He sobbed, snuffled.
Let this end. God, let it end.
Again the big elephant who raised his hat and with his nasal voice said, This is the eeeend! Blow the trumpet, trunk, toooot! This is the end!
I’m going crazy, I…it…
He shook his head, flicked the lighter on again. There on the floor in front of him was the trophy. He bent over, picked it up and jumped a few steps to the side, kept going towards the other wall. Looked at the thing groping the space where he had just been.
Blind man’s bluff.
The lighter in one hand, the trophy in the other. He opened his mouth to say something but only managed a hoarse whisper.
‘Come on, then…’
The thing appeared alert, turned around, came towards him.
He raised Staffan’s trophy like a club and when the creature was half a metre away he swung it at its face.
And like in a perfect penalty kick in soccer, when at the same moment as your foot meets the ball you feel that this one…this one has hit the spot exactly; Tommy felt the same thing already halfway into his swing, that—
Yes!
—and when the sharp stone corner met the thing’s temple with a force that continued in an arc along Tommy’s arm, he was already feeling triumph. It was only a confirmation of this feeling when the skull crumpled and with a crack of splitting ice, cold liquid splashed onto Tommy’s face and the thing crashed to the ground.
Tommy remained in place, panting. Looked at the body that was laid out on the ground.
He has an erection.
Yes. The thing’s penis was sticking out like a minimal, half overturned gravestone and Tommy stood there staring, waiting for it to wilt. It didn’t. Tommy wanted to laugh, but his throat hurt too much.
A throbbing pain in his thumb. Tommy looked down. The lighter had started to burn the skin on his thumb that was holding the gas tab down. Instinctively he let go. But his thumb didn’t obey him. It was locked in a cramp over the tab.
He turned the lighter the other direction. Didn’t want to turn it off anyway. Didn’t want to be left in the dark with this…
A movement.
And Tommy felt how something important, something he needed in order to be Tommy, left him when the creature lifted its head again, and started to get up.
An elephant balancing on the little, little thread of a spider web!
The thread broke. The elephant fell through.
And Tommy hit again. And again.
After a while he started to think it was fun.
Monday,
9 November
Morgan walked through the controls, waved the monthly pass that had expired six months ago while Larry dutifully stopped and pulled out a wrinkled coupon strip and said, ‘Ängbyplan.’
The ticket collector looked up from the book he was reading, stamped two coupon spaces. Morgan laughed when Larry came over to him and they started to walk down the stairs.
‘What the hell do you bother to do that for?’
‘What? Get my ticket stamped?’
‘Yeah. It’s not like you’re some model citizen.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘What is it?’
‘I’m not like you, OK?’
‘But come on…the guy was just…you could have shown him a picture of the king for all he cared.’
‘Yes, fine. Quit talking so loud.’
‘Think he’s going to come after us or something?’
Before they opened the doors down to the platform Morgan cupped his hands into a makeshift megaphone and shouted back up to the station hall, ‘Alert! Alert! Illegal riders!’
Larry slunk away, taking a few steps towards the platform. Morgan reached him and said, ‘You’re pretty childish, you know that?’
‘Absolutely. Now, run the whole thing by me again. From the top.’
Larry had called Morgan the night before and given a summary of what Gösta had told him ten minutes earlier on the phone. They had agreed to meet at the subway station early in the morning to go to the hospital.
Now Larry went over it all again. Virginia, Lacke, Gösta, the cats. The ambulance that Lacke had climbed into with her. Added a few extra details of his own, and before he was done the subway train to the city arrived. They got on and claimed a four-seater for themselves, and Larry finished his story with, ‘and then it drove off with sirens going full blast.’
Morgan nodded, chewing on a thumbnail, looking out of the window while the train climbed out of the tunnel, stopped at Iceland Square.
‘What the hell made them go off like that?’
‘You mean the cats? I don’t know. Something made them all crazy.’
‘But all of them? And at the same time?’
‘You have a better suggestion?’
‘No. Damn cats. Lacke must be completely crushed and all.’
‘Mm. Wasn’t doing so great before either.’
‘No,’ Morgan sighed. ‘I feel damned sorry for the guy, actually. We should…I don’t know. Do something.’
‘What about Virginia?’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. But you know, being injured. Sick. What can you do? You have to lie there. The hard part is sitting next to the bed and…no, I don’t know, but he was right…last time, when he… what the hell did he ramble on about? Werewolves?’
‘Vampires.’
‘Yeah. That’s not a sign that you’re doing so damned great, is it?’
The train pulled into the Ängbyplan station. When the doors closed Morgan said, ‘There. Now we’re in the same boat.’
‘I think they’re more lenient if you have at least two stamped sections.’
‘That’s what you think. But you don’t know.’
‘Did you see the results of the poll? For the Swedish Communist Party?’
‘Yes, yes. It’ll straighten itself out after the election. There’s a lot of people who, when they stand there with the ballot, still vote according to their conscience.’
‘That’s what you think.’
