If things went wrong he had his last resort. But nothing would go wrong. He saw the whole thing in detail now that he was walking briskly toward the entrance. He felt intoxicated. The cloth of the ski mask in front of his nose became wet with condensation as he panted.
This would be something to tell his beloved about tonight, something to tell while he caressed the firm, curved buttocks with his trembling hand, imprinting everything in his memory for all eternity.
He walked in the main entrance and felt the familiar mild chlorine smell. All the hours he had spent at the pool. With the others, or alone. The young bodies that glistened with sweat or water, at an arm’s length, but unreachable. Only images that he could preserve and call forth when he lay in his bed with toilet paper in one hand. The smell of chlorine was comforting, home-like. He walked up to the cashier.
“One, please.”
The woman at the cash register looked up from her magazine. Her eyes widened a little. He gestured to his head, to the mask.
“It’s cold.”
She nodded, uncertainly. Should he remove the mask? No. He didn’t know how to do so without raising suspicion.
“Do you want a locker?”
“A private changing cabin, please.”
She stretched out the key to him and he paid. He removed the mask as he moved away from her. Now she had seen him take it off, but without seeing his face. It was brilliant. He walked over to the changing area at a rapid clip, looking down at the floor in case he encountered anyone.
***
Welcome to my humble abode. Come in.”
Tommy walked past Staffan into the hallway; behind him he heard a clicking sound when his mom and Staffan kissed. Staffan said in a low voice “Have you?⦔
“No, I thought⦔
“Mmm, we’ll have to⦔
The clicking sound again. Tommy looked around the apartment. He had never been in a cop’s home before and was, a little against his will, curious. What were they like?
But even out in the hall he realized Staffan could hardly be a satisfactory representative of the whole police corps. He had imagined something⦠yes, something like in detective novels. A little run-down and barren. A place where you came to sleep when you weren’t out chasing bad guys.
Guys like me.
Nope. Staffan’s apartment was⦠frilly. The hall entrance looked like it had been decorated by someone who bought everything from those little catalogues that came in the mail.
Here a velvet painting of a sunset, there a little alpine cottage with an old woman on a stick leaning out of the door. Here a lace doily on the telephone table, next to the telephone a ceramic figurine with a dog and a child. On the base a pithy inscription: don’t you know how to talk?
Staffan lifted the figurine.
“Nifty little thing, isn’t it? It changes color depending on the weather.”
Tommy nodded. Either Staffan had borrowed the apartment from his old mother, for the purposes of this visit, or else he was genuinely sick in the head. Staffan put the figurine back with care.
“I collect these kind of things, you see. Objects that tell you about the weather. This one, for example.”
He poked the old woman peeking out of the alpine cottage. She swung back into the cottage and an old man came out instead.
“When the old lady looks out that means bad weather, and when the old man looks out-”
“It’ll be even worse.”
Staffan laughed, sounding slightly forced.
“It doesn’t work so well.”
Tommy looked back at his mom and was almost scared by what he saw. She stood there with her coat still on, her hands gripped tightly together, and a smile on her face that could have sent a horse bolting. Panic-stricken. Tommy decided to make an effort.
“Kind of like a barometer, you mean.”
“Yes, exactly. That was what I started with, actually. Barometers. Collecting, I mean.”
Tommy pointed to a little wooden cross with a silver Jesus hanging on the wall.
“Is that also a barometer?”
Staffan looked at Tommy, at the cross, then back at Tommy. Was suddenly serious.
“No, it’s not. It’s Christ.”
“The one in the Bible.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Tommy pushed his hands into his pockets and walked into the living room. Yes, the barometers were in here. About twenty, in various shapes and sizes, hanging on the wall that ran the long length of the room, behind a gray leather couch with a glass coffee table in front of it.
They were not particularly consistent in their readings. Many of the hands were pointing to different numbers; it looked like a wall of clocks where each showed the time in a different part of the world. He knocked on the glass of one of the instruments and the needle jumped a little. He didn’t know what it meant, but for some reason people always tapped barometers.
In a corner cabinet with glass doors there were a whole lot of small trophies. Four larger trophies were arranged along the top of a piano next to the cabinet. On the wall over the piano there was a large painting of the Virgin Mary with the baby Jesus in her arms. She nursed him with a vacant expression in her eyes that seemed to say, “What have I done to deserve this?”
Staffan cleared his throat when he came into the room.
“Well, Tommy. Is there anything you’d like to ask me about?”
Tommy understood full well what he was expected to ask.
