Let The Right One In Part 17

"What is it?"

"Oh! Are you down there? I thought-"

"What is it?"

"It's about to start."

"I know." know."

His mother was about to add something, but shut her mouth and just looked at him standing there under the window with his hands still held in tight fists, his body tense.

"What are you doing?"

"I'll be right there."

"It's just..."

His eyes were starting to get watery from rage and he hissed "Go back in! Close the window. Go back!"

His mother stared at him for another second, then something changed in her face and she slammed the window shut, walked away. Oskar would have wanted ... not to shout for her to come back... but to send her a thought. To explain quietly and calmly how it was. That she wasn't allowed to do that, because he ...

He ran back down the hill.

"Eli?"

She wasn't there. She couldn't have gone inside because he would have noticed her. She must have left to take the subway to that aunt she had in the city where she went after school. That seemed likely.

Oskar went and stood in the dark corner where she had ducked in when his mom opened the window. Turned with his face toward the wall. Stood there for a while. Then he went inside.

Hakan dragged the boy inside the changing room and locked the door behind him. The boy had hardly made a noise. The only thing that could alert someone's attention now was the hissing noise from the gas bottle. He would have to work quickly.

It would have been so much easier to be able to attack directly with a knife. But no. The blood had to come from a living body. Another aspect that he had had explained to him. Blood from the dead was worthless, harmful even.

Well, the boy was alive. His chest rose and sank as he inhaled the stupifying gas.

He tightened the rope around the boy's legs, right above his knees, slung both ends above the hook, and started to pull. The boy's legs were lifted from the ground.

A door opened, voices rang out.

He held the rope in place with one hand and turned off the gas with the other, removing the mask from the boy's face. The anesthetic would hold for a few minutes. He would have to keep working, as silently as he could, regardless of the fact that there were people in the room. There were several men out there. Two, three, four? They were talking about Sweden and Denmark. Some tournament. Handball. While they talked Hakan raised the boy's body. The hook squeaked, the weight fell differently than when he had tested it. The men stopped talking. Had they heard anything? He froze, hardly breathing. Held the body still, suspended with the head barely off the ground. No, just a lull in the conversation. They continued.

Keep talking, keep talking.

"Sjogren's penalty was completely..."

"What you don't have in your arms you'd better have in your head."

"He's pretty good at getting them in, you have to give him that."

"That spin. Don't know how he does it."

The boy's head cleared the floor by a few decimeters. Now...

How could he secure the ends of the rope? The s.p.a.ces between the planks were too narrow for the rope to fit through. And he couldn't very well work with one hand while the other was holding onto the rope. Wouldn't have the strength. He stood with the rope in his tightly knit hands, sweating. The ski mask was hot; he should take it off. Later. When I'm done. Later. When I'm done.

The other hook. Just had to make a loop first. Sweat ran into his eyes as he lowered the boy's body in order to create slack in the rope to allow him to form a loop. Pulled the boy back up and tried to get the loop on the hook. Too short. He lowered the boy again. The men stopped talking.

Leave! Just leave!

In the silence he made another hook further along the rope, waited. They started to talk again. Bowling. The Swedish women's successes in New York. Strikes and blocks, and the sweat stung his eyes.

Warm. Why does it have to be so warm.

He managed to get the loop onto the hook and exhaled. Couldn't they just leave?

The boy's body was suspended in the right position and now all he had to do was get to work before he woke up-and couldn't they just leave?

But they went on sharing bowling memories and how people used to play in the olden days and someone who got his thumb stuck in the bowling ball and had to be taken to the hospital to get it out. It couldn't be helped. Hakan put the funnel in the plastic jug and placed it next to the boy's neck. Took out the knife. When he turned around to start bleeding the boy the conversation out there had died down again. And the boy's eyes were open. Wide open. The pupils were wandering around as he hung there, upside down, trying to find a mental foothold, comprehension. They fixed on Hakan as he stood there, naked, with the knife in his hand. For a short moment, they gazed at each other. Then the boy opened his mouth and screamed.

Hakan staggered back, hitting the changing room wall with a moist smack. His sweaty back slipped along the wall and he almost lost his bal-ance. The boy screamed and screamed. The sound echoed in the dressing area, bouncing off the walls, was strengthened so that Hakan was deafened. His hand hardened around the knife handle and the only thought in his head was that he had to find a way to stop the boy's screams. Cut off his head so it stopped screaming. He bent over toward the boy. Someone banged on the door.

"Hey! Open up!"

Hakan dropped the knife. The clang as the metal hit the floor was barely noticeable between the banging on the door and all the screaming. The door was rattling in its hinges from the blows.

"Open up, I said, or I'll knock the door down!"

Over. It was all over. There was only one thing left. The noises around him disappeared, his field of vision narrowed to a tunnel as he turned back to his bag. Through the tunnel he saw his hand reach down into the bag and take out the jam jar.

He sat down hard on his backside with the jar in his hand, unscrewed the lid.

When they got the door open. Before they managed to pull his hood off. His face.

Through all the screaming and blows to the door he thought about his beloved. The time they had had together. He conjured up the image of his beloved as an angel. A boy angel flying down from heaven, spreading his wings, who was going to pick him up. Carry him off. Take him to a place where they would always be together. For ever. The door flew open and banged into the wall. The boy continued to scream. There were three men standing outside, more or less dressed. They stared uncomprehendingly at the scene in front of them.

Hakan nodded slowly, accepting it.

