Those guys weren’t worth shit.
Sure, it wasn’t exactly news to him, but he had thought that… well, what the hell had he thought?
That we were all in on it.
That at least one other person also had the feeling that something damn creepy was going on. There was so much talk, big words, especially from Morgan, but when it came down to it, no one had the gumption to lift a finger to actually do something.
Not that even Lacke knew what to do, but at least he was worried about it. If that helped. He had lain awake most of the night, tried to read a little from Dostoevsky’s The Demons but kept forgetting what happened on the previous page, the previous sentence, and he gave up.
But the night brought something good with it; he had made up his mind about something.
Sunday morning he had gone over to Virginia’s place, knocked on the door. No one answered and he had assumed that…hoped that she had gone to the hospital. On his way back home he walked past two women who were talking, heard something about a murderer that the police were searching for in the Judarn forest.
There’s a murderer behind every damn bush these days, for god’s sake. Now the papers have something else to jump all over.
About ten days had passed since they captured the Vällingby killer and the newspapers had grown tired of speculating about his identity and possible motive.
In the articles that mentioned him there had been a strong streak of…ghoulish delight. With painstaking care they had described the murderer’s present condition and how he was unlikely to leave his hospital bed for six months. There was a separate fact box about hydrochloric acid and what it could do to the body, so you could really revel in how much it must hurt.
No, Lacke took no pleasure in that kind of thing. Just thought it was creepy how people got all worked up about someone getting their ‘just deserts’ and all that. He himself was absolutely anti-death penalty. Not because he had some ‘modern’ sense of justice, no. More like a pre-modern one.
His reasoning went something like this: if someone kills my child, then I kill that person. Dostoevsky talked a lot about forgiveness, mercy. Sure. From society’s perspective, absolutely. But as a parent to the child it is my moral right to end the life of the one who ended that of my child. That society gives me in turn eight years in jail or something, is a different matter.
That wasn’t what Dostoevsky meant, and Lacke knew it. But he and Fyodor simply didn’t see eye to eye on this point.
Lacke thought about these things as he walked home to Ibsengatan. Once there he realised he was hungry and cooked up a batch of quick macaroni, ate it from the pan with a spoon, squeezed on some ketchup. While he was pouring water into the pan to make it easier to wash up later he heard something in the mail slot.
Advertisements. He didn’t care about that, had no money anyway.
No, that was just it.
He wiped the kitchen table with the dish rag, went and got his dad’s stamp collection from the sideboard, which he had also inherited from his father, and that had been hell to transport back to Blackeberg. He placed the album on the kitchen table, opened it.
There they were.
Four unmarked specimens of the first stamp ever to be issued in Norway. He leaned closer and squinted at the lion raised up on its hind legs against a light blue background.
Incredible.
They had cost four shillings when they were issued in 1855. Now they were worth…more. That they were connected in two pairs made them even more valuable.
That was what he had made up his mind about last night, while he tossed and turned between his smoke-saturated sheets; that it was time. This thing with Virginia had been the last straw. Then on top of that the complete incomprehension on the part of the guys, his realisation that: you know, these are not people worth hanging around with.
He was going to leave this place, and so was Virginia.
Depressed market or not, he would get about three hundred thousand for the stamps, plus two hundred for the apartment. Then they would get a house in the country. Or all right: two houses. A little farm. There was enough money for that and it would work out. As soon as Virginia had recovered he would present her with the idea, and he thought that…he was almost certain that she would agree to it, would love it in fact.
So that was how it was going to be.
Lacke felt calmer now. He saw everything clearly. What he would do today, and in the future. It would all work out.
Filled with pleasant thoughts, he wandered into the bedroom, lay on the bed to rest for five minutes, and fell asleep.
‘We see them on streets and squares and we find ourselves standing before them at a loss, saying to ourselves: what can we do?’
Tommy had never been this bored his whole life. The service had only been going for half an hour and he thought he would have had more fun if he had sat in a chair staring at the wall.
‘Blessed Be’ and ‘Hallelujah!’ and ‘Joy of the Lord’, but why did they all sit there staring in front like they were watching a qualifying match between Bulgaria and Romania? It didn’t mean anything to them, that stuff they read in the book, that they sang about. Didn’t seem to mean anything to the minister either. Just something he had to get through in order to collect his paycheque.
Now the sermon was underway at least.
If the minister mentioned that place in the Bible, that stuff Tommy had read, then he would do it. Otherwise he wouldn’t.
Let him decide.
Tommy checked his pocket. Everything was ready and the christening font was only three metres from where he sat in the back row. His mum was sitting in the very front, no doubt so she could twinkle at Staffan as he sang his meaningless songs with his hands loosely clasped front of his police dick.
Tommy clenched his teeth. He hoped the minister was going to say it.
‘We see a lost look in their eyes, the look of someone who has wandered astray and is unable to find his way back home. When I see a young person like this, I always think about the Israelites’ exodus from Egypt.’
