Let the right one in (34 page)

Oskar sat back in the seat, enjoying the warmth rising in his body, especially across his back. Must be one of those electric chairs. To think it was this easy. Lit-up houses flickered by.

Go on, sit there.

And with a song, with a game we go to Spain and ... somewhere.

"Do you live in Stockholm?"

"Yes. In Blackeberg."

"Blackeberg ... that's somewhere to the west, isn't it?"

"I think so. They call it the Western Suburbs, so it must be."

"I see. Is there something important waiting for you?"

"Yes."

"Must be something extra special for you to set off like this."

"Yes. It is."

+

It was cold in the room. His joints felt stiff after having rested so long in an uncomfortable position. The guard stretched and his joints creaked. He glanced at the hospital bed and was suddenly wide awake.

Gone . . . the cold. . . damn!

He got to his feet unsteadily, looked around. Thank God. The man had not escaped. But how the hell had he managed to get over to the window? And . . .

What is that?

The murderer stood leaning against the windowsill with a black lump on one shoulder. His naked backside was visible under the hospital gown. The guard took a step toward the window, stopped, caught his breath. The lump was a head. A pair of dark eyes met his.

He fumbled for his weapon, realized he wasn't carrying one. For security reasons. The nearest weapon was kept in the safe out in the corridor. And anyway, this was just a child, he saw that now.

"You there! Keep absolutely still!"

He ran the three paces to the window and the child's head rose up from the man's throat.

At the same moment the guard reached them the child jumped from the windowsill and disappeared upward. The feet dangled for a moment in the upper corner of the window before they vanished.

Bare feet.

The guard stuck his head out the window, managed to catch sight of a body making its way across the roof, out of sight. The man by his side wheezed.

God almighty. Fuck it.

In the weak light he could see the man's shoulder and back were darkly stained. The man's head was hanging down and there was a fresh wound on his neck. Up on the roof he heard the light thuds of feet making their way across the sheet metal. He stood up, paralyzed.

Priorities. What were the priorities?

He could not remember. Save life first. Yes. But there were others who could ... he ran to the door, punched in the combination and ran slipsliding out into the corridor, shouting:

"Nurse! Nurse! Come here! This is an emergency!"

He ran to the fire stairs while the night nurse came out of her office, jogging in the direction of the room he had just left. When they passed each other she asked: "What is it?"

"Emergency. It's an . . . emergency. Get people in here, there's been a ... murder."

The words didn't want to come. He had never experienced anything like this before. He had been assigned to this boring guard duty because he was inexperienced. Replaceable, so to speak. As he ran to the stairs he pulled out his radio and alerted the station, called for reinforcements.

+

The nurse tried to prepare for the worst: a body lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Hanging by a sheet from a hot water pipe. She had seen both.

When she walked into the room she saw only an empty bed. And something by the window. At first she thought it was a heap of clothes laid on the windowsill. Then she saw it was moving.

She rushed over to the window in order to stop him, but the man had gotten too far. He was already up on the windowsill, halfway out the window, when she started to run. She got there in time to catch a corner of his hospital gown before the man rolled his body off the sill, the IV

pulling out of his arm. The sound of ripping fabric and then she stood there with a piece of blue cloth in her hand. After a couple of seconds she heard a distant, dull thud when the body hit the ground. Then the high-pitched alarm from the IV stand.

+

The taxi driver pulled around in front of the emergency room entrance. The older man in the back seat who, during the whole trip from Jakobsberg

had entertained him with his medical history of heart trouble, opened the door and remained seated, expectantly.

OK, OK.

The driver opened his door, walked around the side, and put out his arm to support the old man. Snow fell inside the collar of his jacket. The old one was about to take his arm but his gaze fixed on a point somewhere in the sky, and froze.

"Come on. I'll help you."

The old man pointed up. "What is that?"

The driver looked where he was pointing.

