Let the Right One In Read online

  The halothane container pressed against Håkan’s chest as he leaned his head into his hands and sighed. Poor bastard. All these pathetic lonely people in a world without beauty.

  He shivered. The wind had grown cold over the afternoon and he wondered if he should go and get the rain jacket he had stowed away in his bag. No. It would restrict his movement and make him clumsy where he needed to be quick. And it could heighten people’s suspicions.

  Two young women in their twenties walked by. No, he couldn’t handle two. He caught fragments of their conversation.

  ‘…she’s going to keep it now…’

  ‘…is a total ape. He has to realise that he…’

  ‘…her fault because…not taking the pill…’

  ‘But he, like, has to…’

  ‘…you imagine?…him as a dad…’

  A girlfriend who was pregnant. A young man who wasn’t going to take responsibility. That’s how it was. Happened all the time. No one thought of anything but themselves. My happiness, my future was the only thing you heard. Real love is to offer your life at the feet of another, and that’s what people today are incapable of.

  The cold was eating its way into his limbs. He was going to be clumsy now, raincoat or no raincoat. He put his hand inside his coat and pushed the trigger on the canister. A hissing noise. It was working.

  He jumped in place and slapped his arms to get warm. Please let someone come. Someone who was alone. He looked at his watch. Half an hour to go. Let someone come. For life’s sake, for love.

  ‘But a child at heart I want to be

  For children belong to the Kingdom of God.’

  By the time Oskar had read through the whole scrapbook and finished all the sweets it was starting to get dark. As usual after eating so much junk, he felt dazed and slightly guilty.

  Mum would be home in two hours. They would eat dinner, then he would do his English and maths homework. After that he would read a book or watch TV with her. But there wasn’t anything good on TV tonight. They would have cocoa and sweet cinnamon rolls and chat. Then he would go to bed, but have trouble falling asleep since he would be worried about tomorrow.

  If only he had someone he could call. He could of course call Johan, in the hope that he wasn’t doing anything else.

  Johan was in his class and they had a good time when they hung out, but if Johan had a choice, he never chose Oskar. Johan was the one who called when he had nothing better to do, not Oskar.

  The apartment was quiet. Nothing happened. The concrete walls sealed themselves around him. He sat on his bed with his hands on his knees, his stomach heavy with sweets.

  As if something was about to happen. Now.

  He held his breath, listening. A sticky fear crept over him. Something was approaching. A colourless gas seeping out of the walls, threatening to take form, to swallow him up. He sat stiffly, holding his breath, and listened. Waited.

  The moment passed. Oskar breathed again.

  He went out into the kitchen, drank a glass of water and grabbed the biggest kitchen knife from the magnetic strip. Tested the blade against his thumbnail, just like his dad had taught him. Dull. He pulled the knife through the sharpener a couple of times, then tried it again. It cut a microscopic slice out of his nail.

  Good.

  He folded a newspaper around the knife as a stand-in holster, taped it up and pushed the packet down between his pants and left hip. Only the handle stuck up. He tried to walk. The blade was in the way of his left leg and so he angled it down along his groin. Uncomfortable, but it worked.

  He put his jacket on in the hall. Then he remembered all the wrappers that lay strewn around his room. He gathered them all up and stuffed them into his pocket, in case Mum came home before he did. He could hide them under a rock in the forest. Checked one more time to make sure he hadn’t left any evidence behind.

  The game had already begun. He was a dreaded mass murderer. He had already slain fourteen people with his sharp knife without leaving a single clue behind. No hair, no sweets wrapper. The police feared him.

  Now he was going out into the forest to select his next victim.

  Strangely enough he already knew the name of his victim, and what he looked like. Jonny Forsberg with his long hair and large, mean eyes. He would make him plead and beg for his life, squeal like a pig, but in vain. The knife would have the last word and the earth would drink his blood.

  Oskar had read those words in a book and liked them.

  The earth shall drink his blood.