Then he shouted: "Eli! Eli!"

and poured the concentrated acid over his face.

Rejoice! Rejoice!

Rejoice in your Lord and G.o.d!

Rejoice! Rejoice!

Honor your King and G.o.d!"

Staffan accompanied himself and Tommy's mom on the piano. From time to time they looked at each other, smiled and sparkled. Tommy sat in the leather sofa and suffered. He had found a little hole in one of the armrests and while Staffan and his mom sang he worked at making it bigger. His index finger dug around in the stuffing and he wondered if Staffan and his mom had ever done it on this sofa. Under the barometers. The dinner had been OK, some kind of marinated chicken with rice. After dinner Staffan had showed Tommy the safe where he kept his pistols. He stored it under the bed and Tommy had wondered the same thing in there. Had they slept with each other in this bed? Did his mom think about Dad when Staffan was touching her? Did Staffan get turned on by the thought of the guns he kept under the bed? Did she?

Staffan played the final chord, allowed the sound to die away. Tommy pulled his finger out of the by-now substantial hole in the sofa. His mom nodded to Staffan, took his hand, and sat down on the piano bench next to him. From where Tommy was sitting it looked like the picture of the Virgin Mary was positioned exactly above their heads, almost as if they had rehea.r.s.ed it in advance.

His mom looked at Staffan, smiled, and turned to Tommy.

"Tommy. There's something we'd like to share with you."

"Are you getting married?"

His mom hesitated. If they had rehea.r.s.ed this with staging and all, then clearly this line had not been included.

"Yes. What do you think?"

Tommy shrugged.

"OK. Go ahead."

"We were thinking . .. maybe next summer."

His mom looked at him as if to see if he had a better suggestion.

"Yeah, whatever. Sure."

He put his finger in the hole again, let it stay there. Staffan leaned forward.

"I know that I can't. . . replace your dad. In any way. But I hope that you and I can ... get to know each other and, well, become buddies."

"Where are you going to live?"

His mom suddenly looked sad.

"We, Tommy. This is about you too, you know. We don't know yet. But we were thinking of getting a house in Angby. If we can."

"Angby."

"Yes. What do you think?"

Tommy looked at the gla.s.s table in which his mom and Staffan were reflected, half-transparent, like ghosts. He squirmed his finger around in the hole, managed to pull off some foam.

"Expensive.

"What is?"

"A house in Angby. It's expensive. Costs a lot of money. Do you have a lot of money?"

Staffan was about to answer when the phone rang. He stroked Tommy's mother on the cheek and walked out to the phone in the hall. His mom sat down next to Tommy on the sofa and asked, "Don't you like it?"

"I love it."

Staffan's voice came from the hall. He sounded agitated.

"That's... yes, I'll be there on the double. Should we ... no, I'll go straight there. OK."

He came back out into the living room.

"The killer is at the Vallingby swimming pool. They don't have enough people down at the station so I have to ..."

He disappeared into the bedroom and Tommy could hear the safe being opened and closed. Staffan changed in there and after a while he emerged in full police regalia. His eyes looked slightly crazed. He kissed Tommy's mother on the mouth and slapped Tommy's knee.

"Have to go right away. Don't know when I'll be back. We'll talk more later."

He hurried out into the hall and Tommy's mom followed after him. Tommy heard something about "be careful" and "I love you" and "staying?" while he went up to the piano and, without knowing exactly why, stretched out his arm and picked up the shooting trophy. It was heavy, at least two kilos. While his mom and Staffan were saying goodbye to each other- they're getting off on this. The man heading into they're getting off on this. The man heading into battle. The woman who pines for him battle. The woman who pines for him-he walked out onto the balcony. He sucked the cold night air into his lungs and he felt like he could breathe for the first time in hours.

He leaned over the balcony railing, saw that thick bushes were growing underneath. He held the trophy out over the railing, let it go. It fell into the bushes with a rustling sound.

His mom came out on the balcony and stood next to him. After a few seconds the door to the building opened below them and Staffan came out, half-running to the parking lot. His mom waved, but Staffan didn't look up. Tommy giggled as he jogged past the balcony.

"What is it?" his mom asked.

"Nothing."

Just a little kid with a gun hiding in the bushes and taking aim at Staffan. That's all. Staffan. That's all.

Tommy felt pretty good, all things considered.

They had strengthened the gang with Karlsson, the only one among them with a "real" job, as he himself put it. Larry had taken early retirement, Morgan worked off and on at an auto sc.r.a.p yard, and Lacke you didn't know exactly what he did for a living. Sometimes he turned up with a few bucks.

Karlsson had a full-time job at the toy store in Vallingby. Had owned it once upon a time but been forced to sell due to "financial difficulties." The new owner had eventually employed him because-as Karlsson put it-one couldn't deny the fact that "after thirty years in the business you get a certain amount of experience."

Morgan leaned back in his chair, let his legs flop to either side, and knit his hands together behind his head, his gaze fixed on Karlsson. Lacke and Larry exchanged a look. Now came the usual.

"So, Karlsson. What's new in the toy business? Thought of new ways of cheating kids out of their allowance?"

Karlsson snorted.

"You don't know what you're talking about. If anyone is being cheated it's me. You can't imagine the pervasiveness of the shoplifting. The kids ...".

"Yes, yes, yes. But all you've got to do is buy some plastic doodad from Korea for two kronor and sell it for a hundred and you've covered your loss."

"We don't carry those kind of items."

"Sure you don't. What did I see in the store window the other day?