John Lindqvist - Let The Right One In aka Let Me In

But that was the limit.

The others had, one by one, been sucked off by the boy, but when it was Hakan's turn a hard knot formed inside him. The whole situation was too disgusting. The room smelled of arousal, alcohol, and mustiness. A drop of Ove's cum glistened on the boy's cheek. Hakan pushed the boy's head aside when he lowered it to Hakan's groin.

The others had taunted him, called him names, finally threatened him. He was a witness; he needed to be a partner in crime. They taunted him about his scruples, but that wasn't the problem. It was simply too ugly, the whole thing. The single room of Ake's commuter apartment, the four mismatched armchairs arranged for the event, the dance music from the stereo.

He paid for his part of the affair and never saw the others again. He had his magazines and photos, his films. That had to be enough. Probably he also had his scruples, that only showed themselves this once in the form of a distaste for the situation.

Why then am I on my way to the City Library?

He was probably going to take out a book. The fire three years ago had consumed his life, and his book collection. Yes. He could borrow The Queen's Diadem by Almquist, before he performed his good deed.

It was quiet inside the City Library this morning. Older men and students, mostly. He quickly found the book he was looking for, read the first few lines,

Tintomara! Two things are white Innocence - Arsenic and put it back on the shelf. A bad feeling. It reminded him of his earlier life.

He had loved this book, used it in his class. Reading the first few words made him long for his reading chair. And the reading chair was supposed to be in a house that was his, a house filled with books, and he should have a job again and he should and he would. But he had found love, and that dictated his life nowadays. No reading chair.

He rubbed his hands together as if to erase the book they had been holding, and walked into an adjacent reading room.

There was a long table with people reading. Words, words, words. At the very back of the room there was a young man in a leather coat. He had tipped the chair back and was flipping uninterestedly through a book of photographs. Hakan moved in his direction, pretended to be interested in a shelf of geology books, glancing now and then at the youth. Finally the boy lifted his gaze and met Hakan's, raised his eyebrows in a question: Want to?

No, he didn't want to. The youth was around fifteen years old, with a flat, Eastern European face, pimples and narrow, deeply set eyes. Hakan shrugged and walked out of the room.

Outside the main entrance the youth caught up with him, gestured with his thumb and asked "got a light?" Hakan shook his head. "Don't smoke," he said in English.

"OK."

The boy pulled out a lighter, lit his cigarette, and stared at him through the smoke. "What you like?"

"No, I…"

"Young, you like young?"

He pulled away from the youth, away from the main entrance where anyone could come walking by. He needed to think. He hadn't expected it to be this straightforward. It had only been a kind of game, to check if what Gert had said was true.

The youth followed him, came up right next to him by the stone wall.

"How young? Eight or nine? Is difficult, but-"

"No!"

Did he really look like such a fucking pervert? Stupid thought. Neither Ove nor Torgny had looked particularly… remarkable. Normal

guys with normal jobs. Only Gert, who lived on the proceeds of a huge inheritance from his father and could indulge himself in whatever he wanted. After multiple international trips he had acquired a truly appalling appearance. A flaccid mouth, glazed eyes.

The boy stopped talking when Hakan raised his voice, still studying him through narrowed eyes. Took a puff on his cigarette, then dropped it on the ground and crushed it under his foot, stretched out his arms.

"What?"

"No, I just…"

The boy took half a step closer.

"What?"

"I… maybe… twelve."

"Twelve? You like twelve?"

"I… yes."

"Boy."

"Yes."

"OK. You wait. Number Two." Excuse me?

"Number two. Toilet."

"Oh. Yes."

"Ten minutes."

The boy zipped his leather jacket and disappeared down the steps.

Twelve years old. Booth number two. Ten minutes.

This was really, really dumb. If a policeman came by. They must know about these transactions after all these years. That would be the end. They would connect him to the job he had done yesterday and that would be the end. He couldn't do this.

Go over to the bathroom and take a look, that's all.

The bathroom was empty. A urinal and three booths. Number two had to be the one in the middle. He put a one crown coin in the lock, turned it, and walked in. Closed the door behind him and sat down on the toilet seat.

The walls of the booth were covered with scribbles. Not at all what you would expect from the City Library clientele. Here and there a literary quotation:

Harry me, Marry me, Bury me, Bite me

but mostly obscene drawings and jokes:

Killing for peace is like fucking for virginity.

Here I sit

I am elated

Came to shit

Ejaculated

as well as an impressive selection of telephone numbers that one could call for a variety of interests. A few of them had the sign and were probably authentic. Not just someone trying to have a joke at someone else's expense.

So, now he had checked it out. He should leave. Never knew what the young man in the leather jacket would think of. He stood up, urinated into the toilet, sat down again. Why had he urinated? He didn't really need to go. He knew why he had done it.

Just in case.

The outer door opened. He held his breath. Something in him hoped it was a policeman. A large male policeman who would kick open the door to the booth and beat him up with the baton before he arrested him.

Low voices, soft steps, a light knock on the door.

"Yes?"

Another knock. He swallowed a glob of saliva and unlocked the door.

A boy about eleven or twelve stood there. Blond hair, heart-shaped face. Thin lips and large, blue eyes devoid of expression. A red puffy jacket that was a little too big for him. Right behind him was the older boy in the leather coat. He held up five fingers.

"Five hundred."

The way he said "hundred" sounded like "chundred."

Hakan nodded and the older boy carefully guided the younger one into the booth and shut the door. Wasn't five hundred a bit much? Not that it mattered but…

He looked at the boy he had bought. Hired. Was he on drugs? Proba-blv. The look in his eyes was far away, unfocused. The boy stood pressed up against the door half a meter away. He was so short that Hakan didn't need to tilt his head to look into his eyes.

"Hello."

The boy didn't answer, just shook his head, pointed to his groin, and

made a gesture with his finger: unzip your pants. He obeyed. The boy sighed, made a new gesture: take out your penis.

His cheeks grew hot as he obeyed the boy. That was how it was. He was following the boy's orders. He had no will of his own. He wasn't the one doing this. His small penis was not in the least erect, hardly made it down to the toilet lid. A slight tickle when the head touched the cold surface.

He narrowed his eyes, tried to imagine the boy's gestures so they more closely resembled his beloved. It didn't work so well. His beloved was beautiful. This boy, who now bent down and pushed his head toward his groin, was not. His mouth.

There was something wrong with the boy's mouth. He put his hand to the boy's forehead before he reached his goal. "Your mouth?"