Their voices disappeared into the distance; they left him with his face in the sand. His left cheek burned. The sand was cold, soothed the heat in his legs. He wanted to put his cheek in the sand as well, but realized it wasn’t a good idea.
He lay there so long he started to get cold. Then he sat up and carefully felt his cheek. Blood came off onto his fingers.
He walked over to the outside toilets and looked in the mirror. The cheek was swollen and covered in half-congealed blood. Tomas must have struck him as hard as he could. Oskar washed his cheek and looked in the mirror again. The wound had stopped bleeding and it wasn’t deep. But it ran right across almost his entire cheek.
Mom. What do I tell her?
The truth. He needed comforting. In an hour mom would be home and then he would tell her what they had done to him and she would be completely distraught and hug him and hug him and he would sink into her arms, into her tears, and they would cry together.
Then she would call Tomas’ mom.
Then she would call Tomas’ mom and they would argue and then Mom would cry about how mean Tomas’ mom was and thenâ¦
Woodshop.
He had had an accident in woodshop. No, then maybe she would call the teacher.
Oskar studied his wound in the mirror. How did you get something like this? He had fallen off the play structure. It didn’t really work but Mom would want to believe it. She would still feel sorry for him and comfort him, but without all that other stuff. The play structure.
His pants felt cold. Oskar unbuttoned them and checked. His underpants were soaked. He took out the Pissball and rinsed it out. He was about to put it back but stopped and looked in the mirror.
Oskar. That’s⦠Oskar.
He took the rinsed Pissball and put it on his nose. Like a clown nose. The yellow ball and the red wound on his cheek. Oskar. He opened his eyes wide and tried to look crazy. Yes. Creepy. He talked to the clown in the mirror.
“It’s over now, it’s enough. Understand? This is it.”
The clown didn’t answer.
“I’m not standing for this. Not even one more time, understand?”
Oskar’s voice echoed in the empty bathroom.
“What should I do? What should I do, do you think?”
He twisted his face into a grimace until it hurt, distorted his voice by making it as raspy and low as he could. The clown spoke.
“⦠kill them⦠kill them⦠kill them.”
Oskar shivered. This was a little creepy for real. It really sounded like someone else’s voice, and the face in the mirror wasn’t his own. He took the Pissball from his nose, put it back in his pants.
The tree.
Not because he really believed in this and all⦠but he would go stab the tree. Maybe, just maybe. If he really concentrated, thenâ¦
Maybe.
Oskar picked up his bag and hurried home, filling his head with lovely images.
Tomas is sitting at his computer when he feels the first stab. Doesn’t understand where it is coming from. Staggers out into the kitchen with the blood gushing from his stomach. “Mom, Mom, someone is stabbing me.”
Tomas’ mom would just stand there. Tomas’ mom who always took his side no matter what he had done. She would just stand there. Terror stricken. While the stabs continued to puncture Tomas’ body.
He falls to the kitchen floor in a pool of blood, “Mom⦠Mom while the invisible knife cuts open his stomach so his intestines spill out onto the linoleum.
Not that it really worked that way.
But still.
***
The apartment reeked of cat piss.
Giselle lay on his lap, purring. Bibi and Beatrice were wrestling on the floor. Manfred sat in the window like usual, his nose pushed up against the windowpane, and Gustaf was trying to get Manfred’s attention by buffeting his side with his head.
Mans and Tufs and Cleopatra were relaxing in the armchair, Tufs pawing at a few loose threads. Karl-Oskar tried to jump up onto the windowsill but missed and fell backwards onto the floor. He was blind in one eye.
Lurvis was out in the hall keeping an eye on the mail slot, ready to jump if any advertising was pushed in. Vendela was resting on the hat shelf keeping an eye on Lurvis. Her deformed right front paw hung down between the wooden slats and flinched from time to time.
A couple more cats were out in the kitchen, eating or lazing around on tables and chairs. Five were sleeping on the bed in the bedroom. A few more had their favorite hideaways in closets or cupboards they had learned how to get into on their own.