  While he locked the front door to the apartment and walked out of the building with his hand resting on the knife handle he repeated these words like a mantra.

  ‘The earth shall drink his blood. The earth shall drink his blood.’

  The entrance he had used on his way in lay at the right end of his building, but he walked to the left, past two other buildings, and out through the entrance where the cars could enter. Left the inner fortification. Crossed Ibsengatan and continued down the hill. Left the outer fortification. Continued on towards the forest.

  The earth shall drink his blood.

  For the second time this day Oskar felt almost happy.

  There were only ten minutes left of Håkan’s self-imposed time limit when a lone boy came walking down the path. Thirteen or fourteen, as far as he could judge. Perfect. He had been planning to sneak down to the other end of the path and then come walking towards his intended victim.

  But now his legs had really gotten stuck. The boy was walking nonchalantly along the path and Håkan was going to have to hurry. Every second that passed reduced the chance of success. Even so his legs simply refused to budge. He stood paralysed and stared at the chosen one, the perfect one, who was moving closer, who was about to pull up next to where he was standing, right in front of him. Soon it would be too late.

  Have to. Have to. Have to.

  If he didn’t do it, he would have to kill himself. Couldn’t go home empty-handed. That’s how it was. It was him or the boy. Go ahead and choose.

  He finally got moving, too late. Now he made his approach by stumbling through the forest, straight at the boy instead of simply meeting him calmly on the path. Idiot. Clumsy oaf. Now the boy would be on his guard, suspicious.

  ‘Hello there!’ he called out to the boy. ‘Excuse me!’

  The boy stopped. He didn’t run away, he could be grateful for that. He had to say something, ask something. He walked up to the boy who was standing on the path, alert, uncertain.

  ‘Excuse me…Could you tell me what the time is?’

  The boy’s gaze went to Håkan’s watch.

  ‘Yes, well, mine has stopped, you see.’

  The boy’s body was tense as he checked his watch. He couldn’t do anything about that. Håkan put his hand inside his coat and rested his index finger on the trigger while he waited for the boy’s answer.

  Oskar walked down the hill past the printing company, then turned onto the path into the forest. The weight in his belly was gone, replaced with an intoxicating sense of anticipation. On his way to the forest the fantasy had gripped him and now it felt like reality.

  He saw the world through the eyes of a murderer, or so much of a murderer’s eyes as his thirteen-year-old’s imagination could muster. A beautiful world. A world he controlled, a world that trembled in the face of his actions.

  He walked along the forest path looking for Jonny Forsberg.

  The earth shall drink his blood.

  It was starting to get dark and the trees closed around him like a silent crowd, following his smallest movements with trepidation, fearful that one of them was the intended target. But the killer moved through them, past them; he had already caught sight of his prey.

  Jonny Forsberg was standing at the top of a hill some fifty metres from the trail. Hands on his hips, a grin pasted on his face. Thought it was going to be business as usual. That he would force Oskar to the ground, hold his nose and force pine needles and moss into his mout
h, or some such thing.

  But this time he was mistaken. It wasn’t Oskar who was walking towards him, it was the Murderer, and the Murderer’s hand closed hard around the handle of the knife, preparing himself.

  The Murderer walked with slow dignified steps over to Jonny Forsberg, looked him in the eyes and said, ‘Hi Jonny.’

  ‘Hello Piggy. Are you allowed out this late?’

  The Murderer pulled out his knife. And lunged.

  ‘Uh, it’s…a quarter past five.’

  ‘OK, thanks.’

  The boy didn’t leave. Just stood there staring at Håkan, who took the opportunity to step closer. The boy stood still, following him with his gaze. This was going to hell. Of course the boy sensed something was wrong. First a man came storming out of the woods to ask him what the time was and now he had struck a Napoleon pose with his hand inside his coat.

  ‘What do you have there?’

