Let The Right One In aka Let Me In

by John Ajvide Lindqvist

  Larry waved to him. “Gosta! Come sit down!”

  Morgan turned his head, checked him out, and said, “Oh, shit.”

  Gosta maneuvered himself over to their table as if traversing a minefield. Larry pulled out the chair next to him, made an inviting gesture.

  “Welcome to the club.”

  Gosta didn’t seem to hear him, but shuffled over to the chair. He was dressed in a worn suit with a waistcoat and bow tie, his hair combed flat with water. And he stank. Piss and piss and more piss. Even when you sat with him outside you could smell it, but it was bearable. Inside in the warmth, the stench of old urine was so overpowering you had to breathe through your mouth to stand it.

  All of the guys, even Morgan, made an effort not to show on their

  faces what they felt. The waiter approached their table, stopped short when he caught a whiff of Gosta, and said:

  “Can I… get you anything?”

  Gosta shook his head, but without looking at the waiter. The waiter frowned and Larry signaled, “It’s OK, we’ll take care of it.” The waiter left and Larry put his hand on Gosta’s shoulder.

  “So to what do we owe this honor?”

  Gosta cleared his throat and with his gaze directed at the floor he said, “Jocke.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Larry heard Lacke catch his breath. He kept his hand on Gosta’s shoulder, encouraging. Felt it was needed.

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw it. When it happened. When he was killed.”

  “When?”

  “Last Saturday. Night.”

  Larry removed his hand. “Last Saturday? But… have you talked to the cops?”

  Gosta shook his head.

  “I haven’t been able to make myself. And I… didn’t exactly see it. But I know.”

  Lacke had his hands over his face, whispering, “I knew it. I knew it.”

  Gosta told his story. The child who had taken out the streetlight nearest the underpass by throwing a rock at it, then hidden inside and waited. Jocke, who had gone in and never come out again. The faint imprint of a body in the dead leaves the following morning.

  When he was done, the waiter had for some time been making angry gestures at Larry, pointing at Gosta and then at the door. Larry put his hand on Gosta’s arm.

  “What do you say. Shall we go have a look?”

  Gosta nodded and they stood up. Morgan downed the last of his beer, grinning at Karlsson, who took the newspaper, folded it, and slid it into his coat pocket like he always did, the cheap bastard.

  Only Lacke was still sitting at the table, fiddling with some broken toothpicks. Larry bent down.

  “Coming?”

  “I knew it. I felt it.”

  “Yes. Aren’t you going to come along?”

  “Yes, of course. You go ahead. I’m coming.”

  Gosta calmed down when they were out in the cool evening air. He started walking so quickly that Larry had to ask him to slow down, his heart couldn’t take it. Karlsson and Morgan walked side by side behind them, Morgan waiting for Karlsson to say something stupid that he could jump all over. That would feel good. But even Karlsson seemed absorbed by his thoughts.

  The broken streetlight had been replaced and it was surprisingly light in the underpass. They stood grouped around Gosta, who pointed to the piles of dead leaves and talked. They stamped their feet to stay warm. Bad circulation. It echoed under the bridge like a marching army. When Gosta had finished Karlsson said:

  “But you have no proof of any kind, do you?”

  This was the kind of thing Morgan had been waiting for.

  “You heard what he said, man, do you think he’s making it all up?”

  “No,” Karlsson said, as if talking to a child, “but I don’t think the police are going to be as prepared to believe his story as much as we do if there’s no evidence to back it up.”

  “He’s a witness for godssake.”

  “You think that’s enough?”

  Larry waved his hand at the piles of leaves.

  “The question is where his body is now, if we assume it happened like this.”

  Lacke came walking along the footpath, walked up to Gosta, and pointed to the ground.

  “There?”

  Gosta nodded. Lacke pushed his hands into his pockets and stood there for a long time staring at the irregular arrangement of leaves as if it were all a gigantic puzzle he had to solve. His jaw clenched, relaxed, then clenched again.

  “Well, what do you say?”

  Larry took a few steps toward him.

  “I’m sorry, Lacke.”

  Lacke waved his hand defensively, kept Larry at a distance.

  “What do you say? Are we gonna get the guy who did this or not?”

  The others looked anywhere but at Lacke. Larry was about to say something, that it was going to be difficult, probably impossible, but stopped himself. Finally Morgan cleared his throat, went over to Lacke, and put an arm around his shoulders.

  “We’ll get him, Lacke. Of course we will.”

  ***

  Tommy looked out over the railing, thought he caught a glimpse of shiny metal down there. Looked like one of those things Huey, Dewey, and Louie came home with after their competitions.

  “What are you thinking about?” his mom asked.

  “Donald Duck.”

  “You don’t like Staffan so much, do you?”

  “It’s OK, Mom.”

  “Is it?”

  Tommy looked out toward the center of town. Saw the large red V in the neon sign that slowly rotated high above everything. Vallingby. Victory.

  “Has he shown you his pistols?” he asked.

  “Why do you want to know something like that?”

  “Just wondering. Has he?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s not that hard, Mom. Has he opened the safe, taken out the guns, and shown them to you?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “When did he do it?”