After Gosta had stopped letting them out-relenting to pressure from his neighbors-no more fresh genetic material had come in. Most of the kittens born were either dead or so deformed they died a few days after birth. About half of the twenty-eight cats that lived in Gosta’s apartment had some kind of congenital defect. They were blind or deaf or were missing teeth or had motor damage.
He loved them all.
Gosta scratched Giselle behind the ear.
“Yes⦠my little darling⦠what are we going to do? You don’t know? No, neither do I. But we have to do something, don’t we? You can’t get away with something like this. It was Jocke. I knew him. And now he’s
dead. But no one else knows. Because they didn’t see what I saw. Did you see it too?”
Gosta lowered his head, whispered,
“It was a child. I saw it coming down the path. It waited for Jocke. In the underpass. He went in⦠and never came out. Then in the morning he was gone. But he’s dead. I know he is.
“What’s that?
“No, I can’t go to the police. They’re going to ask questions. There will be a lot of people and then they will ask⦠why I didn’t say anything. Shine one of those lights in my face.
“It was three days ago. Or four. I don’t know. What day is it today? They’re going to ask. I can’t do it.
“But we have to do something.
“I just don’t know what.”
Giselle looked up at him. Started to lick his hand.
***
When Oskar came home from the forest, the knife was smeared with splinters of rotten wood. He washed it under the kitchen tap, drying it off with a dishcloth that he then rinsed clean and held against his cheek.
His mom would soon be home. He had to go out again, needed a little more time-tears were still clumped in his throat, his legs ached. He took the key from the kitchen cupboard, wrote a note: Back soon, Oskar. Then he put the knife back and walked down to the basement. Unlocked the heavy door, slipped in.
The underground smell. He liked it. A reassuring blend of wood, old things, and locked-in-ness. A little light filtered in through a window at ground level and in the dim light the basement promised secrets, hidden treasure.
To his left there was an oblong section divided into four storage compartments. The walls and doors were made of wood, the doors secured with various-sized locks. One of the doors had a reinforced lock; a person who had been robbed.
On the wooden wall at the very end of the area someone had written kiss with a marker. The “S”s were formed like elongated, backward “Z”s.
But the most interesting area was to be found at the end opposite all this. The room for recycling and oversized trash. Oskar had once found a still-intact globe that now stood in his room, as well as several issues of the series The Hulk, and some other stuff.
But today there was almost nothing. It must have been emptied recently. A few newspapers, some folders with the labels “English” and “Swedish.” But Oskar had enough folders. He had scavenged a whole bunch from the container outside the printing shop a few year ago.
He walked through the basement room and out to the next stairwell in the building, Tommy’s stairwell. Continued on to that basement door, unlocked it, and walked in. This basement had a different smell: a trace of paint, or thinning solution. This basement also contained the safety shelter for the whole complex.
He had only been in once, three years ago, when some of the older guys had had a boxing club there. He had been allowed to go with Tommy and watch, one afternoon. The guys had gone after each other with boxing gloves on their hands and Oskar had been a little scared. The groaning and sweating, the tense, concentrated bodies, the sound of the blows muffled by the thick concrete walls. Then someone had gotten hurt, or something like that, and the wheels that you turned in order to pull away the fastening mechanism on the door had been blocked with chains and lock. The end of the boxing.
Oskar turned on the light and walked over to the shelter room. If the Russians were coming it would have to be unlocked.
If they hadn’t lost the key.
Oskar stood in front of the massive iron door and a thought appeared. That someone⦠someone was locked in here. That that’s what the chains and lock were for. To restrain a monster.
He listened. There were distant sounds from the street, from people’s movements in the apartments above. He really liked the basement. It was like being in another world, while knowing that the other world was still there outside, above you, if you needed it. But down here it was quiet, and no one came and said anything, did anything to you. Nothing you had to do.
