Let the right one in (43 page)

"No, Tommy. It wasn't."

Tommy sighed. He knew his mom would get pissed, but he had still thought she might be able to see something comical in it. But she was on Staffan's side now. Had to come to terms with it.

So the problem, the real problem, was finding somewhere to live. When they got married, that is. For now he could crash in the basement those evenings when Staffan came over. At eight he was going to finish his shift at Akeshov and come straight out here. And Tommy had no intention of listening to some damn moralizing lecture from that guy. Not on his life.

So Tommy went to his room and got his blanket and pillow from his bed while Yvonne still sat there smoking, looking out of the kitchen window. When he was ready he stood in the kitchen door with his pillow under one arm, the rolled up blanket under the other.

"OK, I'm going now. I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell him where I am." Yvonne turned to him. She had tears in her eyes. Smiled a little.

"You look like when ... when you would come and ask ..." The words caught in her throat. Tommy stood still. Yvonne swallowed, cleared her throat, and looked at him with clear eyes, said quietly:

"Tommy. What should I do?"

"I don't know."

"Should I?..."

"No, not for my sake. Things are what they are."

Yvonne nodded. Tommy felt that he was also going to get really sad, that he should go now before things went wrong.

"And you won't tell, that—"

"No, no. I won't."

"Good. Thanks."

Yvonne got up and went over to Tommy. Hugged him. She smelled strongly of cigarettes. If Tommy's arms had been free he would have hugged her back. But he didn't, so he just put his head on her shoulder and they stood like that for a while.

Then Tommy left.

Don't trust her. Staffan can start going off on some damn thing or other
and. . .

In the basement he threw the blanket and pillow on the couch. Put in a wad of chewing tobacco and lay down to think things over.

It would be best if he got shot.

But Staffan probably wasn't the kind of guy who ... no, no. Was more like the one who would plant a bull's-eye right in the killer's forehead. Get a box of chocolates from his police friends. The hero. Would turn up here later looking for Tommy. Maybe.

He fished out his key, walked out in the corridor and unlocked the shelter, took the chain in with him. With his lighter as a lamp he made his way through the short corridor with the two storage units on either side. In the storage units there were dry goods, cans of food, old games, a camp stove, and other things to make it through a siege.

He opened a door, threw in the chain.

OK, he had an emergency exit.

Before he left the shelter he took down the shooting trophy and weighed it in his hand. At least two kilos. Maybe he could sell it? The value of the metal alone. They could melt it down.

He studied the pistol shooter's face. Didn't he kind of look like Staffan?

In that case melting it down was the right option.

Cremation. Definitely.

He laughed.

The absolutely best thing would be to melt everything down except the head and then give it back to Staffan. A solid pool of metal with only that little head sticking up. Was probably too hard to arrange. Unfortunately. He put the trophy back in its place, walked out, and closed the door without turning the wheels of the lock. Now he would be able to slip in here if he had to. Which he didn't really think would happen. But just in case.

+

Lacke let it ring ten times before hanging up. Gosta sat on the couch and stroked a striped orange cat over the head, didn't look up when he asked:

"No one home?"

Lacke rubbed his hand over his face, said with some irritation: "Yes, damn it. Didn't you hear us talking?"

"You want another one?"

Lacke softened, tried to smile.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to . .. sure, yes, what the hell, Thanks." Gosta leaned over carelessly so the cat on his knee was squeezed. It hissed and slipped down onto the floor, sat down and stared accusingly at Gosta, who was pouring a touch of tonic and a good amount of gin in Lacke's glass, holding it out to him.

"Here. Don't worry, she's probably just. . . you know .. ."

"Admitted. Thanks. She's gone to the hospital and they've admitted her."

"Yes ... that's right."

"Then say that."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. Cheers."

"Cheers."

They both drank. After a while Gosta started to pick his nose. Lacke looked at him, and Gosta pulled his finger away, smiled apologetically. Not used to having people around.

A large gray and white cat was lying flat on the floor, looked like it barely had the energy to lift its head up. Gosta nodded at it. "Miriam is going to have babies soon."

