‘Matt, or metallic?’
The man looked at Oskar, who felt how his whole face was a warning sign on which it was written ‘Here Is a Thief’. In order not to draw attention to his red cheeks he bent over the tins, said, ‘Metallic…that one looks fine.’
He had twenty kronor. The paint cost nineteen. He got it in a little bag that he scrunched into his coat pocket so as not to open his schoolbag.
The kick came as usual when he was outside the store, but it was bigger than normal. He trotted away from the store like a newly freed slave, just released from his chains. Could not help but run to the car park and with two cars shielding him carefully opened the packaging, took out the cube.
It was much heavier than the imitation he owned. The sections slid smoothly as if on ball bearings. Perhaps they were ball bearings? Well, he wasn’t planning to take it apart and examine it, risk destroying it.
The box was an ugly thing made of transparent plastic now that the cube was no longer in it, and he threw it into a rubbish bin. The cube looked better without it. He put it in his coat pocket to be able to caress it, feel its weight in his hand. It was a good present, a great…goodbye present.
In the entrance to the subway station he stopped.
If Eli thinks…that I…
Yes. That he, by giving Eli a present somehow accepted the fact that Eli was leaving. Give a goodbye present, over and done with. Goodbye, goodbye. But that wasn’t how it was. He absolutely didn’t want…
His gaze swept across the station, stopped at the kiosk. At the rack of newspapers. The Expressen paper. The whole first page was a picture of the old guy who had lived with Eli.
Oskar walked over and flipped through the paper. Five pages were devoted to the search in Judarn forest…the Ritual Killer… background and then yet another page where the photo was printed. Håkan Bengtsson…Karlstad…unknown whereabouts for eight months…police turning to the public…if anyone has observed…
Anxiety dug its claws into Oskar.
Someone else who might have seen him, known where he lived…
The kiosk lady leaned out through her window.
‘Are you buying it or not?’
Oskar shook his head, tossed the paper back into its place. Then he ran. It was only once he was down on the platform that he remembered he hadn’t shown his ticket to the ticket collector. He stomped his feet on the ground, sucked on his knuckles, his eyes welled with tears.
Come on, please, subway train, come on…
Lacke half-lay on the sofa, squinting at the balcony where Morgan was trying to coax over a bird that was sitting on the railing— without result. The setting sun, exactly behind Morgan’s head, spread a halo of light around his hair.
‘Come on…come, come. I won’t bite.’
Larry was sitting in an armchair, half-watching a public education course in Spanish. Stiff people in obviously rehearsed situations walked across the screen, said: ‘Yo tengo un bolso.’
‘Qué hay en el bolso?’
Morgan bent his head so Lacke got the sun in his eyes, and closed them while he heard Larry mutter: ‘Ke haj en el bålså.’
The apartment reeked of stale cigarette smoke and dust. The bottle was empty, lying on the coffee table next to an overflowing ashtray. Lacke stared at a couple of burn marks on the table left after carelessly extinguished cigarettes; they slid around before his eyes like meek beetles.
‘Ona kamisa y pantalånes.’
Larry chuckled to himself.
‘…pantalånes.’
They had not believed him. Or rather, yes, they had believed him but refused to interpret the events in the way that he did. ‘Spontaneous combustion’ Larry had said, and Morgan had asked him to spell it.
Except for the fact that the case for spontaneous combustion is about as well-documented and scientifically proven as vampires. That is to say, not at all.
But of two equally implausible scenarios you probably choose to believe the one that demands the least amount of action on your part. They were not going to help him. Morgan had listened seriously to Lacke’s account of what happened at the hospital, but when he got to the part about destroying the cause of all this, he had said, ‘So, you mean we should become…vampire killers. You and me and Larry. With stakes and crosses and…No, sorry, Lacke, but I’m having a little trouble seeing it, is all.’
Lacke’s immediate thought when he saw their disbelieving, dismissive faces had been, Virginia would have believed me.
