Let The Right One In Part 54

Lacke lay in the bed next to her, snarling, chewing in his sleep. She was ready. If she had been able to press a b.u.t.ton 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 try 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 in order to get them to turn 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 even physically possible, then smiled, shook her head and said: "I think this will be alright. 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 rea.s.sured 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 pa.s.s before you like a strip of film in fast forward. The bird I had in the cardboard box. . . the smell of freshly mangled The bird I had in the cardboard box. . . the smell of freshly mangled sheets in the laundry room . . . my mother leaning over the cinnamon sheets in the laundry room . . . my mother leaning over the cinnamon bun crumbs . . . my father. .. the smoke from his pipe. . . Per. . . the bun crumbs . . . my father. .. the smoke from his pipe. . . Per. . . the cottage. . . Len and I, the big mushroom we found that summer. .. Ted cottage. . . Len and I, the big mushroom we found that summer. .. Ted with mashed blueberries on his cheek. . . Lacke, his back. . . Lacke . . . 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 sea of fire. A clattering noise as the blinds were raised, and she was sucked down into a sea of fire.

Oskar's mom had woken him up at ten past seven, the usual. He had climbed out of bed and had breakfast, as usual. He had put his clothes on and then hugged his mom good-bye 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, yanked up the telephone receiver.

"HithisisOskar!"

"Oh ... h.e.l.lo 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 Mom wasn't home. His dad cleared his throat.

"So I was thinking .. . about what happened Sat.u.r.day 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 kilometers of telephone lines. Crows sitting on them, s.h.i.+vering, 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 quite a few members of the cla.s.s were standing in the corridor outside the cla.s.sroom. Oskar hesitated for a moment, then tossed his bag onto his shoulder and walked toward the door. All eyes turned toward 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 length- length- ened ened his stride, walking quickly toward the cla.s.sroom. He was empty inside. He didn't care what happened anymore. It wasn't important. And sure enough: a miracle occurred. The sea parted. his stride, walking quickly toward the cla.s.sroom. He was empty inside. He didn't care what happened anymore. It wasn't important. And sure enough: a miracle occurred. The sea parted.

The group a.s.sembled 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 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 cla.s.sroom 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. He is ashamed.

Yes, that must be it. Oskar turned his head to look at Jonny, who pulled a photo alb.u.m 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 in order to continue a search of 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 out 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 sh.e.l.l 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 off to work 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 put out for him on the kitchen table, walked out, closed the door, checked the lock (work habit) and walked down the stairs, unlocked the door to the cellar. And speaking of work ...

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. Aha. A wad of paper.

A cla.s.sic 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 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. 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 the location of Tommy's unit for him, and while Staffan walked in that direction he prepared in his head the lecture he was going to hold. He had considered considered taking the pal route, taking it easy, but this thing with the lock had made him angry again. taking the pal route, taking 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 pulled his finger over one of them. Blood. Tommy's blanket lay on the couch and even that had the occasional bloodstain on it. And the floor was-he now saw when he was 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 supposed to have delivered, his mind now started to flip through the rulebook for the handling of 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 fibers exact time. .. avoid contamination of locations where traces of fibers may potentially be recovered. .. may potentially be recovered. ..

-he heard a faint murmur behind him. A mumbling punctuated with m.u.f.fled thuds.

A stick was threaded through the wheels of the locking mechanism of the safety room. He walked over to the door, listened. Yes. The mumbling, the thuds, were coming from in there. It almost sounded like a ... ma.s.s. A recited litany that he could not make out the words to. Devil wors.h.i.+ppers .. . Devil wors.h.i.+ppers .. .

A silly thought, but when he looked closer at the stick in the door it actually frightened him, because of what he saw at the very tip. Dark red, lumpy streaks that reached about ten centimeters up the stick itself. Thus, and exactly thus, is what knives looked like when they had been used for violent altercations and had partly dried.

The muttering on the other side of the door continued.

Call for reinforcements?

No. There was perhaps something criminal going on behind that door that would be completed while he was upstairs making the call. Had to manage this on his own.

He undid the fastening on his holster in order to make easy access to his gun, unhooked the baton. With his other hand he picked out a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wrapped it around the end of the stick and started to pull it out of the wheels while he listened closely to see if the sc.r.a.ping sound from the stick altered the noises from inside the room in any way.

No. The litany and the thuds continued.

The stick was out. He propped it up against the wall in order not to destroy any hand or fingerprints.

He knew that the handkerchief was no guarantee that prints would not be erased, so instead of grabbing the wheels he used two stiff fingers on one of the spokes and forced it to turn.

The wheel pistons gave way. He licked his lips. His throat felt dry. The other wheel was turned back all the way and the door slid open one centimeter. Now he heard the words. It was a song. The voice was a high-pitched, broken whisper: Two hundred and seventy-four elephants On a teensy spider weeeee- (Thud.) -eh!

They thought it was Such jolly good fun That they went and got a friend!

Two hundred and seventy-five elephants On a teensy spider weee- (Thud.) -eh!

They thought it was . . .

Staffan angled the baton away from his body, pushed the door open with it.

And then he saw.

The lump that Tommy was kneeling behind would have been hard to identify as human had it not been for the arm that stuck out of it, half separated from the body. The chest, stomach, face were only a heap of flesh, guts, crushed bone.

Tommy was holding a square stone with both hands that, at a certain point in his song, he thrust down into the butchered remains, which did not provide more resistance than that the stone went all the way through and hit against the floor with a thud, before he lifted it up again and yet another elephant was added to the spiderweb.

Staffan could not tell for sure that it was Tommy. The person holding the stone was covered in so much blood and tissue sc.r.a.ps that it was difficult to ... Staffan became intensely nauseated. He restrained a wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him, looked down in order not to have to see, and his eyes stopped at a tin soldier lying by the threshold. No. It was the figure of pistol shooter. He recognized it. The figure was lying in such a way so the pistol was aimed straight up.

Where is the base?

Then he realized.

His head spun and, oblivious to fingerprints and crime scene protocol, he leaned his hand against the door post in order not to fall while the song continued repet.i.tively: Two hundred and seventy-seven elephants On...

He must be pretty shaken up because he was hallucinating. He thought he saw... yes ... saw clearly how the human remains on the floor, between each blow ... moved. As if trying to get up.

Morgan was a chain smoker; he was already putting out his b.u.t.t in a flower bed outside the hospital entrance when Larry still had half of his left. Morgan pushed his hands down into his pockets, walked to and fro in the parking lot, swore when water from a puddle seeped in through the hole in his shoe and made his sock wet.

"Got any money, Larry?"