‘No. I know. The day the communists are pushed out of parliament is the day I start believing in vampires. But of course: there’s always the conservatives. Bohman and his lot, you know. Talk about bloodsuckers…’
Morgan launched into one of his monologues. Larry stopped listening somewhere near Åkeshov. There was a lone police officer outside the greenhouses, looking up at the subway. Larry felt a brief pang of conscience when he considered his under-stamped ticket, but immediately suppressed the thought when he remembered why the police where there.
But this police officer looked bored. Larry relaxed; the occasional word in Morgan’s rambling made its way into his consciousness while they thundered on towards Sabbatsberg.
A quarter to eight, and no nurse had yet appeared.
The dirt-grey strip of light on the ceiling had turned light grey, and the blinds let in enough light to make Virginia feel like she was on a tanning bed. Her body was hot, throbbed, but that was all. It wouldn’t get any worse.
Lacke lay in the bed next to her, snarling, chewing in his sleep. She was ready. If she had been able to press a button to summon a nurse, she would have done so. But her hands were bound and she couldn’t.
So she waited. The heat in her skin was painful, not excruciating. What was worse was the constant effort to stay awake. One moment’s forgetfulness and her breathing stopped, lights started to go off in her head with increasing speed, and she had to open her eyes wide and shake her head to turn them on again.
At the same time, this necessary wakefulness was a blessing; it stopped her from having to think. All her mental energy went to keeping herself awake. There was no room for hesitation, regret, an alternative.
The nurse came in at exactly eight o’clock.
When she opened her mouth to say ‘Good morning, how are we today!’ or whatever it was that nurses said in the morning, Virginia hissed, ‘Shhhhhh!’
The nurse closed her mouth with a surprised
click, and she frowned when she walked through the dim room to Virginia’s bed, leaned over her and said, ‘And how—’
‘Shhh!’ Virginia whispered. ‘Sorry, but I don’t want to wake him up.’ She made a gesture with her head in Lacke’s direction.
The nurse nodded, said in a lower voice. ‘No, of course not. But I need to take your temperature and a little blood.’
‘Sure, whatever. But could you…take him out first?’
‘Take him…do you want me to wake him up?’
‘No. But if you could…roll him out while he’s still sleeping.’
The nurse looked at Lacke as if to determine if it was physically possible, then smiled, shook her head and said, ‘I think this will be all right. We’ll take your temperature orally, so you don’t have to feel…’
‘It’s not that. Couldn’t you just…do what I’m asking?’
The nurse cast a glance at her watch.
‘You’ll have to excuse me, but I have other patients and I—’
Virginia snapped, as loud as she dared. ‘Please!’
The nurse took half a step back. She had clearly been informed of Virginia’s actions during the night. Her eyes quickly went to the bindings holding Virginia’s arms. She appeared to be reassured by what she saw, went back up to the bed. Now she talked to Virginia as if she was weak in the head.
‘You see…I need…we need, in order to be able to help you get better again, just a little…’
Virginia closed her eyes, sighed, gave up. Then she said, ‘Would you be so kind as to open the blinds?’
The nurse nodded and walked over to the window. Virginia took the opportunity to kick off the blanket, exposing her body. Held her breath. Kept her eyes tightly shut.
It was over. Now she wanted to turn off. The same function she had been resisting all morning she now consciously tried to let forth. But she couldn’t. Instead she experienced that thing that you heard about; seeing your life pass before you like a strip of film in fast forward.
The bird I had in the cardboard box…the smell of freshly mangled sheets in the laundry room…my mother leaning over the cinnamon bun crumbs…my father…the smoke from his pipe… Per…the cottage…Lena and I, the big mushroom we found that summer…Ted with mashed blueberries on his cheek…Lacke, his back…Lacke…
A clattering noise as the blinds were raised, and she was sucked down into a vortex of fire.
Oskar’s mum had woken him up at ten past seven, as usual. He had climbed out of bed and had breakfast, as usual. He had put his clothes on and then hugged his mum goodbye at half past seven, as usual.
He felt like normal.
Filled with anxiety, dread, sure. But even that wasn’t unusual when he was heading back to school after the weekend.
He packed his geography book, the atlas and the photocopy he had not finished. Was ready at twenty-five minutes to eight. Didn’t need to leave for fifteen minutes. Should he sit down and do that worksheet anyway? No. Didn’t have the energy.
He sat down at his desk, stared at the wall.
This must mean he wasn’t infected? Or was there an incubation period? No. That old man…that had only taken a few hours.
I’m not infected.
He should be happy, relieved. But he wasn’t. The phone rang.
Eli! Something has happened to…
He shot up from the table, out into the hall, grabbed the receiver.
‘HithisisOskar!’
‘Oh…hello there.’
Dad. It was only Dad.
‘Hi.’
‘Well, so…you’re at home.’
‘About to leave for school.’
‘Right, in that case I won’t…Is your mother home?’
‘No, she’s left for work.’
‘I see. I thought as much.’
Oskar got it. That was why he was calling at this strange time; because he knew Mum wasn’t home. His dad cleared his throat.
‘So I was thinking…about what happened Saturday night. It was a bit…unfortunate.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes. Did you tell your mother about…what happened?’
