowl part was dark grey, had a rough surface and not a single drop of water in it.
OK, let’s do it.
He pulled out a two-litre plastic bag from his pocket, filled with a white powder. Looked around. No one even looking in his direction. He made a hole in the bag with his finger and let its contents pour into the christening font.
Then he tucked the empty bag in his pocket and walked back out, while he tried to figure out a good explanation for why he didn’t want to sit up next to his mum in church, why he wanted to sit way back, next to the christening font.
Could say he wanted to be able to leave without disturbing anyone, if it got too boring. That was good. That sounded…
Perfect.
Oskar opened his eyes and was filled with anxiety. He didn’t know where he was. The room around him was only dimly lit and he didn’t recognise the bare walls.
He was lying on a couch, a blanket pulled over him that smelled a little.
The walls floated in front of his eyes, swimming freely in the air while he tried to put them in their place, organise them so they made a room he recognised. He couldn’t.
He pulled the blanket up to his nose. A mildewy smell filled his nostrils and he tried to calm down, stop working on the room and remember instead.
Yes, now he remembered.
Dad. Janne. Hitching a ride. Eli. The couch. Cobwebs.
He stared up at the ceiling. The dusty cobwebs were still up there, hard to discern in the half-light. He had fallen asleep with Eli next to him on the couch. How long ago was that? Was it morning?
The windows were covered in blankets, but in the corners he could make out a faint outline of grey light. He pulled off the blanket and walked over to the balcony window, lifted the corner of the blanket. The blinds were drawn. He angled them open and yes, it was morning out there.
His head ached and the light stung his eyes. He drew his breath in sharply, dropped the blanket and felt his neck with both hands. No. Of course not. She had said she would never…
But where is she?
He looked around; his eyes stopped at the closed door to the room where Eli had changed her shirt. He took a few steps towards the door, stopped himself. The door lay in shadow. He balled his hands up, sucked on a knuckle.
What if she really…sleeps in a coffin.
Silly. Why would she do that? Why do vampires do that anyway? Because they’re dead. And Eli said she wasn’t…
But what if…
He sucked on his knuckle, ran his tongue over it. Her kiss. The table with food. Just the fact that she could do that. And…her teeth. A predator’s teeth.
If only it wasn’t so dark in here.
The switch for the overhead lamp was next to the door. He pushed on it, thinking nothing would happen, but yes, it went on. He screwed up his eyes in the strong light, let his eyes get used to it before he turned to the door, rested his hand on the door handle.
The light didn’t help at all. In fact it was only more horrible now that the door was only a normal door. Like the door to his own room. Exactly the same. The door handle felt the same. What if she was lying in there? Maybe her arms neatly folded across her chest.
I have to look.
He pushed the handle down, tentatively; it only offered light resistance. The door must not be locked, then it would only have glided down. He pushed it down all the way and the door opened, the gap widened. The room inside was dark.
Wait!
Would she be hurt by the light if he opened the door?
No, yesterday she had sat next to the floor lamp without it seeming to bother her. But the overhead light was stronger and perhaps there was a…special kind of bulb in the floor lamp, a light that…vampires could withstand.
Ridiculous. ‘The specialty store for vampire lamps.’
And why would she have let the overhead light remain in place if it could be…harmful to her?
Even so he opened the door cautiously, allowing the cone of light to slowly widen into the room. It was as sparsely furnished as the living room. A bed and a pile of clothes, nothing more. The bed only had a sheet and a pillow. The blanket he had slept with on the couch must have come from there. There was a note taped to the wall next to the bed.
The Morse code.
So it was here she had been lying when she…
He drew a deep breath. He had managed to forget it.
My room is on the other side of this wall.
Yes, he was two metres from his own bed, from his own normal life.
He lay on the bed, had the impulse to tap out a message on the wall. To Oskar. On the other side. What should he say?
W.H.E.R.E. A.R.E. Y.O.U.
He sucked on his knuckle again. He was here. It was Eli who was gone.
He felt dizzy, confused. Let his head flop down onto the pillow, his face turned out facing the room. The pillow smelled funny. Like the blanket, but stronger. A stale, greasy smell. He looked at the pile of clothes near the bed.
It’s so repulsive.
He didn’t want to be here any more. It was completely quiet and empty in the apartment, and everything was so…abnormal. His gaze travelled over the pile of clothes, stopped at the closets that covered the whole length of the opposite wall, all the way to the door. Two double closets, one single.
There.
He pulled his legs up against his stomach, staring at the closed closet doors. He didn’t want to. His stomach hurt. A shooting pain in his lower belly.
Had to pee.
He stood up from the bed, walked to the door with his eyes glued to the closet doors. He had the same kind of closets in his room and knew she could easily fit inside. That’s where she was and he didn’t want to see any more.
Even the light in the hall worked. He turned it on and walked along the short hallway to the bathroom. The door to the bathroom was locked. The coloured strip above the handle was red. He knocked on the door.
‘Eli?’
Not a sound. He knocked again.
‘Eli? Are y
ou in there?’
Nothing. But when he said her name aloud he remembered that it was wrong. That was the last thing she had said as they lay together on the couch. That her real name was…Elias. Elias. A boy’s name. Was Eli a boy? They had…kissed and slept in the same bed and…
Oskar pressed his hands against the bathroom door, rested his forehead against his hands. He tried to think. Hard. And he didn’t get it. That he could somehow accept that she was a vampire, but the idea that she was somehow a boy, that that could be…harder.
He knew the word. Fag. Fucking fag. Stuff that Jonny said. To think it was worse to be gay than to be a…
He knocked on the door again.
‘Elias?’
A weird feeling in his stomach as he said it. No, he wasn’t going to get used to it. She…His name was Eli. But it was too much. Regardless of what Eli was, it was too much. He just couldn’t. Nothing about her was normal.
He lifted his forehead from his hands, held the pee back firmly.
Steps outside in the stairwell and shortly thereafter a sound of the letter slot opening, a thud. He walked out there and looked at what it was. Advertising.
Ground beef. 14.90 per kilo.
Garish red letters and numbers. He picked up the advertisements in his hand with dawning comprehension; pressed his eyes against the keyhole while footsteps echoed in the stairwell; more bangs as additional letter slots were opened and shut.
After half a minute his mum passed, on her way down. He only managed to catch a glimpse of her hair, the collar of her coat, but he knew it was her. Who else would it be?
Delivering the advertising packets in his absence.
With the flyers clenched in his hand Oskar sank down into a crouch by the front door, leaned his forehead against his knees. He didn’t cry. The need to pee was like a stinging nest of ants in his groin that in some way prevented him.
But the thought ran through his head over and over:
I don’t exist. I don’t exist.
Lacke had spent the night worrying. Ever since he left Virginia a sneaking anxiety had been gnawing a hole in his stomach. He had spent about an hour with the regulars at the Chinese restaurant on Saturday night, trying to share his concerns but the others wanted none of it. Lacke had sensed things could get out of hand, that there was a danger he would get really ticked off, so he left.
Let the Right One In Page 31