Across from the safety room was the clubhouse. Forbidden territory.
Of course, they didn’t have a lock, but that didn’t mean just anyone was allowed in. He took a deep breath and opened the door.
There wasn’t much in this storage unit. Just a badly sagging couch, and an equally sagging armchair. A rug on the floor. A chest of drawers with peeling paint. A clandestine lighting arrangement had been rigged up consisting of a cord feeding from the light in the corridor connected to a single naked bulb suspended from the ceiling. It was turned off.
He had been down here a few times before and knew that all he had to do to turn it on was twist the bulb. But he didn’t dare. Enough light filtered in through the gaps between the planks to see. His heart beat faster. If they found him here they wouldâ¦
What? I don’t know. That’s what’s so horrible. Not beat me up, butâ¦
He kneeled on the rug and lifted a sofa cushion. A few tubes of glue and a roll of plastic bags, a container of lighter fluid. In the other corner of the sofa, under the seat cushion, there were porno magazines. A few well-thumbed issues of Lektyr and Fib Aktuellt.
He took one of the Lektyr and shifted closer to the door where there was more light. Still kneeling he laid the magazine out on the floor in front of him, flipped the pages. His mouth was dry. The woman in the picture lay in a deck chair wearing only a pair of high-heeled shoes. She was pushing her breasts together and pouting. Her legs were spread and in the middle of the bushy hair between her thighs there was a strip of pink flesh with a groove down the middle.
How do you get in there?
He knew the words from talk he had heard, graffiti he had read. Cunt. Hole. Labia. But it wasn’t a hole. Only that groove. They had had sex education at school and he knew there was supposed to be a⦠tunnel leading in from the vulva. But in what direction? Straight up or in or⦠you couldn’t tell.
He kept turning the pages. The readers’ own stories. At the swimming pool. A stall in the girls’ changing rooms. Her nipples stiffened under her bathing suit. My dick was thumping like a hammer in my swimming trunks. She gripped the clothes pegs, turned her little ass toward me, and moaned, “Take me, take me now.”
Did this kind of thing go on all the time, behind closed doors, in places where you couldn’t see?
He had started a new story, about a family reunion that took an unexpected turn, when he heard the basement door being opened. He shut the magazine, put it back under the sofa cushion and didn’t know what to do with himself. His throat contracted; he didn’t dare to breathe. Footsteps in the corridor.
Please God let it not be them. Let it not be them.
He squeezed his knee caps with his hands, clenched his teeth so hard he hurt his jaw. The door opened. Tommy was standing there, blinking.
“What the hell?”
Oskar wanted to say something, but his jaws were locked shut. He simply stayed where he was, kneeling on the rug of light that rolled out from the door, breathing through his nose.
“What the hell are you doing here? And what have you been up to?”
Almost without moving his jaws Oskar managed to press out a “⦠nothing.”
Tommy took a step into the storage area, towering over him.
“With your cheek, I mean? How did you get that?”
“I⦠it’s nothing.”
Tommy shook his head, screwed the light bulb so it turned on, and closed the door. Oskar got to his feet, standing in the middle of the room with his hands by his side, unsure of what he should do. He took a step toward the door. Tommy sank down in the armchair and pointed to the couch.
“Sit down.”
Oskar sat down on the middle cushion, the one that didn’t have anything stashed underneath it. Tommy sat quietly for a few moments, looking at him. Then he said: “Alright, let’s hear it.”
“What?”
“What happened to your cheek.”
“â¦I⦠I just⦔
“Someone beat you up. Right?”⦠yeahâ¦
“How come?”
“I don’t know.”
“What? They beat you up with no reason?”
“Yes.”
Tommy nodded, picked at a few loose threads that hung from the armchair. Took out a wad of chewing tobacco and tucked it into his lip, held out the jar to Oskar.
“Want some?”
Oskar shook his head. Tommy put it back, adjusted the wad of tobacco with his tongue, and then leaned back in the armchair, with his hands folded on his stomach.
