Let the right one in (14 page)

Eli applauded, shouted: "Bravo!"

Oskar caught the swing, put it back in its normal position, and sat down. Yet again, he was grateful for the dark that hid a triumphant smile he couldn't suppress, even though it pulled at his wound. Eli stopped clapping, but his smile was still there.

Things were going to be different from now on. Of course you couldn't kill people by hacking up trees. He knew that.

29 OCTOBER

Hakan sat on the floor in the narrow corridor and listened to the splashing from the bathroom. His knees were pulled up so his heels touched his buttocks; his chin rested on his knees. Jealousy was a fat, chalk-white snake in his chest. It writhed slowly, as pure as innocence and childishly plain.

Replaceable. He was... replaceable.

Last night he had been lying in his bed with the window cracked. Listened to Eli saying good-bye to that Oskar. Their high voices, laughter. A ... lightness he could never achieve. His was the leaden seriousness, the demands, the desire.

He had thought his beloved was like him. He had looked into Eli's eyes and seen an ancient person's knowledge and indifference. At first it had frightened him: Samuel Beckett's eyes in Audrey Hepburn's face. Then it had reassurred him.

It was the best of all possible worlds. The young, lithe body that gave beauty to his life, while at the same time responsibility was lifted from him. He was not the one in charge. And he did not have to feel guilt for his desire; his beloved was older than he. No longer a child. At least he had thought so.

But since all this with Oskar had started something had changed. A ... regression. Eli had started to behave more and more like the child her appearance gave her out to be; had started to move her body in a loose-limbed and careless way, use childish expressions, words. Wanted to
play.
Hide the Key. A few nights ago they had played Hide the Key. Eli had become angry when Hakan had not showed the necessary enthusiasm for the game, then tried to tickle him to get him to laugh. He had relished Eli's touch.

It was attractive, naturally. This joy, this . . .
life.
But also frightening, since it was something so foreign to him. He was both hornier and more scared than he had ever been since meeting her.

Last night his beloved had gone into Hakan's bedroom and locked the door and proceeded to lie there for half an hour tapping on the wall. When Hakan once again was allowed in he saw a piece of paper taped to the wall above his bed. The Morse code.

Later, when he was lying there and trying to fall asleep, he had been tempted to tap his own message to Oskar, something about what Eli
was.
Instead he had copied the code onto a scrap of paper so he could decode what they said to each other in the future.

Hakan bent his head, rested his forehead on his knees. The splashing from the bathroom had stopped. He couldn't go on like this. He was about to explode. From desire, from jealousy.

The bathroom lock turned and the door opened. Eli was standing in front of him. Completely naked. Pure.

"Oh—you're sitting out here."

"Yes. You're beautiful."

"Thank you."

"Will you turn around for me?"

"Why?"

"Because ... I want you to."

"No; why don't you get up and move?"

"Maybe I'll say something .. . if you do this for me." Eli looked quizzically at Hakan. Then turned 180 degrees.

Saliva spurted into his mouth, he swallowed. Looked. A physical sensation of how his eyes devoured what was in front of them. The most beautiful thing there was in the world. An arm's length away. An endless distance.

"Are you ... hungry?"

Eli turned around again.

"Yes."

"I'll do it for you. But I want something in return."

"What is it?"

"One night. All I want is one night."

"OK."

"I can have that?"

"Yes."

"Lie next to you? Touch you?"

"Yes."

"Can I. .."

"No. Nothing more. But that. Yes."

"Then I'll do it. Tonight."

Eli crouched down next to him. Hakan's palms burned. Wanted to caress. Couldn't. But tonight. Eli looked up and said,

"Thanks. But what if someone ... that picture in the paper ... there are people who know you live here."

"I've thought of that."

"If someone comes here during the day when ... I'm resting."

"I've thought of that, I said."

"How?"

Hakan took Eli's hand, got up and went out into the kitchen, opened the pantry, and took out an old jam jar with a twist-on glass lid. The jar was half-filled with a clear liquid. He explained what he had planned to do. Eli objected vehemently.

"You can't."

"I can. Do you understand now how much ... I care about you?"

+

When Hakan was ready to leave he put the jam jar into the bag with the rest of his equipment. During that time Eli had gotten dressed. She was waiting in the hall when Hakan came out. Eli leaned over and lightly planted a kiss on his cheek. Hakan blinked and looked at Eli's face for a long time.

I'm lost.

Then he went to work.

+

Morgan was slurping his way through Four Small Dishes, one by one,
mostly
ignoring the small bowl of rice by his side. Lacke leaned forward and said in a low voice:

"Mind if I take the rice?"

"Hell, no. Want some sauce?"