Tommy stiffened. But maybe the minister wasn’t going to mention that exact place. Maybe it would be something about the Red Sea. Still, he took the stuff out of his pocket; a lighter and a small tinder cube. His hands were trembling.
‘For it is thus we have to view these young people who sometimes leave us so perplexed. They are wandering in a desert of unanswered questions and unclear future prospects. But there is a great difference between the people of Israel and the young people of today…’
Go on, say it…
‘The people of Israel had someone leading them. You are probably familiar with the words of the Scripture. “And the Lord went before them by day in a pillar of cloud, to lead them the way: and by night in a pillar of fire, to give them light.” It is this cloud, this fire that the young people of today lack and…’
The minister looked down into his papers.
Tommy had already set fire to the tinder cube, holding it between thumb and forefinger. At the top end of it there was a pure, blue flame trying to reach down towards his fingers. When the minister looked down at his papers, he took the chance.
He crouched down, took a long step out of the pew, stretched his arm out as far as he could and dumped the tinder cube into the font, pulled himself quickly back into the pew. No one had noticed anything.
The minister looked up again.
‘…and it is our responsibility as adults to be this cloud, this guiding star for young people. Where else will they find one? And the strength for this we can get from the works of the Lord.’
White smoke rose up from the christening font. Tommy already had a whiff of the familiar sweet smell.
He had done this a bunch of times; burned saltpetre and sugar. But rarely in this quantity, and never inside. He was excited about what the effect would be without a wind to disperse the fumes. He interlaced his fingers, pressing his hands hard together.
Bror Ardeliu
s, temporary minister of the Vällingby parish was the first to notice it. He took it for what it was: smoke from the christening font. He had been waiting for a sign from the Lord his whole life and it was undeniably the case that when he saw the first pillar of smoke he thought for a moment, Oh, My Lord. At last.
But the thought did not last long. The feeling of it being a miracle left him so quickly that he took it as proof that it was no miracle, no sign. It was simply smoke from the christening font. But why?
The janitor whom he was not on particularly good terms with had decided to play a practical joke. The water in the font had started to…boil.
The problem was that he was in the middle of a sermon and could not spend a long time thinking about this. So Bror Ardelius did what most people do in these situations: he carried on as if nothing had happened and hoped the problem would resolve itself. He cleared his throat and tried to remember what he had just said.
The works of the Lord. Something about seeking strength in the works of the Lord. One example.
He glanced down at his notes. He had written, ‘Barefoot’.
Barefoot? What did I mean by that? That the people of Israel walked barefoot or that Jesus…wandered for a long time…
He looked up and saw that the smoke had thickened, formed a pillar that rose from the font to the ceiling. What was the last thing he had said? Yes, now he remembered. The words were still hanging in the air.
‘And the strength for this we can take from the works of the Lord.’
That was an acceptable conclusion. Not great, not what he had been planning, but acceptable. He gave the congregation a somewhat bewildered smile and nodded to Birgit who led the choir.
The choir, eight people, stood up as one and walked up to the podium. When they turned to the congregation he could tell by their expressions that they also saw the smoke. Blessed be the Lord; it had occurred to him that perhaps he was the only one who could see it.
Birgit looked at him for guidance and he gestured with his hand: go on, get started.
The choir started to sing.
‘Lead me, God, lead me into righteousness.
Let mine eyes behold Thy path…
One of old Wesley’s beautiful compositions. Bror Ardelius wished he had been able to enjoy the beauty of the song, but the pillar of cloud was starting to worry him. Thick white smoke was billowing up out of the christening font and something inside the basin itself was burning with a blue-white flame, smoking and sputtering. A sweetish smell reached his nostrils and the members of the congregation started to turn around to figure out where the crackling sound was coming from.
‘For only you, my Lord,
offer my soul
peace and security
One of the women in the choir started to cough. The members of the congregation turned their heads from the smoking font to Bror Ardelius for instructions on how they should behave, if this was a part of the service.
More people started to cough, holding handkerchiefs or sleeves in front of their mouths, noses. A thin haze had started to form inside the church, and through this haze Bror Ardelius saw someone from the very last row get up and run out the door.
Yes, that is the only reasonable thing to do.
He leaned towards the microphone.
‘Yes, well, there has been a small…mishap and I think it is best if we…clear the building.’
Already at the word ‘mishap’, Staffan left the podium and started walking towards the exit with quick, controlled steps. He got it. It was Yvonne’s hopeless delinquent of a kid who had done this. Even now, walking down from the podium, he was trying to control himself, because he sensed that if he got hold of Tommy he would give him a good hiding.
Of course this was exactly what the young hooligan needed, it was exactly the kind of guidance he was lacking.
Pillar of cloud come help me. A good spanking is what this kid sorely needs.
But Yvonne wouldn’t accept it, as things were just now. Once they were married things would be different. Then he would, God so help him, take on the task of disciplining Tommy. But first and foremost he wanted to get a hold of him right now. Shake him up a little bit, at the very least.
