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

"It's cold."

She nodded, uncertainly. Should he remove the mask? No. He didn't know how to do so without raising suspicion.

"Do you want a locker?"

"A private changing cabin, please."

She stretched out the key to him and he paid. He removed the mask as he moved away from her. Now she had seen him take it off, but without seeing his face. It was brilliant. He walked over to the changing area at a rapid clip, looking down at the floor in case he encountered anyone.

Welcome to my humble abode. Come in."

Tommy walked past Staffan into the hallway; behind him he heard a clicking sound when his mom and Staffan kissed. Staffan said in a low voice "Have you?…"

"No, I thought…"

"Mmm, we'll have to…"

The clicking sound again. Tommy looked around the apartment. He had never been in a cop's home before and was, a little against his will, curious. What were they like?

But even out in the hall he realized Staffan could hardly be a satisfactory representative of the whole police corps. He had imagined something… yes, something like in detective novels. A little run-down and barren. A place where you came to sleep when you weren't out chasing bad guys.

Guys like me.

Nope. Staffan's apartment was… frilly. The hall entrance looked like it had been decorated by someone who bought everything from those little catalogues that came in the mail.

Here a velvet painting of a sunset, there a little alpine cottage with an old woman on a stick leaning out of the door. Here a lace doily on the telephone table, next to the telephone a ceramic figurine with a dog and a child. On the base a pithy inscription: don't you know how to talk?

Staffan lifted the figurine.

"Nifty little thing, isn't it? It changes color depending on the weather."

Tommy nodded. Either Staffan had borrowed the apartment from his old mother, for the purposes of this visit, or else he was genuinely sick in the head. Staffan put the figurine back with care.

"I collect these kind of things, you see. Objects that tell you about the weather. This one, for example."

He poked the old woman peeking out of the alpine cottage. She swung back into the cottage and an old man came out instead.

"When the old lady looks out that means bad weather, and when the old man looks out-"

"It'll be even worse."

Staffan laughed, sounding slightly forced.

"It doesn't work so well."

Tommy looked back at his mom and was almost scared by what he saw. She stood there with her coat still on, her hands gripped tightly together, and a smile on her face that could have sent a horse bolting. Panic-stricken. Tommy decided to make an effort.

"Kind of like a barometer, you mean."

"Yes, exactly. That was what I started with, actually. Barometers. Collecting, I mean."

Tommy pointed to a little wooden cross with a silver Jesus hanging on the wall.

"Is that also a barometer?"

Staffan looked at Tommy, at the cross, then back at Tommy. Was suddenly serious.

"No, it's not. It's Christ."

"The one in the Bible."

"Yes, that's right."

Tommy pushed his hands into his pockets and walked into the living room. Yes, the barometers were in here. About twenty, in various shapes and sizes, hanging on the wall that ran the long length of the room, behind a gray leather couch with a glass coffee table in front of it.

They were not particularly consistent in their readings. Many of the hands were pointing to different numbers; it looked like a wall of clocks where each showed the time in a different part of the world. He knocked on the glass of one of the instruments and the needle jumped a little. He didn't know what it meant, but for some reason people always tapped barometers.

In a corner cabinet with glass doors there were a whole lot of small trophies. Four larger trophies were arranged along the top of a piano next to the cabinet. On the wall over the piano there was a large painting of the Virgin Mary with the baby Jesus in her arms. She nursed him with a vacant expression in her eyes that seemed to say, "What have I done to deserve this?"

Staffan cleared his throat when he came into the room.

"Well, Tommy. Is there anything you'd like to ask me about?"

Tommy understood full well what he was expected to ask.

"What trophies are these?"

Staffan gestured with an arm toward the goblets on top of the piano.

"These, you mean?"

No, you dumb bastard. The trophies down at the clubhouse by the soccer field, of course.

"Yes."

Staffan pointed to a silver-colored statue, some twenty centimeters tall, on a stone base, positioned between two trophies on the piano. Tommy had thought it was just a sculpture, but no, it was actually a prize. The human figure was standing wide-legged, arms straight, taking aim with a revolver.

"Pistol shooting. This is for first prize in the district championships, that one third prize at the national level in forty-five caliber, standing… and so on."

Tommy's mom came in and joined them.

"Staffan is one of Sweden's top five pistol shooters."

"Does it come in handy?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know, for when you shoot people."

Staffan ran his finger along the base of one of the trophies and then looked at it.

"The whole point of police work is to avoid shooting at people."

"Have you ever had to?"

"No."

"But you'd like to, wouldn't you?"

Staffan pointedly drew a deep breath, exhaled in a long sigh.

"I'm going to go… check on the food."

The gasoline… see if it's on fire.

He walked out to the kitchen. Tommy's mom grabbed him by the elbow and whispered,

"Why do you say things like that?"

"I was just wondering."

"He's a good person, Tommy."

"Yes, he must be. I mean, with prizes for pistol shooting and the Virgin Mary. Could it get any better?"

Hakan didn't bump into a single person on his way through the building. As he had thought, there were not very many people still here at this time. Two men his own age were putting their clothes on in the changing room. Overweight, shapeless bodies. Shriveled genitals under hanging bellies. The embodiment of ugliness.

He found his private changing cabin and locked the door behind him. Good. The initial preparations were completed. He put his ski mask back on, just in case, took off the halothane canister, hung his coat up on a hook. Opened his bag and took out his tools: knife, rope, funnel, container. He had forgotten to bring the raincoat. Damn. He would have to remove his clothes instead. The risk of getting splashed with blood was great but then he could conceal the stains under his clothes when he was done. Yes. And this was a pool, after all. Nothing strange about not having any clothes on in here.

He tested the strength of the other hook by grabbing it with both hands and lifting both feet from the floor. It held. It would easily hold a body most likely thirty kilos lighter than his own. Height might be a problem. The head was not likely to hang freely over the floor. He might have to fix the ropes by the knees. There was enough wall space between the hook and the top of the cabin wall to make sure the feet wouldn't stick up over it. That would attract suspicion.

The two men seemed about to leave. He heard their voices.

"And work?"

"The usual. No openings for someone from Malmberget."

"Did you hear this one: The question is not was it the Finns' oil but whether the oil was Finn's?"

"Yeah, that's a good one."

"Finn's a slippery guy."

Hakan giggled; something in his head was accelerating. He was too excited, was breathing too rapidly. His body consisted of butterflies that wanted to fly off in different directions at once.