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

Later that evening Tommy perched on a crate in the shelter, turning the small likeness of a man firing a pistol this way and that. He placed the statuette on top of three boxes containing cassette tapes, like a trophy. The cherry on top.

Stolen from a… policeman!

He carefully locked the shelter back up with the chain and padlock, put the key back in its hiding place, sat down in the clubhouse, and kept thinking about what his mother had told him. After a while he heard tentative steps walking down the corridor. A voice that whispered, "Tommy?…"

He got up out of the armchair, walked up to the door, and quickly opened it. Oskar was standing on the other side, looking nervous. He held out a bill.

"Here's your money."

Tommy took the fifty and stuffed it into his pocket, smiled at Oskar.

"You going to become a regular here? Come in."

"No, I have to…"

"Come in, I said. There's something I want to ask you."

Oskar sat down in the couch, hands clasped. Tommy flopped down in the armchair, looked at him.

"Oskar. You're a smart guy."

Oskar shrugged modestly.

"You know that house that burned down in Angby? The granny who ran out into the garden in flames?"

"Yes, I've read about it."

"Thought you would. Have they written anything about the autopsy?"

"Not that I know of."

"No. Well, they've done one. An autopsy. And you know what? They didn't find any smoke in her lungs. Know what that means?"

Oskar thought about it.

"That she wasn't breathing."

"Right. And when do you stop breathing? When you're dead, right?"

"Yes," Oskar said eagerly. "I've read about that kind of stuff. That's why they always do an autopsy when there's been a fire. To make sure that there isn't… that no one started the fire to cover up the fact that they murdered the person who's in there. In the fire. I read about it in… well, Hemmets Journal, actually, about a guy from England who killed his wife and who knew about this so he had… before he started the fire he stuck a tube down her throat and…"

"OK, OK, so you know. Great. But in this case there wasn't any smoke in her lungs and even so the granny managed to get herself out into the garden and run around out there for a while before she died. How can that be?"

"She must have been holding her breath. No, of course not. You can't do that. I've read about that somewhere. That's why people always…"

"OK, OK. Explain this to me."

Oskar leaned his head in his hands, thought hard. Then he said: "Either they made a mistake or else she was running around like that even though she was dead."

Tommy nodded. "Exactly. And you know what? I don't think these dudes make those kind of mistakes. Do you?"

"No, but…"

"Dead is dead."

"Yes."

Tommy pulled a thread out of the armchair, rolled it up into a ball between his fingers, and then flicked it away.

"Yes. At least that's what we like to think."

"And after he had lain his hand on mine. With joyful mien, whence I was comforted, He led me in among the secret things."

– Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy, Inferno, Canto III

[trans. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow]

"'I'm not a sheet. I am a REAL ghost. BOO… BOO… You're supposed to be scared?' "But I'm not."

– National teatern," Kaldolmaroch kalsipper

'Swedish rock/performance group

5 November

Morgan's feet were freezing. The cold spell had arrived at about the same time as the submarine foundered, and it had only gotten worse during the past week. He loved his old cowboy boots but he couldn't fit thick socks in them. And anyway, there was a hole in one sole. Sure he could get some Chinese takeout for a hundred but he'd rather be cold.

It was nine-thirty in the morning and he was on his way home from the subway. He had been to the junkyard in Ulvsunda to see if they needed a hand, maybe make a couple of hundred, but business was bad. No winter boots this year either. He had had a cup of coffee with the guys in the office, which was overflowing with spare parts, catalogs, and pinup calendars, then headed to the subway.

Larry emerged from between the high-rises and, as usual, looked like he had just received a death sentence.

"Hey there, old man," Morgan yelled.

Larry nodded curtly, as if he had known from the moment he woke up this morning that Morgan would be standing here, then walked over to him.

"Hi. How's it going?"

"My toes are freezing, my car's at the junkyard, I have no work, and I'm on my way home to have a bowl of instant soup. How about you?"

Larry walked on in the direction of Bjornsonsgatan, taking the path through the park.

"Thought I'd visit Herbert in the hospital. Coming?"

"Has his mind cleared up?"

"No, he's like he was before, I think."

"Then I'll pass. That kind of stuff gets me down. Last time he thought I was his mother, wanted me to tell him a story."

"And did you?"

"Sure. I told him the one about Goldilocks and the Three Bears. But no. I'm not in the mood today."

They kept walking. When Morgan saw that Larry was wearing a pair of thick gloves he realized his own hands were freezing and he pushed them-with some difficulty-into the narrow pockets of his denim jacket. The underpass where Jocke had disappeared came into view.

Maybe as a way to avoid talking about that Larry said:

"Did you see the paper this morning? Now Falldin is saying that the Russians have nuclear weapons onboard."

"What did he think they had? Slingshots?"

"No, but… it's been there for a week now. What if it had blown up?"

"Don't worry about it. Those Russians know their stuff."

"You know I'm not a Communist."

"And I am?"

"Let's put it this way: who'd you vote for in the last election? The Liberals?"

"That doesn't mean I've pledged allegiance to Moscow."

They had been through this before. Now they took up the old routine in order not to see, not to have to think about it as they approached the underpass. But even so their voices died away as they walked under the bridge and came to a halt. Both of them had the impression it was the other guy who had stopped first. They looked at the piles of leaves that had turned into piles of snow, and that had taken on shapes that made them uneasy. Larry shook his head.

"What the hell do you do, you know?"

Morgan pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, stomping his feet to keep warm.

"Gosta's the only one who can do anything."

They both looked in the direction of Gosta's apartment. There were no curtains; the windowpane was streaked with dirt.

Larry held out a packet of cigarettes. Morgan took one, then Larry, who lit them both. They stood there smoking, contemplating the snowdrifts. After a while their thoughts were interrupted by the sound of children's voices.

A group of children carrying skates and helmets came streaming out of the school, led by a man with a military air. The children walked at intervals of a few meters from each other, almost in step. They passed Morgan and Larry. Morgan nodded at a kid he recognized from his building.

"Going off to war?"

The kid shook his head, was about to say something, but kept on marching, afraid of falling out of step. They kept on going toward the hospital; they were probably having a field trip of some sort. Morgan ground the cigarette under his foot, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted:

"Airborne attack! Take cover!"

Larry chuckled, extinguishing his cigarette.

"Jesus Christ. I didn't think that kind of teacher even existed anymore; the kind who wants even the coats to hang at attention. Are you going to come along?"