“I see. And what were you doing down here?”
“Urn, I was just going to⦔
“Check out some of the babes, right? Because you aren’t into sniffing yet, are you? Come over here.”
Oskar got up, walked over to Tommy.
“Come closer. Breathe on me.”
Oskar did as he was told and Tommy nodded, pointed at the couch, and told Oskar to sit down again.
“You stay away from that shit, you understand?”
“I haven’t⦔
“No, you haven’t. But you stay the hell away, you understand? It’s no good. Tobacco is good. You can try that.” He paused. “OK, are you planning to sit there gawking at me all night?” He gestured to the cushion next to Oskar. “Want to read more?”
Oskar shook his head.
“OK, then get lost. The others are coming soon and they won’t be too pleased to see you here. Go home, go on now.”
Oskar got up.
“And Oskar⦔ Tommy looked at him, shook his head, sighed. “No, forget it. Go on home. And one more thing. Don’t come down here anymore.”
Oskar nodded, opened the door. He stopped in the doorway. Sorry.
“It’s OK. Just don’t come here anymore. Oh-you got the money yet?” tomorrow.
“Great. I made a tape for you with Destroyer and Unmasked. Come by and pick it up later.”
Oskar nodded. He felt a lump growing in his throat. If he stayed here he would start to cry. So he whispered “thanks” and left.
***
Tommy stayed in his armchair, sucked on the wad of tobacco, and stared at the dust bunnies that had collected under the couch.
Hopeless.
They would keep beating on Oskar until he finished ninth grade. He was the type. Tommy would have liked to do something but once it got started there was nothing you could do. No stopping it.
He dug a lighter out of his pocket, put it in his mouth, and let out the gas. When it started to feel cold inside his mouth he took the lighter away, lit it, and breathed out.
A burst of fire in front of his face. But he felt no happier. He was restless, got up, and walked around. The dust whirled up around his feet.
What the hell
can you do?
He paced around the small space, thinking it was a prison cell. You can’t get away. Have to make the best of it, bla bla. Blackeberg. He was going to get away from here, he was going to be⦠a sailor or something. Anything.
Swab the deck, go to Cuba, heave ho.
A broom that was almost never used was leaning up against the wall. He took it and started to sweep. Dust flew up his nose. When he had been sweeping for a while he realized he had no dustpan. He swept the dust pile under the couch.
Better to have a little shit in the corners than a clean hell.
He flipped through the pages of a porno, put it back. Wound his scarf around his neck and pulled it tight until his head felt like it was about to explode, released it. Got up and took a few steps on the rug. Sank to his knees, prayed to God.
***
Robban and Lasse came around half past five. When they walked in Tommy was relaxing in the armchair and looked like he didn’t have a care in the world. Lasse was sucking on his lips, seemed nervous. Robban grinned and thumped Lasse on the back.
“Lasse needs another tape.”
Tommy raised his eyebrows.
“Why?”
“Tell him, Lasse.”
Lasse snorted, didn’t dare look Tommy in the eyes.
“Uh⦠there’s a guy at work⦔
“Who wants to buy?”
“Mmm.”
Tommy shrugged, got up from his chair, and picked the key to the safety room out of the stuffing. Robban looked disappointed. He must have been expecting some kind of amusing scene but Tommy didn’t care. Lasse could shout out “Stolen goods for sale” from the rooftops at his job for all he cared. It didn’t matter.
Tommy pushed Robban aside and walked out into the corridor, turned the key in the lock, pulled the heavy chain out of the wheels and threw it over to Robban. The chain fell through his hands, rattling to the floor.
“What’s your problem? Are you high or what?”
Tommy shook his head, turned the wheel mechanism, and pushed the door open. The fluorescent lighting inside was broken, but there was enough light from the corridor to see the boxes piled up along one wall. Tommy picked up a carton of cassette tapes and gave it to Lasse.
Let The Right One In aka Let Me In Page 10