“What trophies are these?”
Staffan gestured with an arm toward the goblets on top of the piano.
“These, you mean?”
No, you dumb bastard. The trophies down at the clubhouse by the soccer field, of course.
“Yes.”
Staffan pointed to a silver-colored statue, some twenty centimeters tall, on a stone base, positioned between two trophies on the piano. Tommy had thought it was just a sculpture, but no, it was actually a prize. The human figure was standing wide-legged, arms straight, taking aim with a revolver.
“Pistol shooting. This is for first prize in the district championships, that one third prize at the national level in forty-five caliber, standing⦠and so on.”
Tommy’s mom came in and joined them.
“Staffan is one of Sweden’s top five pistol shooters.”
“Does it come in handy?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, for when you shoot people.”
Staffan ran his finger along the base of one of the trophies and then looked at it.
“The whole point of police work is to avoid shooting at people.”
“Have you ever had to?”
“No.”
“But you’d like to, wouldn’t you?”
Staffan pointedly drew a deep breath, exhaled in a long sigh.
“I’m going to go⦠check on the food.”
The gasoline⦠see if it’s on fire.
He walked out to the kitchen. Tommy’s mom grabbed him by the elbow and whispered,
“Why do you say things like that?”
“I was just wondering.”
“He’s a good person, Tommy.”
“Yes, he must be. I mean, with prizes for pistol shooting and the Virgin Mary. Could it get any better?”
***
Hakan didn’t bump into a single person on his way through the building. As he had thought, there were not very many people still here at this time. Two men his own age were putting their clothes on in the changing room. Overweight, shapeless bodies. Shriveled genitals under hanging bellies. The embodiment of ugliness.
He found his private changing cabin and locked the door behind him. Good. The initial preparations were completed. He put his ski mask back on, just in case, took off the halothane canister, hung his coat up on a hook. Opened his bag and took out his tools: knife, rope, funnel, container. He had forgotten to bring the raincoat. Damn. He would have to remove his clothes instead. The risk of g
etting splashed with blood was great but then he could conceal the stains under his clothes when he was done. Yes. And this was a pool, after all. Nothing strange about not having any clothes on in here.
He tested the strength of the other hook by grabbing it with both hands and lifting both feet from the floor. It held. It would easily hold a body most likely thirty kilos lighter than his own. Height might be a problem. The head was not likely to hang freely over the floor. He might have to fix the ropes by the knees. There was enough wall space between the hook and the top of the cabin wall to make sure the feet wouldn’t stick up over it. That would attract suspicion.
The two men seemed about to leave. He heard their voices.
“And work?”
“The usual. No openings for someone from Malmberget.”
“Did you hear this one: The question is not was it the Finns’ oil but whether the oil was Finn’s?”
“Yeah, that’s a good one.”
“Finn’s a slippery guy.”
Hakan giggled; something in his head was accelerating. He was too excited, was breathing too rapidly. His body consisted of butterflies that wanted to fly off in different directions at once.
Easy, easy.
He took deep breaths until he started to feel dizzy and then he undressed. Folded his clothes and put them into his bag. The two men left the changing area. Silence fell. He climbed onto the bench in order to peek over the top. Yes, his eyes just managed to clear the edge. Three boys around thirteen, fourteen years old came in. One used his towel to snap the rear end of the other one.
“Stop that, damn it!”
Hakan bent his head. Further down he felt his erection push into the corner of the booth as if between two hard, wide-opened buttocks.
Easy does it.
He peeked over the edge again. Two of the boys had taken off their Speedos and were bending forward into their lockers to take out their clothes. His groin area contracted in a single cramplike movement and
the sperm shot out into the corner, spilling onto the bench he was standing on.
Calm down now.
Yes, he felt better. But the sperm was bad. A trace.
He took his socks out of his bag, wiped the corner and the bench clean, as best he could. Put the socks back in the bag, and adjusted the ski mask while he listened to the boys’ conversation.
“⦠new Atari. Enduro. Want to come over and try it out?”
“No, I have some stuff I have to⦔
“How about you?”
“OK, do you have two joysticks?”
“No, but⦔
“We can go home and get mine on the way. Then we can both play.”
“OK. See you, Mattias.”
“See you.”
Two of the boys appeared to be on their way out. Perfect. One would be left behind without the others waiting around for him. He risked peeking out over the edge again. Two of the boys were leaving. The last one was putting on his socks. Hakan ducked down, remembering he still had the ski mask on. Lucky they hadn’t seen him.