"No, I just want a little soy."

Larry looked up over his copy of
Expressen,
made a face when Lacke took the bowl of rice and poured soy sauce over it with a glug-glug-glug and started to eat as if he had never seen food before. Larry motioned at the deep-fried shrimp that were heaped on Morgan's plate.

"You could offer to share, you know."

"Oh, sure. Sorry. You want a shrimp or something?"

"No, my stomach can't take it. But Lacke."

"You want a shrimp, Lacke?"

Lacke nodded and held out his bowl of rice. Morgan put two fried shrimp in the bowl with a grandiose flourish. Offered a little more. Lacke thanked him and dug in.

Morgan grunted and shook his head. Lacke had not been himself since Jocke disappeared. He had been hard up before but now he was drinking more and didn't have a cent left over for food. It was strange, this whole business with Jocke, but there was no reason for despair. Jocke had been missing for four days now and who really knew? He could have met a chick and gone to Tahiti, anything. He would turn up eventually. Larry put down the paper, pushed his glasses up onto his head, rubbed his eyes and said: "Do you know where the nearest nuclear shelter is?" Morgan guffawed. "What, are you planning to hibernate or something?"

"No, but this submarine. Hypothetically speaking, what if there was a full-scale invasion—"

"You're welcome to come over and use ours. I was down there a few years ago and checked it out when a guy from some defense something was there to run an inventory-check. Gas masks, canned food, PingPong table, the whole deal. It's all there."

"Ping-Pong table?"

"Sure, you know. When the Russians land we just say 'Stop and take cover boys, put down your Kalashnikov-ies, we're going to determine this thing with a Ping-Pong match instead.' Then the generals go after each other by serving screwballs."

"Do the Russians even know how to play table tennis?"

"Nope. So we got this thing all sewn up. Maybe we'll even regain control of the Baltic territories." Lacke wiped his mouth with exaggerated care on his napkin and said,

"Anyway, it's all pretty strange."

Morgan lit up a John Silver. "What is?"

"This thing with Jocke. He would always tell us when he was going somewhere. You know. Even if he was just going to go see his brother on Vaddo Island it was like a big event. Started talking about it a week before—what he was planning to bring, what they were going to do." Larry put a hand on Lacke's shoulder.

"You're talking about him in the past tense."

"What? Oh, yeah. Anyway, I really think something's happened to him. I really think so."

Morgan downed a big mouthful of beer, burped.

"You think he's dead."

Lacke shrugged, looked beseechingly at Larry, who was studying the pattern printed on the paper napkins. Morgan shook his head.

"No way. We would have heard something. The cops said they would call you if they heard anything. Not that I trust cops but. .. you'd think we'd hear something."

"He should have called by now."

"Good grief, are you two married or something? Don't worry. He'll turn up soon. With roses and chocolates and promises neeeeeever to do anything like this again."

Lacke nodded despondently, sipping the beer Larry had bought him with the assurance that Lacke would return the favor when things looked up. Two more days, maximum. Then he would start looking himself. Call all the hospitals and morgues and whatever else you did. You didn't let own your best friend. If he was sick or dead or whatever. You didn't let him down.

+

It was half past seven and Hakan was starting to worry. He had wandered aimlessly around the Nya Elementar's Gymnasium and the Vallingby mall where the young people hung out. Various sport training sessions were underway, and the pool was open late, so there was no lack of potential victims. The problem was that most of them moved in groups. He had overheard a comment from one of three girls that her mother was "still completely psycho over this thing with the murderer." He could of course have chosen to go further afield, to an area where his earlier act had less impact, but then he ran the risk of the blood going bad on the way home. And if he was going to go to the trouble of doing this again he wanted to give his beloved the best. The fresher it was, the closer to home, the better. That's what he had been told.

Last night the weather had turned and it had become very cold, the temperature falling below freezing. That meant the ski mask he was wearing, with holes for the eyes and mouth, did not attract undue attention.

But he couldn't sneak around here forever. Eventually someone would get suspicious.

What if he didn't manage to find anyone? If he came home without anything? His beloved wouldn't die, he was sure of that. A difference from the first time. But now there was another aspect, a wonderful one. A whole night. A whole night with the beloved body next to his. The tender, soft limbs, the smooth stomach to caress with his hand. A lighted candle in the bedroom whose light would flicker over silken skin, his for a night. He rubbed his hand over his member that throbbed and cried out with longing.

Have to stay calm, have to . . .

He knew what he would do. It was insane but he would do it. Go into the Vallingby Pool and find his victim there. It was probably fairly deserted at this time and now that he had decided he knew exactly what to do. Dangerous, of course. But possible.

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.