A person was standing on the roof of the hospital. A small person. With a bare chest, arms held tightly along the side.

Alert someone.

He should send out an alert via the radio. But he just stood there, unable to move. If he moved some kind of balance would be upset and the little person would fall.

There was a pain in his hand where the old one gripped him with clawlike fingers, digging his nails into his palm. But still he didn't move. The snow fell into his eyes and he blinked. The person on the roof spread his or her arms, brought them up overhead. Something was suspended between the arms and the body, some kind of membrane ... webbing. The old man pulled on his hand, got up out of the car, and stood next to him.

At the same time as the old man's shoulder touched his, the little person

... the child ... fell straight out. He gasped and the old one's fingers again dug into his hand. The child fell straight at them.

Instinctively they both ducked, putting their arms up over their heads. Nothing happened.

When they looked up again the child was gone. The driver looked around, but all they could see around them was the falling snow in the glow of the street lamps. The old man drew a rattling breath.

"It was the angel of death. The angel of death. I will never leave this place alive."

7 NOVEMBER [NIGHT]

Habba -Habba-soudd-soudd!"

The very vocal group of boys and girls had gotten on at Hotorget. They were maybe Tommy's age. Drunk. The guys howled from time to time, fell on top of the girls, and the girls laughed, beating them off. Then they sang again. The same song, over and over. Oskar looked at them in secret.

I'm never going to be like that.

Unfortunately. He would have liked to. It looked like fun. But Oskar would never manage to be like that, do what the guys did. One of them stood up on his seat and sang loudly: "A-Huleba-Huleba, A-haHuleba..." An old man who was dozing in a handicapped seat at one end of the subway car shouted out: "Keep it down, will you? I'm trying to sleep." One of the girls gave him the finger.

"You can sleep at home."

The whole gang laughed and started in on the song again. A few seats away there was a man reading a book. Oskar craned his neck so he could read the title, but could only see the name of the author: Goran Tunstrom. Nobody he had ever heard of. In the nearest block of two-seaters facing each other there was an old woman with a handbag on her lap. She was talking to herself in a low voice, gesturing to an invisible interlocutor.

He had never taken the subway this late before. Were these the same people who in the daytime sat quietly and stared in front of them, or read newspapers? Or was this a special group that only appeared at night?

The man with the book turned the page. Strangely enough Oskar had no book with him. Too bad. He would have wanted to be like that man, reading a book, oblivious to everything around him. But he only had his Walkman and the Cube. Had been planning to listen to the KISS tape he had gotten from Tommy, had tried it a little on the bus but got sick of it after only a couple of songs.

He took his Cube out of his bag. Three sides were solved. Only an insignificant amount needed to be done on the fourth. Eli and he had spent one evening working on it together, talked about how you could do it and since then Oskar had become better. He looked at all sides and tried to think up a strategy but couldn't get past thinking of Eli's face. What will she look like?

He wasn't afraid. He was in a state of... yes... he could not be here, at this time, could not be doing what he was doing. It didn't exist. It wasn't him.
I
don't exist and no one can do anything to me.

He had called his dad from Norrtalje and his dad had cried on the phone. Said he would call for someone to go and pick up Oskar. It was the second time in his life Oskar heard his father cry. For a moment Oskar was about to give in. But when his dad had gotten worked up and started yelling about how he had to have his own life and be allowed to do as he damn well pleased in his own house, Oskar had hung up on him. That was when it had really started, that feeling that he didn't really exist.

The group of boys and girls got off at Angbyplan. One of the guys turned around and shouted into the subway car:

"Sweet dreams, my . .. my . .."

He couldn't think of the word and one of the girls pulled him back with her. Just before the doors closed he tore himself away and ran over to them, holding one open and shouting:

"... fellow passengers! Sweet dreams, my fellow passengers!" He let go of the door and the subway car started to go. The reading man lowered his book and looked at the young people on the platform. Then he turned to Oskar and looked him in the eyes. And smiled. Oskar smiled back briefly, then pretended to turn his attention back to the Cube.