  The boy gestured at Håkan’s heart region. Håkan’s head was empty, he didn’t know what to do. He took out the gas container and showed it to the boy.

  ‘What the hell is that?’

  ‘Halothane gas.’

  ‘What are you carrying it around for?’

  ‘Because…’ He felt the foam-covered mouthpiece and tried to think of something to say. He couldn’t lie. That was his curse.

  ‘Because…it’s part of my job.’

  ‘What kind of job?’

  The boy had relaxed somewhat. He was holding a sport bag similar to the one Håkan had stowed in the hollow up in the woods. Håkan gestured to the bag with the hand that was holding the gas canister.

  ‘Are you on your way to work out or something?’

  When the boy glanced down at his bag he had his chance.

  Both arms shot out, the free hand grabbing the boy by the back of the head, the other pressing the mouthpiece of the canister against his lips. Håkan released the trigger. It let out a hissing sound like a large snake and the boy tried to pull his head away but it was locked between Håkan’s hands in a desperate vice.

  The boy threw himself back and Håkan followed. The hissing of the snake drowned out all other sounds as they fell onto the wood shavings on the trail. Håkan hands were still clenched around the boy’s head and he held the mouthpiece in place as they rolled around on the ground.

  After a couple of deep breaths the boy started to relax in his grip. Håkan still made sure the mouthpiece was in place, then looked around.

  No witnesses.

  The hissing sound of the canister filled his head like a bad migraine. He locked the trigger in place and teased his free hand out from underneath the boy, loosened the rubber band and then drew it back over the boy’s head. The mouthpiece was secured.

  He got up with aching arms and regarded his prey.

  The boy lay there with his arms thrown out from his body, the mouthpiece over nose and mouth, and the halothane canister on his chest. Håkan looked around once more, retrieved the boy’s bag and placed it on his stomach. Then he picked him up and carried him to the hollow.

  The boy was heavier than he had expected; a lot of muscle. Unconscious weight. He was panting from carrying the boy over the soggy ground while the hissing of the gas cut through his head like a chainsaw. He deliberately panted more loudly so as not to hear the sound.

  With numb arms and sweat pouring down his back he reached his destination. There, he lay the boy down in the deepest part of the hollow and then stretched out beside him. It grew quiet. The boy’s chest rose and fell. He would wake up in approximately eight minutes, at most. But he wouldn’t.

  Håkan lay beside the boy, studied his face, caressed it with a finger. He pulled himself closer to the boy, took the floppy body in his arms and pressed it to him. He kissed the boy tenderly on the cheek, whispered ‘Forgive me’ and got up.

  Tears threatened to come as he looked at the defenceless body on the ground. He could still refrain.

  Parallel worlds. A comforting thought.

  There was a parallel world where he didn’t do what he was about to do. A world where he walked away, leaving the boy to wake up and wonder what had happened.

  But not in this one. In this world he now walked over to his bag and opened it. He was in a hurry. He quickly pulled on his raincoat and got out his tools. A knife, a rope, a large funnel and a five litre plastic jug.

  He put everything on the ground next to the boy, looking at the young body one last time. Then he picked up the rope and got to work.

  He thrust and thrust and thrust. After the first blow Jonny had realised this wasn’t going to be like those other times. With blood gushing from a deep cut on his cheek he tried to escape, but the Murderer was faster. With a couple of quick moves he sliced away the tendons at the back of the knees and Jonny fell down, lay writhing in the moss, begging for mercy.

  But the Murderer wasn’t going to relent. Jonny was screaming… like a pig when the Murderer threw himself over him and let the earth drink his blood.

  One stab for what you did to me in the bathroom today. One for when you tricked me into playing knuckle poker. And I’m cutting your lips out for everything nasty you’ve ever said to me.

  Jonny was bleeding from every orifice and could no longer say or do anything mean. He was long since dead. Oskar finished by puncturing his staring eyeballs, whack whack, then got up and regarded his work.