‘What do you think?’
There was silence on the other end. The static crackle from one hundred kilometres of telephone lines. Crows sitting on them, shivering, while people’s conversations darted past under their feet. His dad cleared his throat again.
‘You know, I asked about those ice skates and it worked out. You can have them.’
‘I have to go now.’
‘Yes, of course. Hope you…have a good day at school.’
‘OK. Bye.’
Oskar put the receiver down, picked up his bag and left for school.
He felt nothing.
Five minutes left until the lesson started and some students were standing in the corridor outside the classroom. Oskar hesitated for a moment, then tossed his bag onto his shoulder and walked towards the door. All eyes turned towards him.
Running the gauntlet. Gang attack.
Yes, he had feared the worst. Everyone knew what had happened to Jonny on Thursday, of course, and even though he couldn’t pick Jonny’s face out of the crowd it was Micke’s version they had heard on Friday. And Micke was there, with his idiot grin pasted on his face, like usual.
Instead of slowing down, preparing to escape in some way, he lengthened his stride, walking quickly towards the classroom. He was empty inside. He didn’t care what happened any more. It wasn’t important.
And sure enough: a miracle occurred. The sea parted.
The group assembled outside the door broke up, created room for Oskar to get to the door. He had not expected anything else actually. If it was because of some strength emanating from him, or because he was a stinking pariah who had to be avoided, it didn’t matter.
He was different now. They sensed it, and slunk back.
Oskar walked into the classroom without looking to either side, sat down at his desk. He heard murmuring from the corridor and after a few minutes they streamed back in. Johan gave him the thumbs up when he walked past. Oskar shrugged.
Then the teacher came in and five minutes after the lesson started, Jonny arrived. Oskar had expected him to have some kind of bandage over his ear, but there wasn’t anything. The ear was, however, dark red, swollen and didn’t look like it belonged to his body.
Jonny took his seat. He didn’t look at Oskar, didn’t look at anyone.
He is ashamed.
Yes, that must be it. Oskar turned his head to look at Jonny who pulled a photo album out of his backpack and slipped it into his desk. And he saw that Jonny’s cheeks had turned bright red, matching his ear. Oskar thought about poking his tongue out at him, but decided against it.
Too childish.
Tommy started school at quarter to nine on Mondays so at eight o’clock Staffan got up and had a quick cup of coffee before he went down to have his man-to-man talk with the boy.
Yvonne had already left for work; Staffan himself was supposed to report for duty at nine in Judarn to continue searching the forest, an undertaking he sensed would be fruitless.
Well, it would feel good to be outside and it looked like the weather was going to be decent. He rinsed the coffee cup under the tap, deliberated for a moment, then went and put on his uniform. Had considered going down to see Tommy in his normal clothes, talk to him like a normal person, so to speak. But strictly speaking this was a police matter, vandalism, and anyway, the uniform imbued him with a shell of authority that he, although he didn’t think he lacked in his everyday person, nonetheless…well.
And anyway it was practical to be ready for work since he was heading there after this. So Staffan pulled on his work clothes, the winter jacket, checked in the mirror to see the impression he made and found it pleasing. Then he took the cellar key that Yvonne had left for him on the kitchen table, closed the door, checked the lock (work habit) and walked down the stairs, unlocked the door to the cellar.
And speaking of work…<
br />
There was something wrong with this door. No resistance when he turned the key, the door could simply be opened. He crouched down and checked the mechanism.
Aha. A wad of paper.
A classic trick of burglars; make up some excuse to visit a place you wanted to rob, tamper with the lock and then hope the owner wouldn’t notice it when they left.
Staffan unfolded the blade of his pocketknife, picked out the piece of paper.
Tommy, of course.
It didn’t occur to Staffan to wonder why Tommy needed to rig the lock of a door that he had a key to. Tommy was a thief who hung out here and this was a thief’s trick. Therefore: Tommy.
Yvonne had described where Tommy’s hangout was, and while Staffan walked in that direction he prepared the lecture he was going to give. He had considered taking the pal route, to take it easy, but this thing with the lock had made him angry again.
He would explain to Tommy—explain, not threaten—about juvenile detention facilities, social services, the age at which you could be legally tried as an adult, and so on. Just so he understood what kind of path he was about to head down.
The door to the storage unit was open. Staffan looked in. Well, what do you know. The bird has flown the coop. Then he saw the stains. He squatted and dabbed his finger into one of them.
Blood.
Tommy’s blanket lay on the couch and even that had the odd bloodstain on it. And the floor was—he saw now on looking for it—covered in blood.
Alarmed, he backed up out of the unit.
In front of his eyes he now saw…a crime scene. Instead of the lecture he was to have delivered, his mind started to flip through the rulebook for handling a crime scene. He knew it by heart, but as he was proceeding through the paragraphs—
immediate recovery of such material as may otherwise be lost… note the exact time…avoid contamination of locations where traces of fibres may potentially be recovered…
—he heard a faint murmur behind him. A mumbling punctuated with muffled thuds.
Let the Right One In Page 42