In his chest a feeling of having... passed muster. The man had looked at him and transmitted the thought,
You're alright. What you're doing is
good.

He didn't dare look up at the man anymore. He felt like the man
knew.
Oskar turned the Cube one click, then turned it back.

+

With the exception of Oskar, two people got off at Blackeberg, from other subway cars. An older guy he didn't recognize and then a rockabilly guy who appeared very drunk. The rockabilly guy walked up to the older guy and shouted:

"Hey man, spare a cigarette?"

"Sorry, don't smoke."

The rockabilly guy didn't appear to hear more than the negative, because he drew a ten kronor note from his pocket and waved it around. "I got ten! One stick is all I need, man."

The guy shook his head and walked away. The rockabilly guy stood still, swaying, and when Oskar walked past he lifted his head and said:

"You!" But his eyes narrowed, he focused them on Oskar, and then he shook his head. "No. Nothing. Go in peace, brother." Oskar kept going up the stairs, up into the subway station. Wondered if the rockabilly guy was planning to pee on the electric rail. The older guy went out through the exit doors. Except for the ticket collector in his booth, Oskar was alone in the station.

Everything was so different at night. The photo shop, florist, and clothing store in the station were dark. The ticket collector sat with his feet up on the counter, reading something. So quiet. The clock on the wall said a few minutes past two. He should be lying in bed now. Sleeping. Should at the very least be sleepy. But no. He was so tired his body felt hollow, but it was a hollowness filled with electricity. Not sleepiness.

A door down by the platform was thrown open and he heard the

rockabilly guy's voice from down there: "And bow down, you officers in your helmets and batons..."

Same song he had been singing. He chuckled and started to run. Ran out the doors, down the hill toward the school, past it and the parking lot. It had started to snow again and the large flakes squelched the heat in his face. He looked up as he was running. The moon was still there, peeking out between the houses.

Once he was in the courtyard he stopped, caught his breath. Almost all the windows were dark, but wasn't there a faint light coming from behind the blinds of Eli's apartment?

What will she look like?

He walked up the sloping yard, glancing at his own dark window. The normal Oskar was lying in there, sleeping. Oskar... pre-Eli. The one with the Pissball in his underpants. That was something he had done away with, didn't need any longer.

Oskar unlocked the door to his building and walked through the base-ment corridor over to hers, did
not
stop to see if the stain was still on the floor. Just walked past it. It didn't exist any longer. He had no mom, no dad, no earlier life, he was simply ... here. He walked through the door, up the stairs.

Stood there on the landing, looking at the worn wooden door, the empty name plate.
Behind that door.

He had imagined he was going to dash up the stairs, make a dive for the bell. Instead he sat down on the next to last step, next to the door. What if she didn't want him to come?

After all, she was the one who had run away from him. She would maybe tell him to go away, that she wanted to be left alone, that she ... The basement storage room. Tommy's gang.

He could sleep there, on the couch. They weren't there at night, were they? Then he could see Eli tomorrow evening, like normal.

But it won't be like normal.

He stared at the doorbell. Things would not simply return to normal. Something big had to be done. Like running away, hitchhiking, making your way home in the middle of the night to show that it was . .. important. What he was scared of was
not
that maybe she was a creature who survived by drinking other people's blood. No—it was that she might push him away.

He rang the bell.

A shrill sound rang out inside the apartment, stopped abruptly when he let go of the button. He stood there, waiting. Rang it again, longer this time. Nothing. Not even a sound.

She wasn't home.

Oskar sat still on the step while disappointment sank like a stone to his stomach. And he suddenly felt so tired, so very tired. He got up slowly, walked down the stairs. Halfway down he had an idea. Stupid, but why not. Walked up to her door again and with short and long tones of the doorbell he spelled out her name in Morse code.