Let the Right One In

by John Ajvide Lindqvist

  Oskar nodded.

  ‘He looks like a monkey.’

  Oskar cupped a hand around Eli’s ear, whispered, ‘He escaped from the zoo five years ago. They’re still looking for him.’

  Eli giggled and cupped her hand around Oskar’s ear. Her warm breath flowed into his head. ‘No they’re not. They locked him up here instead!’

  They both looked up at the kiosk owner and burst out laughing; imagining the stern kiosk owner as a monkey in a cage surrounded by lollies. At the sound of their laughter the owner turned to them and frowned with his enormous eyebrows so that he looked even more like a gorilla. Oskar and Eli laughed so hard they almost fell over, pressed their hands over their mouths and tried to regain seriousness.

  The owner leaned through the window.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Eli quickly became serious, removed her hand from her mouth, walked over to the window and said, ‘I’d like a banana, please.’

  Oskar chuckled and pressed his hand harder against his mouth. Eli turned around with her index finger in front of her lips and shushed him with feigned severity. The owner was still looking out of the window.

  ‘I don’t have any bananas.’

  Eli pretended disbelief.

  ‘No banaaaanas?’

  ‘No. Anything else?’

  Oskar’s jaws were cramping because of his repressed laughter. He teetered away from the kiosk, ran a few steps towards the letterbox, leaned on it and let it out, convulsing with laughter. Eli came up to him, shaking her head.

  ‘No bananas.’

  Oskar managed to get out: ‘He must have…eaten them…all himself.’

  Then he pulled himself together and forced his mouth shut. He took out his four kronor and went up to the window.

  ‘A bag of mixed sweets, please.’

  The owner gave him a disapproving look but started picking out an assortment from the plastic bins with long tongs, dropping them one by one into a small paper bag. Oskar glanced to the side to make sure Eli heard him, then said, ‘Don’t forget the bananas.’

  The owner stopped short.

  ‘I don’t have any bananas.’

  Oskar pointed to one of the plastic containers.

  ‘I mean the candy foam bananas.’

  He heard Eli giggle and put his finger to his lips just as she had done earlier and shushed her. The owner snorted, put a few candy bananas in the bag and handed it to Oskar.

  They walked back. Before Oskar had even had any himself he held the bag out to Eli. She shook her head.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Don’t you eat sweets?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘None?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘What a drag.’

  ‘Yes, no. I don’t know what it tastes like.’

  ‘You haven’t even tasted it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how do you know that…’

  ‘I just know, that’s all.’

  This happened sometimes. They would be talking about something, Oskar would ask her a question and it would end with a ‘That’s just the way it is’ or ‘I just know, that’s all’. No further explanation. That was one of the things that was a little strange about Eli.

  It was too bad he couldn’t offer her any sweets. That was what he had been planning. To be generous, offer her as much as she wanted. And then it turned out she didn’t even eat it. He popped a banana in his mouth and snuck a peek at her.

  She really didn’t look healthy. And those white strands in her hair…In some story Oskar had read a person’s hair went white after he had a big scare. Is that what had happened to Eli?

  She glanced to the side, folded her arms around her body and looked really little. Oskar wanted to put his arm around her but didn’t dare.

  In the covered entrance leading to the courtyard Eli stopped and looked at her window. It was dark. She stopped with her arms wrapped around her body and stared at the ground.

  ‘Oskar…?’

  He did it. Her whole body was asking for it and from somewhere he got the courage to do it. He hugged her. For a terrifying second he thought he had done the wrong thing, her body was stiff, locked. He was about to let go when she relaxed into his embrace. The knot loosened and she coaxed her arms out, put them around his back and leaned trembling against him.

  She leaned her head against his shoulder and they stood like that. Her breath against his shoulder. They held each other without saying anything.

  Oskar closed his eyes and knew: this was big. Light from the outside lamp filtered in through his closed eyelids and created a red membrane in front of his eyes. The biggest.

  Eli nuzzled her head in closer towards his neck. The heat from her breath grew more intense. Muscles in her body that had been relaxed grew tense again. Her lips nudged his throat and a shiver ran through his body.

  Suddenly she shuddered and broke away, took a step back. Oskar let his arms fall. Eli shook her head as if to free herself from a nightmare, turned and started walking to her door. Oskar stayed put. When she opened the front door he called out to her.

  ‘Eli?’ She turned. ‘Where’s your dad?’

  ‘He was going to…bring me food.’

  She doesn’t get enough to eat. That’s what it is.

  ‘You can have dinner with us if you like.’

  Eli let go of the door and walked back over to him. Oskar quickly started to plan things out. He did not want his mum to meet Eli. Not the other way around either. Maybe he could make a few sandwiches and take them back to her place. Yes, that would be best.

  Eli stopped in front of him, looking at him earnestly.

  ‘Oskar, do you like me?’

  ‘Yes. A lot.’

  ‘If I turned out not to be a girl…would you still like me?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that. Would you still like me even if I wasn’t a girl?’

  ‘Yes…I guess so.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

  Someone was struggling with a stuck window, then it opened. Over the top of Eli’s head Oskar could see his mum poke her head out of his bedroom window.