  His mom brushed something from her blouse, then rubbed her arms.

  “I’m cold,” she said.

  “Do you think about Dad?”

  “Yes, of course I do. All the time.”

  “All the time?”

  His mom sighed, bending over a little to be able to look him in the eye.

  “What are you implying?”

  “What are you implying?”

  Tommy’s hand was on the railing; she put hers on top. “Will you come with me to see Dad tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, it’s All Saints or something.”

  “That’s the day after. And yes, I will.”

  “Tommy.”

  She peeled his hands from the railing, turned him toward her. Hugged him. He stood there stiffly for a moment, then freed himself and walked back in.

  While he was putting his coat on he realized he needed his mom to come back inside if he was going to be able to go look for the statuette. He called out to her and she quickly came back in, hungry for words.

  “Yeah,… uh, give my regards to Staffan.”

  She lit up.

  “I will. You’re not staying?”

  “No, I… it could take all night.”

  “Yes, I’m a little worried.”

  “You shouldn’t be. He knows how to shoot. Bye.”

  “Good-bye…”

  The front door slammed shut.

  “… honey.”

  ***

  There was a muffled bang from deep inside the Volvo as Staffan drove it up over the curb at high speed. His upper and lower teeth slammed together with such force it almost sounded like a bell rang out in his head. He went blind for a second and almost ran over an older man who was about to join the group of onlookers that had gathered around the police car by the main entrance.

  Larsson, a new police recruit, was in the patrol car talking on the radio. Probably calling for backu
p or an ambulance. Staffan drove up behind the patrol car in order to leave clearance for any other vehicles that might be on their way, jumped out and locked his car. He always locked his car, even if he was only going to be gone for a minute. Not because he was afraid it would get stolen but in order to keep the habit alive, so he would never forget to lock a patrol car for godssake.

  He walked up the steps to the main entrance and made an effort to walk with authority in front of his onlookers; he knew he had an appearance that inspired confidence, at least with most people. Many of the people who were gathered probably saw him and thought: “Aha, here comes the guy who’s going to clear up this whole thing.”

  Shortly inside the front doors there were four men in swimming trunks with towels wrapped around their shoulders. Staffan walked past them, toward the changing rooms, but one of the men called out, “Hello, excuse me,” and ran over to him in bare feet.

  “Yes, sorry, but… our clothes.”

  “What about them?”

  “When can we get them?”

  “Your clothes?”

  “Yes, they’re still in the changing rooms and we’re not allowed in there.”

  Staffan opened his mouth and was about to say something sharp about the fact that their clothes were hardly the highest priority right now, but just then a woman in a white T-shirt came walking toward the men with a bunch of white robes in her arms. Staffan gestured to her and then continued on his way.

  In the corridor he met another woman in a white T-shirt walking a boy of twelve or thirteen toward the entrance. The boy’s face was a deep red against the white robe he was wrapped in; his eyes were devoid of expression. The woman turned to Staffan with a look that was almost accusatory.

  “His mother’s coming to pick him up.”

  Staffan nodded. Was this boy… the victim? He had wanted to ask this, but in his haste couldn’t think of a reasonable way to put the question. Had to assume Holmberg had taken the boy’s name and other information, judged it best to let his mother come in and take over, accompanying him to the ambulance, crisis intervention, therapy.

  Protect these Thy smallest.

  Staffan kept going down the corridor, ran up the steps while inside his head he recited a prayer of thanks for the Lord’s mercy and for strength to meet the challenges ahead.

  Was the murderer really still in the building?

  Outside the changing rooms, under a sign with the single word men, there were, appropriately enough, three men talking to constable Holmberg. Only one of the three was fully dressed. The other two both lacked some item of clothing: one had no pants, the other had no shirt.

  “I’m glad you got down here so fast,” Holmberg said.

  “Is he still here?”

  Holmberg pointed at the changing room door.

  “In there.”

  Staffan gestured at the three men.

  “Are they?…”

  Before Holmberg had time to say anything, the man without pants on took a half step forward and said-not without some pride-“We’re witnesses.”

  Staffan nodded and looked inquiringly at Holmberg.

  “Shouldn’t they?…”

  “Yes, but I thought I’d wait until you got down here. Apparently he’s not violent.” Holmberg turned kindly to the men and said, “We’ll be in touch. The best thing you can do now is go home. Oh, and one more thing. I understand this may not be easy but try not to discuss this among yourselves.”

  The man without pants on half-smiled, nodding in agreement.

  “Someone could overhear us, you mean.”

  “No, but you could start to imagine that you have seen something that you didn’t really see, only because someone else did.”

  “Not me. I saw what I saw and it was the most hellish…”

  “Believe me. It happens to the best of us. And now you’ll have to excuse us. Thank you for you help.”

  The men walked off down the corridor, mumbling. Holmberg was good at this kind of thing. Talking to people. That was what he did most. Went around in schools and talked drugs and police work. Wasn’t pulled into this kind of thing very often nowadays.

