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

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.

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 scrap 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? Something with Smurfs? What was that? A quality product made in Bengtfors-?"

"I think this is remarkable coming from a man who sells cars that only run if you strap them to a horse."

And so on. Larry and Lacke listened, laughed from time to time, made a few comments. If Virginia had been here the stakes would have been raised a notch and Morgan would not have backed down until Karlsson was thoroughly pissed off.

But Virginia wasn't here and neither was Jocke. The evening didn't have the right feeling and it had already started to wind down when the door opened slowly at half past eight.

Larry looked up and saw a person he never thought would set foot here: Gosta. The Stinkbomb, as Morgan called him. Larry had sat on the bench outside the apartment buildings and talked to him before but he had never seen him in here.

Gosta looked shaken. He walked as if he was made of different pieces that were only poorly glued together and that could fall apart if he made the wrong move. He squinted and shook his head from side to side. He was either drunk out of his mind, or sick.

Larry waved to him. "Gosta! Come sit down!"

Morgan turned his head, checked him out, and said, "Oh, shit."

Gosta maneuvered himself over to their table as if traversing a minefield. Larry pulled out the chair next to him, made an inviting gesture.

"Welcome to the club."

Gosta didn't seem to hear him, but shuffled over to the chair. He was dressed in a worn suit with a waistcoat and bow tie, his hair combed flat with water. And he stank. Piss and piss and more piss. Even when you sat with him outside you could smell it, but it was bearable. Inside in the warmth, the stench of old urine was so overpowering you had to breathe through your mouth to stand it.

All of the guys, even Morgan, made an effort not to show on their

faces what they felt. The waiter approached their table, stopped short when he caught a whiff of Gosta, and said:

"Can I… get you anything?"

Gosta shook his head, but without looking at the waiter. The waiter frowned and Larry signaled, "It's OK, we'll take care of it." The waiter left and Larry put his hand on Gosta's shoulder.

"So to what do we owe this honor?"

Gosta cleared his throat and with his gaze directed at the floor he said, "Jocke."

"What about him?"

"He's dead."

Larry heard Lacke catch his breath. He kept his hand on Gosta's shoulder, encouraging. Felt it was needed.

"How do you know?"

"I saw it. When it happened. When he was killed."

"When?"

"Last Saturday. Night."

Larry removed his hand. "Last Saturday? But… have you talked to the cops?"

Gosta shook his head.

"I haven't been able to make myself. And I… didn't exactly see it. But I know."

Lacke had his hands over his face, whispering, "I knew it. I knew it."

Gosta told his story. The child who had taken out the streetlight nearest the underpass by throwing a rock at it, then hidden inside and waited. Jocke, who had gone in and never come out again. The faint imprint of a body in the dead leaves the following morning.

When he was done, the waiter had for some time been making angry gestures at Larry, pointing at Gosta and then at the door. Larry put his hand on Gosta's arm.

"What do you say. Shall we go have a look?"

Gosta nodded and they stood up. Morgan downed the last of his beer, grinning at Karlsson, who took the newspaper, folded it, and slid it into his coat pocket like he always did, the cheap bastard.

Only Lacke was still sitting at the table, fiddling with some broken toothpicks. Larry bent down.

"Coming?"

"I knew it. I felt it."

"Yes. Aren't you going to come along?"

"Yes, of course. You go ahead. I'm coming."

Gosta calmed down when they were out in the cool evening air. He started walking so quickly that Larry had to ask him to slow down, his heart couldn't take it. Karlsson and Morgan walked side by side behind them, Morgan waiting for Karlsson to say something stupid that he could jump all over. That would feel good. But even Karlsson seemed absorbed by his thoughts.

The broken streetlight had been replaced and it was surprisingly light in the underpass. They stood grouped around Gosta, who pointed to the piles of dead leaves and talked. They stamped their feet to stay warm. Bad circulation. It echoed under the bridge like a marching army. When Gosta had finished Karlsson said:

"But you have no proof of any kind, do you?"

This was the kind of thing Morgan had been waiting for.

"You heard what he said, man, do you think he's making it all up?"

"No," Karlsson said, as if talking to a child, "but I don't think the police are going to be as prepared to believe his story as much as we do if there's no evidence to back it up."

"He's a witness for godssake."

"You think that's enough?"

Larry waved his hand at the piles of leaves.

"The question is where his body is now, if we assume it happened like this."

Lacke came walking along the footpath, walked up to Gosta, and pointed to the ground.

"There?"

Gosta nodded. Lacke pushed his hands into his pockets and stood there for a long time staring at the irregular arrangement of leaves as if it were all a gigantic puzzle he had to solve. His jaw clenched, relaxed, then clenched again.

"Well, what do you say?"

Larry took a few steps toward him.

"I'm sorry, Lacke."

Lacke waved his hand defensively, kept Larry at a distance.

"What do you say? Are we gonna get the guy who did this or not?"

The others looked anywhere but at Lacke. Larry was about to say something, that it was going to be difficult, probably impossible, but stopped himself. Finally Morgan cleared his throat, went over to Lacke, and put an arm around his shoulders.