  Large boughs of the rotting, fallen trees that had represented Jonny’s body had been hacked away and a tree trunk was full of perforations. A number of woodchips were scattered under the healthy tree that had been Jonny when he was still standing.

  His right hand, the knife hand, was bleeding. There was a small cut right next to his wrist; the blade must have slipped while he was stabbing. Not the ideal knife for this purpose. He licked his hand, cleaning the wound with his tongue. It was Jonny’s blood he was tasting.

  He wiped the last of the blood on the newspaper holster, put the knife back and started walking home.

  The forest that a few years back had felt threatening, the haunt of enemies, now felt like a home and a refuge. The trees drew back respectfully as he passed. He didn’t feel an ounce of fear though it was starting to get really dark. No anxiety for the next day, whatever it would bring. He would sleep well tonight.

  When he was back in the yard, he sat down on the edge of the sandpit for a while to calm himself before he went back home. Tomorrow he would get himself a better knife, a knife with a parry guard, or whatever it was called…so he didn’t cut himself. Because this was something he was going to do again.

  It was a good game.

  Thursday

  22 October

  His mum reached over the kitchen table and squeezed Oskar’s hand. There were tears in her eyes.

  ‘You are absolutely not allowed to go into the woods by yourself, do you hear me?’

  A boy about Oskar’s age had been murdered in Vällingby yesterday. It had appeared in the afternoon papers and his mother was completely beside herself when she came home.

  ‘It could have been…I don’t even want to think about it.’

  ‘But it was Vällingby.’

  ‘And you mean to say that someone who is capable of doing this to a child wouldn’t be able to go two subway stations? Or walk? Walk all the way here to Blackeberg and do the same thing again? Do you spend a lot of time in the woods?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You are not allowed to go past the yard now, as long as this… Until they’ve caught him.’

  ‘You mean I can’t go to school?’

  ‘Of course you can go to school. But after school you come straight here and you don’t leave this complex until I get home.’

  ‘Big deal.’

  The pain in his mother’s eyes mixed with anger.

  ‘Do you want to be murdered? Do you? You want to go into the woods and be killed and I have to sit here and worry while you’re lying out there in the forest and…you’re being butchered by some bestial…’ The
tears welled up in her eyes. Oskar put his hand on hers.

  ‘I won’t go into the woods, Mum. I promise.’

  His mother stroked his cheek.

  ‘Little sweetheart, you’re all I have. Nothing is allowed to happen to you. I would die too.’

  ‘Mmmm. How exactly did he do it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know. The murder.’

  ‘How should I know? The boy was killed by some kind of maniac with a knife. He’s dead. His parents’ life has been ruined.’

  ‘Aren’t the details in the paper?’

  ‘I can’t bear to read it.’

  Oskar took the copy of Expressen and flipped through the pages. The killing took up four pages.

  ‘You shouldn’t read things like that.’

  ‘I’m only checking something. Can I take it?’

  ‘Don’t read about it, I’m serious. All that violent stuff you read isn’t good for you.’

  ‘I’m just seeing what’s on TV tonight.’

  Oskar got up intending to take the paper to his room. His mother hugged him clumsily and pressed her wet cheek against him.

  ‘Sweetheart, can’t you understand that I’m worried about you? What if something were to happen to you—’

  ‘I know, Mum, I know. I’m careful.’

  Oskar hugged her back a little and then carefully extracted himself, went to his room wiping his mother’s tears from his cheek.

  This was amazing.

  From what he could understand the boy had been killed while he was out playing in the woods. Unfortunately the victim had not been Jonny Forsberg, only some unknown boy from Vällingby.

  The atmosphere in Vällingby that afternoon had been funereal. He had seen the headlines before he came home and perhaps he was only imagining things but it seemed to him that people in the main square had been talking more, walking more slowly than usual.

  In the hardware store he had swiped an incredibly alluring hunting knife that cost three hundred kronor. He had made up an excuse in advance in case he was caught.