He picked up the halothane canister, put his finger on the trigger. Should he keep the mask on? If the kid got away, if someone came into the changing room. Ifâ¦
Damn, it had been a mistake to take off all his clothes. If he needed to make a quick getaway. There was no time to think. He heard the boy close his locker and start toward the exit. In five seconds he would pass by the cabin door. No time to reconsider.
In the gap between the door and the wall he saw an approaching shadow. He blocked out all thoughts, unlocked the door, threw it open, and lunged.
Mattias turned around and saw a large, white naked body with a ski
mask over its head come bearing down on him. Only one thought, one
single word had time to flash through his consciousness before his body
instinctively pulled back.
Death.
He was recoiling before Death, who wanted to take him. In one hand Death was holding something black. This black object flew up toward his face and the boy drew in breath to scream.
But before the scream had time to escape, the black thing was over him, over his mouth, his nose. One hand gripped the back of his head, pressing his face into the black softness. The scream turned into a choked whimper and while he howled his mutilated scream he heard a hissing sound as if from a smoke machine.
He tried to scream again but when he drew in breath something happened with his body. A numbness spread to all his limbs and his next scream was just a squeak. He breathed again and his legs gave way, many-colored veils fluttering in front of his eyes.
He didn’t want to scream anymore. Didn’t have the energy. The veils now covered his entire field of vision. He didn’t have a body any longer. The colors danced. He melted into the rainbow.
***
Oskar held the piece of paper with the Morse code in one hand and tapped letters into the wall with the other. Tapping his knuckles for a dot, slapping the wall with the flat of his hand for a dash, like they had agreed.
Knuckle. Pause. Knuckle, palm, knuckle, knuckle. Pause. Knuckle, knuckle. (E.L.I)
G.O.I.N.G. O.U.T.
The answer came after a few seconds.
I. M. C.O.M.I.N.G.
They met outside the entrance to her building. In one day she had⦠changed. About a month ago a Jewish woman had come to his school, talked to them about the Holocaust and shown them slides. Eli was looking a little bit like the people in those pictures.
The sharp light from the fixture above the door cast dark shadows on her face, as if the bones were threatening to protrude through the skin, as if the skin had become thinner. Andâ¦
“What have you done with your hair?”
He had thought it was the light that made it look like that, but when he came closer he saw that a few thick white strands ran through her
hand. Like on an old person. Eli ran a hand over her head. Smiled at him. “It’ll go away. What should we do?” Oskar made the few coins in his pocket jangle. “Tjorren?” “What?”
“The kiosk. The newspaper stand.”
“OK. Last one there is a rotten egg.”
An image flickered to life in Oskar’s head.
Black-and-white kids.
Then Eli took off and Oskar tried to catch her. Even though she looked so sick she was much faster than him, flew gazelle-like over the stones on the path, had crossed the street in a couple of strides. Oskar ran as well as he could, distracted by the thought.
Black-and-white kids?
Of course. He was running down the hill past the Gummy Bear factory when he got it. Those old movies that were shown at Sunday matinees. Like Anderssonskans Kalle. Last one there is a rotten egg. That was the kind of thing they said in those films.
Eli was waiting for him down by the road, twenty meters from the kiosk. Oskar jogged over to her, tried not to pant. He had never been down to the kiosk with Eli before. Should he tell her that thing? Yes.
“Do you know it’s called The Lover’s Kiosk?”
“Why?”
“Because⦠that is, I heard it at a parents meeting⦠there was someone who said-not to me of course, but-I heard it. He said that the one who has it, that he⦔
Now he was sorry he had brought it up. It was stupid. Embarrassing. Eli waved her arms around.
“What?”
“Uh, the guy who has it⦠that he invites ladies into the kiosk. You know, when he⦠when it’s closed.”
“Is it true?” Eli looked at the kiosk. “Do they have enough room in there?”
“Disgusting, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Oskar walked down toward the kiosk. Eli took a few quick steps to pull up alongside him, whispered “They must be skinny!”
Both of them giggled. They stepped into the circle of light from the kiosk. Eli rolled her eyes meaningfully at the kiosk owner, who was inside the kiosk watching a little TV.
“Is that
him?” 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 candy. 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 toward the mailbox, 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 candy, please.”
The owner gave him a disapproving look but started picking out an assortment of candy with long tongs from the plastic bins, 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 like she had done earlier and shushed her. The owner snorted, put a few candy foam bananas in the bag, and handed it to Oskar.
Let The Right One In aka Let Me In Page 12