And the pain had sunk its claws into him again. He was the one who had not believed in Virginia and that was why…he would rather have spent a couple of years in jail for mercy killing than have to live with the image he had seared on his retina.
Her body writhing in the bed as her skin blackens, starts to smoke. The hospital gown that rides up over her stomach, revealing her genitals. The rattle of the metal bed frame as her hips move, heaving up and down in infernal copulation with an invisible being as flames appear on her thighs, she screams, she screams and the stench of singed hair fills the room, her terrified eyes on mine and one second later they whiten, start to boil…burst…
Lacke had drunk more than half the contents of the bottle. Morgan and Larry had let him.
‘…pantalånes.’
Lacke tried to get up off the couch. The back of his head weighed as much as the rest of his body. He steadied himself against the table, heaved himself up. Larry stood up to give him a hand.
‘Lacke, damn it…sleep a while.’
‘No, I have to get home.’
‘What do you have to do there?’
‘I just have to…do something.’
‘But it’s nothing to do with…the stuff we were talking about, is it?’
‘No, no.’
Morgan came in from the balcony while Lacke was teetering out towards the hall.
‘Hey you! Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Home.’
‘Then I’ll walk you there.’
Lacke turned around, making an effort to shore himself up, appear as sober as possible. Morgan walked over to him, his hands out in case Lacke fell. Lacke shook his head, patted Morgan on the shoulder.
‘I want to be alone, OK? I want to be alone. That’s all.’
‘Are you sure you can make it?’
‘I’ll manage.’
Lacke nodded a few more times, got hung up on this movement and had to consciously put an end to it so he wouldn’t be stuck standing there, then turned and walked out into the hall, pulling on his coat and shoes.
He knew he was very drunk, but he had experienced this state so many times that he knew how to unhook his movements from his brain, perform them mechanically. He would have been able to play pick-up-sticks without his hands trembling, at least for a short while.
He heard the others from inside the apartment.
‘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.
‘You’re not going to do anything stupid now are you?’ he said. ‘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 against the window, was talking to the owner. Lacke saw a black lump fall from the sky, attach itself to the person’s back and…
What the hell…
&n
bsp; He stopped in front of the rows of headlines, blinked, tried to focus properly on the photo that filled the available space. The Ritual Killer. Lacke snorted. He knew better. What this was actually about. But…
He recognised that face. It was…
At the Chinese restaurant. The man who…bought him the whisky. Could it…
He took a step forward, looked at the picture more closely. Yes. It was. The same close-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.
‘Yes…’ Lacke said and started to walk again, towards 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; the lead weight that beat against his chest, made him tremble, resolve thundering through his body.
Here I come. By Jove…here I come.
The subway train stopped at Råcksta 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 bathroom.
The train rattled across the bridge and Oskar looked out the window. Two men were standing down at the Lovers’ Kiosk and half-covered by one of the men Oskar could still discern the row of hateful, front-page headlines blown up and printed on yellow flyers. The other man walked quickly away from the kiosk.
Anyone. Anyone can recognise 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 opened 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 Oskar 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.’
‘Okey-dokey.’
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 towards 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 to the tracks.
Some hair on his left temple was tickling his face, 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 mind went completely still: they’re really going to do it. They pushed him 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.
BAAAAAAAAAAH!
The train’s signal sounded and Oskar’s heart leaped in its death throes 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 centimetres 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. ‘He was better at it before,’ Tomas said.
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 still limping towards the doors, up the stairs, he could still hear the lady’s voice: ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
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 himself, 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 where to go anyway. Ground floor, to the right. Next to the basement door there was a bottle of T-red. He stopped, looked at it as if it could give him a clue as to what he should do next.
T-red is flammable. Virginia went up in flames.
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 to manoeuvre 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.
He stood in front of the door with no nameplate.
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-red 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 stood 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 for the light switch, found it. 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 realised what he had done when his tongue, lips registered the sweet stickiness. He spat, dried his hand on his pants. Put the other, clean hand over his mouth.
Let the Right One In Page 44