Staffan didn’t get very far. Bror Ardelius’ words from the podium had worked like a starting gun on the members of the congregation who had only been waiting for his go-ahead to stampede out of the church. Halfway down the aisle Staffan found himself blocked by little old ladies who were hurrying towards the exit with grim determination.
His right hand flew to his hip but he stopped it halfway, clenched it into a fist. Even if he had his baton this would hardly have been a good time to use it.
The smoke production in the font was starting to die down but the church was now full of a thick haze that smelled of candy and chemicals. The exit doors were wide open and through the haze you could see a strong rectangle of morning light.
The congregation moved towards the light, coughing.
There was a single wooden chair in the kitchen, nothing more. Oskar pulled it up to the sink, stood on it and peed into the drain, while he had water running out of the tap. When he was done he put the chair back. It looked strange in the otherwise empty kitchen. Like something in a museum.
What does she keep it for?
He looked around. Above the fridge there was a row of cabinets you could only reach by standing on the chair. He pulled it over and steadied himself by putting a hand on the refrigerator door handle. His stomach rumbled. He was hungry.
Without thinking more about it, he opened the fridge in order to see what there was. Not much. An open carton of milk, half a packet of bread. Butter and cheese. Oskar put his hand out for the milk.
But…Eli…
He stood there with the milk in his hand, blinked. This didn’t add up. Did she eat real food as well? Yes. She must. He put the milk on the counter. In the kitchen cabinet above the bench there was almost nothing. Two plates, two glasses. He took a glass and poured milk into it.
And then it hit him. With the cold glass of milk in his hand it finally hit him, with full force.
She drinks blood.
Yesterday evening, in his tangle of sleepiness and sense of detachment from the world, in the dark, everything had somehow felt possible. But now in the kitchen where no blankets hung in the window and the blinds let in a weak morning light, with a glass of milk in his hand it seemed so…beyond anything he could comprehend.
Like: If you have milk and bread in your fridge you must be a human being.
He took a mouthful of milk and immediately spat it out. It was sour. He smelled the rest that was in the glass. Yes, definitely bad. He poured it into the sink, rinsed the glass and then drank some water to get the taste out of his mouth. Looked at the date on the carton: USE BY 28 OCTOBER.
The milk was ten days too old. Oskar had a realisation.
The old guy’s milk.
The refrigerator door was still open. The old guy’s food.
Revolting. Totally revolting.
Oskar slammed the door shut. What had that old guy been here for anyway? What had he and Eli…Oskar shivered.
She has killed him.
Yes. Eli must have kept the old guy around to be able to…drink from him. To use him like a living blood bank. That’s what she did. But why had the old guy agreed to it? And if she had killed him, where was the body?
Oskar glanced up at the high kitchen cabinets. Suddenly he didn’t want to be in the kitchen any more. Didn’t want to stay in the apartment at all. He walked out of the kitchen, through the hall. The closed bathroom door.
She’s in there.
He hurried into the living room, collected his bag. The Walkman was on the table. He would have to buy new headphones, that was all. When he picked it up to put it into his bag he saw the note. It was on the coffee table, at the same height as his head had been resting.
Hi.
Hope you’ve slept well. I’m also going to sleep now. I’m in the bath
room. Don’t try to go in there, please. I’m trusting you. I don’t know what to write. I hope you can like me even though you know what I am. I like you. A lot. You’re lying here on the couch right now, snoring. Please. Don’t be afraid of me.
Please please please don’t be afraid of me.
Do you want to meet me tonight? Write so on this note if you do.
If you write No, I’ll move tonight. Probably have to do that soon anyway. But if you write Yes I’ll hang around for a while longer. I don’t know what I should write. I’m alone. Probably more alone than you can imagine, I think. Or perhaps you can.
Sorry I broke your music machine. Take the money if you want. I have a lot. Don’t be afraid of me. There’s no reason for you to be. Maybe you know that. I hope you know that. I like you so very much.
Yours,
Eli
P.S. Feel free to stay. But if you leave make sure the door locks behind you.
Oskar read the note several times. Then he picked up the pen next to it. He looked around the empty room, Eli’s life. The bills she had tried to give him were still on the table, scrunched up. He took one thousand kronor bill, put it in his pocket.
He looked for a long time at the space on the page under Eli’s name. Then he lowered the pen and wrote in letters as tall as the space:
YES
He put the pen down, got up and slipped the Walkman into his bag. He turned around one last time and looked at the by-now upside down letters.
YES
Then he shook his head, dug the thousand kronor bill out of his pocket and put it back on the table. When he was out in the stairwell he checked that the door had locked securely behind him. He pulled on it several times.
From the Daily Update, 16:45, Sunday 8 November 1981
The official search for the man who early Sunday morning escaped from Danderyd Hospital after having killed one person has not yet yielded any results.
The police have searched all of Judarn forest in western Stockholm in an attempt to track down the man who is assumed to be the so-called Ritual Killer. At the time of his escape the man was critically wounded and police now suspect he had an accomplice.
Let the Right One In Page 32