  A metallic noise, as if a sheet of metal had fallen to the ground, came from inside the changing room. Staffan flinched and listened intently.

  “Not violent, you said?”

  “Badly injured, apparently. Poured some kind of acid onto his face.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  Holmberg’s face became blank; he turned to the door.

  “I guess we’ll have to go in and ask.”

  “Armed?”

  “Probably not.”

  Holmberg pointed to a large kitchen knife with a wooden handle on a nearby window ledge.

  “I didn’t have a bag on me. And anyway the guy without pants had managed to stand there handling it for a while before I came. We’ll have to deal with it later.”

  “Are we just going to let it stay there?”

  “Got a better idea?”

  Staffan shook his head and in the ensuing silence he perceived two different things. A soft, irregular blowing sound coming from inside the changing room. Wind whistling through a chimney. A cracked flue. That, and a smell. Something that he had at first assumed to be a part of the ubiquitous chlorine scent that permeated the whole building. But this was different. A sharp, stinging smell in his nostrils. Staffan wrinkled his nose.

  “Should we?…”

  Holmberg nodded but didn’t make a move. Married, with children. Sure. Staffan pulled his gun from the holster, let his other hand rest on the door handle. It was the third time in his twelve years of service that he was entering a room with his weapon drawn. Didn’t know if he was doing the right thing but no one would be likely to criticize him. A child killer. Cornered, perhaps desperate, no matter how injured.

  He gave Holmberg a sign and opened the door.

  The fumes overwhelmed him.

  They stung so much his eyes started to water. He coughed. Took a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it over his nose and mouth. A few times when he had been assisting the fire department at a fire he had experienced something similar. But here there was no smoke, only a light mist suspended in the air.

  Good God, what is this?

  The repetitive, hacking sound could still be heard from the other side of the row of changing lockers in front of them. Staffan signalled for Holmberg to go around the lockers from the other side so they would be approaching from two directions. Staffan went up to the edge of the locker row and peeked around the corner with his gun held down along his side.

  He saw a metal trash can kicked over on its side and next to it a prone, naked body.

  Holmberg appeared on the other side, signalled to Staffan to take it easy, there didn’t appear to be any immediate danger. Staffan felt a twinge of irritation that Holmberg was trying to take over command of the situation now that it didn’t appear dangerous any longer. He breathed in through his handkerchief, took it away from his mouth, and said loudly,

  “This is the police. Can you hear me?”

  The man on the floor gave no sign of comprehension, just kept on making that repeptitive noise with his face turned down into the ground. Staffan took a few steps forward.

  “Put your hands where I can see them.”

  The man didn’t move. But now that Staffan was closer he could see that the body was twitching all over. That part about the hands was unnecessary. One arm lay curled over the trash can, the other sprawled over the floor. The palms were swollen and cracked.

  Acid… what does he look like…

  Staffan held the handkerchief in front of his mouth again and walked up to the man while putting his gun back in his holster, trusting the fact that Holmberg would cover him if something happened.

  The body twitched spasmodically and produced a soft smacking sound every time bare skin pulled free from the tile and then reattached itself. The hand lying on the floor flopped around like a flound
er on a rock. And all the time this sound issued from the mouth, directed into the floor,

  “… eeiiieeeeiii…”

  Staffan indicated to Holmberg to keep his distance, and crouched down next to the body.

  “Can you hear me?”

  The man stopped making noise. Suddenly the whole body writhed spasmodically and rolled over.

  His face.

  Staffan jumped back, lost his balance, and landed on his tailbone. He clenched his teeth not to cry out when the pain fanned out into his lower back. He squeezed his eyes shut. Opened them again.

  He has no face.

  Staffan had once seen a drug addict who, during a hallucination, had repeatedly smashed his face against a wall. He had seen a man who had welded near a gas tank without emptying it first. It had exploded into his face.

  But nothing approached this.

  The man’s nose had completely burned away leaving only two holes in his head. The mouth had melted together, the lips sealed with the exception of a small opening in one corner. One eye had melted down over what had been his cheek, but the other… the other was wide open.

  Staffan stared into that eye, the only thing that was still recognizeably human in this unshapely mass. The eye was red and when it tried to blink there was only a thread of skin that fluttered down and up again.

  Where the rest of the face should have been there were only pieces of cartilage and bone sticking out between irregular shreds of flesh and blackened slivers of fabric. The naked, glistening muscles contracted and relaxed, contorting as if the head had been replaced by a mass of freshly killed and butchered eels.

  The whole face, what had been the face, had its own life.

  Staffan felt a retching in his throat and would probably have thrown up if his own body had not been so preoccupied with pumping pain into his lower back. Slowly he pulled his legs back in under him, stood up, leaning on the lockers for support. The red eye stared at him the whole time.

  “What the…”

  Holmberg stood with hanging arms and stared at the deformed body on the floor. It wasn’t just the face. The acid had also run down onto the chest. The skin over the collarbone on one side was gone and a piece of the bone stuck out, glowing white like a piece of chalk in a meat stew.

  Holmberg shook his head, raised and lowered one hand halfway up and down, up and down. Coughed.