Lacke took a big sip, made a face. For every drop of numbness the alcohol gave him, the smell of the apartment lessened.

"Whadya do with them?"

"What do you mean?"

"The kittens. What do you do with them? Let them live, do you?"

"Yes, but mostly they're dead. Nowadays."

"So that... what. That fat one, you said ... Miriam?... that belly, it's just... a bag of dead kittens in there?"

"Yes."

Lacke drank the rest of the glass, put it on the table. Gosta gestured to the gin bottle. Lacke shook his head.

"No, I'm taking a little break."

He lowered his head. An orange carpet so full of cat hair it looked like it was made of it. Cats and cats all over. How many were there? He started to count. Got to eighteen. In this room alone.

"You've never thought about... having them fixed? Like castration, or whatever it's called ... sterilizing? You could make do with one sex, you know."

Gosta looked at him uncomprehendingly.

"How would I go about doing that?"

"No, you're right."

Lacke imagined Gosta getting on the subway with maybe ... twenty-five cats. In one box. No, in a bag, a sack. Go to the vet and just pour out all the cats. "Castration, please." He chuckled. Gosta put his head to one side.

"What is it?"

"I was just thinking .. . you could get a group discount." Gosta did not appreciate the joke and Lacke waved his hands in front of him. "No, sorry. I was just... uh, I'm all... this thing with Virginia, you know. I..." He suddenly straightened up, slammed his hand on the table.

"I don't want to be here anymore!"

Gosta jumped in his spot on the couch. The cat in front of Lacke's feet snuck away, hid under the armchair. From somewhere in the room he heard a cat hiss. Gosta shifted his weight, wiggled his glass in his hand.

"You don't have to. Not for my . . ."

"No, not that. Here. The whole shebang. Blackeberg. Everything. These buildings, the walking paths, the spaces, people, everything is just... like a single big damn sickness, see? Something went wrong. They thought all this out, planned it to be ... perfect, you know. And in some damn wrinkle it went wrong, instead. Some shit.

"Like ... I can't explain it. .. like they had some idea about the angles, or fucking whatever, the angles of the buildings, in their relation to each other, you know. So it would be harmonious or something. And then they made a mistake in their measurements, their triangulation, whatever the hell they call it, so that it was all a little off from the start, and it went downhill from there. So you walk here with all these buildings and you just feel that... no. No, no, no. You shouldn't be here. This place is all
wrong,
you know?

"Except it isn't the angles, it's something else, something that just. . . like a disease that's in the . . . walls and I. . . don't want any part of it anymore." A clinking when Gosta, unasked, poured Lacke another drink. Lacke took it gratefully. The outburst had caused a pleasant calm in his body, a calm that the alcohol now suffused with warmth. He leaned back in the chair, exhaled.

They sat quietly until the doorbell rang. Lacke asked: "Are you expecting anyone?" Gosta shook his head while he heaved himself out of the couch.

"No. Damn central station here tonight."

Lacke grinned and raised his glass to Gosta as the latter walked past. Felt better now. Felt pretty OK actually.

The front door opened. Someone outside said something and Gosta answered:

"Please come in."

+

Lying there in the bathtub, in the warm water that grew pink as the dried blood on her skin dissolved, Virginia had made up her mind.

Gosta.

Her new consciousness told her it had to be someone who would let her in. Her old one said it couldn't be someone she loved. Or even liked. Gosta fit both descriptions.

She got up, dried herself, and put on pants and a blouse. It was only when she was down on the street that she realized she hadn't put on a coat. Even so she wasn't cold.

New discoveries all the time.

Below the tall building she stopped, looked up at Gosta's window. He was home. Was always home.

If he resists?

She hadn't thought about that. Only imagined the whole thing as her taking what she needed. But maybe Gosta wanted to live?

Of course he wants to live. He is a person, he has his pleasures, and
think of all the cats that will...

She put the brakes on, willed the thought away. Put her hand over her heart. It had a rate of five beats a minute and she knew she had to protect it. That there was something to that thing with ... stakes.