  ‘Ooooskar!’

  Eli quickly drew in towards the wall. Oskar balled his hands into fists and ran up the hill, stopping underneath his window. Like a little kid.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oh! Are you down there? I thought—’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s about to start.’

  ‘I know.’

  His mother was about to add something but shut her mouth and just looked at him standing there under the window with his hands still held in tight fists, his body tense.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’

  ‘It’s just…’

  His eyes were starting to get watery from rage. ‘Go back in!’ he hissed. ‘Close the window. Go back!’

  His mother stared at him for another second then something changed in her face and she slammed the window shut, walked away. Oskar would have wanted…not to shout for her to come back…but to send her a thought. To explain quietly and calmly how it was. That she wasn’t allowed to do that, because he…

  He ran back down the hill.

  ‘Eli?’

  She wasn’t there. She couldn’t have gone inside because he would have noticed her. She must have left to take the subway to that aunt she had in the city where she went after school. That seemed likely.

  Oskar went and stood in the dark corner where she had ducked in when his mum opened the window. Turned with his face towards the wall. Stood there for a while. Then he went inside.

  Håkan dragged the boy inside the changing room and locked the door behind him. The boy had hardly made a noise. The only thing that could alert someone’s attention now was the hissing noise from the gas bottle. He would have to work quickly.

  It would have been so much easier to be able to attack
directly with a knife. But no. The blood had to come from a living body. Another aspect that he had had explained to him. Blood from the dead was worthless, harmful even.

  Well, the boy was alive. His chest rose and sank, as he inhaled the stupefying gas.

  He tightened the rope around the boy’s legs, right above his knees, slung both ends above the hook and started to pull. The boy’s legs were lifted from the ground.

  A door opened, voices rang out.

  He held the rope in place with one hand and turned off the gas with the other, removing the mask from the boy’s face. The anaesthetic would hold for a few minutes, he would have to keep working as silently as he could, despite the fact that there were people in the room.

  There were several men out there. Two, three, four? They were talking about Sweden and Denmark. Some tournament. Handball. While they talked Håkan raised the boy’s body. The hook squeaked, the weight fell differently than when he had tested it. The men stopped talking. Had they heard anything? He froze, hardly breathing. Held the body still, suspended with the head barely off the ground.

  No, just a lull in the conversation. They continued.

  Keep talking, keep talking.

  ‘Sjögren’s penalty was completely…’

  ‘What you don’t have in your arms you’d better have in your head.’

  ‘He’s pretty good at getting them in, you have to give him that.’

  ‘That spin. Don’t know how he does it.’

  The boy’s head cleared the floor. Now…

  How could he secure the ends of the rope? The spaces between the planks were too narrow for the rope to fit through. And he couldn’t work with one hand while the other was holding onto the rope, wouldn’t have the strength. He stood with the rope in his tightly knit hands, sweating. The mask was hot, he should take it off.

  Later. When I’m done.

  The other hook. Just had to make a loop first. Sweat ran into his eyes as he lowered the boy’s body to create slack in the rope to allow him to form a loop. Pulled the boy back up and tried to get the loop on the hook. Too short. He lowered the boy again. The men stopped talking.

  Leave! Just leave!

  In the silence he made another hook further along the rope, waited. They started to talk again. Bowling. The Swedish women’s successes in New York. Strikes and blocks, and the sweat stung his eyes.

  Warm. Why does it have to be so warm?

  He managed to get the loop onto the hook and exhaled. Couldn’t they just leave?

  The boy’s body was suspended in the right position and now all he had to do was get to work before he woke up. Couldn’t they just leave? But they went on sharing bowling memories and how people used to play in the olden days and someone who got his thumb stuck in a ball and had to be taken to the hospital to get it out.

  It couldn’t be helped. Håkan put the funnel in the plastic jug and placed it next to the boy’s neck. Took out the knife. When he turned around to start bleeding the boy the conversation had died down again. And the boy’s eyes were open. Wide open. The pupils were wandering around as he hung there, upside down, trying to find a mental foothold, comprehension. They fixed on Håkan as he stood there, naked, with the knife in his hand. A short moment they gazed at each other.

  Then the boy opened his mouth and screamed.

  Håkan staggered back, hitting the changing room wall with a moist smack. His sweaty back slipped along the wall and he almost lost his balance. The boy screamed and screamed. The sound echoed in the dressing area, bouncing off the walls, was so strengthened that Håkan was deafened. His hand hardened around the knife handle and the only thought in his head was that he had to find a way to stop the boy’s screams. Cut off his head so it stopped screaming. He bent over the boy.

  Someone banged on the door.

  ‘Hey! Open up!’

  Håkan dropped the knife. The clang as the metal hit the floor was barely noticeable amid the screaming and banging. The door was rattling on its hinges from the blows.

  ‘Open up, I said, or I’ll knock the door down!’

  Over. It was all over. There was only one thing left. The noises around him disappeared, his field of vision narrowed to a tunnel as he turned back to his bag. Through the tunnel he saw his hand reach down into the bag and take out the jam jar.

  He sat down hard on his backside with the jar in his hand, unscrewed the lid.