She took the elevator up to the second to last floor, rang the bell. When Gosta opened the door and saw Virginia his eyes widened to something that resembled horror.

Does he know? Can you see it?

Gosta said: "But... is it you?"

"Yes, can I?..."

She gestured into the apartment. Couldn't understand. Only knew intuitively that she needed an invitation, otherwise ... otherwise ... something. Gosta nodded, took a step back.

"Please come in."

She stepped into the hall and Gosta pulled the door shut, looked at her with watery eyes. He was unshaven, the droopy skin of his throat dirty with gray stubble. The stench in the apartment was worse than she remembered, clearer.

I don't want to
—

Then the old brain was turned off, and hunger took over. She put her hands on his shoulders, saw her hands put on his shoulders. Allowed it to happen. The old Virginia now sat curled up somewhere at the back of her head, without control.

The mouth said: "Do you want to help me with something? Stand still." She heard something. A voice.

"Virginia! Hi! I'm so glad to ..."

+

Lacke flinched when Virginia's head turned toward him.

Her eyes were empty. As if someone had poked a needle into them and sucked out what had been Virginia and only left behind the expressionless gaze of an anatomical model. Plate number eight: Eyes. Virginia stared at him for a second, then she let go of Gosta and turned to the door, pressed the handle down, but the door was locked. She turned the lock, but Lacke grabbed ahold of her, dragged her away from the door.

"You're not going anywhere until..."

Virginia fought his hold and he got her elbow against his mouth, his lip splitting against his teeth. He held her arms firmly, pressed his cheek against her back.

"Ginja, damn it. I have to talk to you. I've been so damn worried. Calm down, what is it?"

She jerked toward the door but Lacke held her fast, coaxing her in the direction of the living room. He made an effort to speak calmly and quietly, as if to a frightened animal, while he pushed her in front of him.

"Now Gosta is going to pour us a drink and then we'll sit down all calm and collected and talk about this, because I... I'm going to help you. Whatever it is, I'm going to help you. OK?"

"No, Lacke. No."

"Yes, Ginja. Yes."

Gosta pushed past both of them into the living room and poured Virginia a drink in Lacke's glass. Lacke managed to get Virginia in, let go of her, and placed himself in the doorway to the hall with his hands on the door posts, like a sentry.

He licked a little blood away from his lower lip.

Virginia was standing in the middle of the room, tensed. Looked around as if she were looking for a way out. Her eyes stopped at the window.

"No, Ginja."

Lacke prepared to run over to her, to grab her again if she tried something stupid.
What is it with her? She looks like the whole room is full of ghosts.
He heard a sound like when you crack an egg into a hot pan.

Then another.

And another.

The room was filled with more and more hissing, spitting.

All of the cats in the room had stood up, their backs curled and tails bushed out, looking at Virginia. Even Miriam got clumsily to her feet, her belly dragging on the floor, pulling her ears back and baring her teeth.

From the bedroom, kitchen, more cats streamed in.

Gosta had stopped pouring; stood there now with the bottle in his hand, staring wide-eyed at his cats. The hissing was a cloud of electricity in the room, increasing in strength. Lacke had to shout in order to make his voice carry above the din.

"Gosta, what are they doing?"

Gosta shook his head, sweeping his arm to the side and spilling a little gin from the bottle.

"I don't know... I've never..."

A little black cat jumped up onto Virginia's thigh, digging in her claws and biting down. Gosta brought the bottle down on the table with a bang, said: "Bad, Titania, bad!"

Virginia bent over, grabbed the cat by its back, and tried to pull it off. Two other cats used this as an opportunity to jump up on her back and neck. Virginia let out a scream and ripped the cat from her leg, throwing it from her. It flew across the room, hit the edge of the table, and fell down at Gosta's feet. One of the cats on Virginia's back climbed up onto her head and held itself in place with its claws while it made dives for her forehead.

Before Lacke got there three more cats had jumped up. They screeched at the top of their lungs while Virginia pummeled them with her fists. Even so they managed to hang on, ripping her flesh with their small teeth.