  Before they got the door open. Before they managed to pull his hood off. His face.

  Through all the screaming and blows to the door he thought about his beloved. The time they had had together. He conjured up the image of his beloved as an angel. A boy angel flying down from heaven, spreading his wings, who was going to pick him up. Carry him off. Take him to a place where they would always be together. For ever.

  The door flew open and banged into the wall. The boy continued to scream. There were three men standing outside, more or less dressed. They stared uncomprehendingly at the scene before them.

  Håkan nodded slowly, accepting it. Then he shouted, ‘Eli! Eli!’ and poured the concentrated acid over his face.

  ‘Rejoice! Rejoice!

  Rejoice in your Lord and God!

  Rejoice! Rejoice!

  Honour your King and God!’

  Staffan accompanied himself and Tommy’s mum on the piano. From time to time they looked at each other, smiled and sparkled. Tommy sat in the leather sofa and suffered. He had found a little hole in one of the armrests and while Staffan and his mum sang he worked at making it bigger. His index finger dug around in the stuffing and he wondered if Staffan and his mum had ever done it on this sofa. Under the barometers.

  The dinner had been OK, some kind of marinated chicken with rice. After dinner Staffan had showed Tommy the safe where he kept his pistols. He stored it under the bed and Tommy had wondered the same thing in there. Had they slept with each other in this bed? Did his mum think about Dad when Staffan was touching her? Did Staffan get turned on by the thought of the guns he kept under the bed? Did she?

  Staffan played the final chord, allowed the sound to die away. Tommy pulled his finger out of the by-now substantial hole in the sofa. His mum nodded to Staffan, took his hand and sat down on the piano bench next to him. From where Tommy was sitting it looked like the picture of the Virgin Mary was positioned exactly above their heads, almost as if they had rehearsed it in advance.

  His mum looked at Staffan, smiled, and turned to Tommy.

  ‘Tommy. There’s something we’d like to share with you.’

  ‘Are you getting married?’

  His mum hesitated. If they had rehearsed this with staging and all, then clearly this line had not been included.

  ‘Yes. What do you think?’

  Tommy shrugged.

  ‘OK. Go ahead.’

  ‘We were thinking…maybe next summer.’

  His mum looked at him as if to see if he had a better suggestion.

  ‘Yeah, whatever. Sure.’

  He put his finger in the hole again, let it stay there. Staffan leaned forward.

  ‘I know that I can’t…replace your dad. In any way. But I hope that you and I can get to know each other and, well, become buddies.’

  ‘Where are you going to live?’

  His mum suddenly looked sad.

  ‘We, Tommy. This is about you too, you know. We don’t know yet. But we were thinking of getting a house in Ängby. If we can.’

  ‘Ängby.’

  ‘Yes. What do you think?’

  Tommy looked at the glass table in which his mum and Staffan were reflected, half-transparent, like ghosts. He squirmed his finger around in the hole, managed to pull off some foam.

  ‘Expensive.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘A house in Ängby. It’s expensive. Costs a lot of money. Do you have a lot of money?’

  Staffan was about to answer when the phone rang. He stroked Tommy’s mother on the cheek and walked out to the phone in the hall. His mum sat down next to Tommy
on the sofa and asked, ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘I love it.’

  Staffan’s voice came from the hall. He sounded agitated.

  ‘That’s…yes, I’ll be there on the double. Should we…no, I’ll go straight there. OK.’

  He came back out into the living room.

  ‘The killer is at the Vällingby swimming pool. They don’t have enough people down at the station so I have to…’

  He disappeared into the bedroom and Tommy could hear the safe being opened and closed. Staffan changed in there and emerged in full police regalia. His eyes looked slightly crazed. He kissed Tommy’s mother on the mouth and slapped Tommy’s knee.

  ‘Have to go right away. Don’t know when I’ll be back. We’ll talk more later.’

  He hurried out into the hall and Tommy’s mum followed after him.

  Tommy heard something about ‘be careful’ and ‘I love you’ and ‘staying?’ while he went up to the piano and, without knowing exactly why, stretched out his arm and picked up the shooting trophy. It was heavy, at least two kilos. While his mum and Staffan were saying goodbye to each other—they’re getting off on this. The man heading into battle. The woman who pines for him—he walked out onto the balcony. He sucked the cold night air into his lungs and he felt like he could breathe for the first time in hours.

  He leaned over the balcony railing, saw that thick bushes were growing underneath. He held the trophy out over the railing, let it go. It fell into the bushes with a rustling sound.

  His mum came out on the balcony and stood next to him. After a few seconds the door to the building opened below them and Staffan came out, half-running to the parking lot. His mum waved, but Staffan didn’t look up. Tommy giggled as he jogged past.

  ‘What is it?’ his mum asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Just a little kid with a gun hiding in the bushes and taking aim at Staffan. That’s all.

  Tommy felt pretty good all things considered.

  They had strengthened the gang with Karlsson, the only one among them with a ‘real’ job as he himself put it. Larry had taken early retirement, Morgan worked off and on at an auto scrapyard, and Lacke you didn’t know exactly what he did for a living. Sometimes he turned up with a few bucks.