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

"Here."

He took them, counted them out. Three thousand kronor bills and two one hundreds. He felt something akin to fear, looked at the carton she had taken the money from, back at Eli, back at the money.

"I… it cost fifty kronor."

"Take it anyway."

"No, but, it… it was only the headphones that broke and they…"

"But you can have it. Please?"

Oskar hesitated, then crumpled the notes into his pants pocket while he mentally calculated their worth in advertising flyers. Around one year

of Saturdays, maybe… twenty-five thousand delivered flyers. One hundred and fifty hours. More. A fortune. The bills in his pocket rubbed uncomfortably against him.

"Thanks."

Eli nodded, picked something up off the table that looked like a knot of wires but that was probably a brain teaser. Oskar looked at her as she fiddled with the knots. Her neck bent, her long thin fingers that flew over the wires. He went over everything she had told him. Her dad, the aunt who lived in the city, the school she went to. Lies, all of it.

And where had she gotten the money from? Stolen?

He was so unaccustomed to the feeling he didn't even know what it was at first. It started like a kind of tingle in his head, continued into his body, then made a sharp, cold arc back from his stomach to his head. He was… angry. Not desperate or scared. Angry.

Because she had lied to him and then… and who had she stolen the money from anyway? From someone she had?… He crossed his arms over his stomach, leaned back.

"You kill people."

"Oskar…"

"If this is true then you must kill people. Take their money."

"I've been given the money."

"You're just lying. The whole time."

"It's true."

"What part is true? That you're lying?"

Eli put down the tangle of knots and looked at him with wounded eyes, threw her arms out. "What do you want me to do?"

"Prove it to me."

"Prove what?"

"That you are… who you say you are."

She looked at him for a long time. Then she shook her head.

"I don't want to."

"Why not."

"Guess."

Oskar sank deeper into the armchair. Felt the small wad of bills in his pocket. Saw the bundles of advertising flyers in his mind. That had arrived this morning. That had to be delivered before Tuesday. Gray fatigue

in his body. Tears in his head. Anger. "Guess." More games. More lies. Wanted to leave. To sleep.

The money. She gave me money so I would stay.

He got up out of the armchair, took out the crumpled bills from his pocket, laid everything except a hundred kronor note on the table. Put it back in his pocket and said: "I'm going home."

She leaned over, grabbed his wrist. "Stay. Please."

"Why? All you do is lie."

He tried to move away from her, but her grip on his wrist hardened.

"Let me go!"

"I'm not some freak from the circus!"

Oskar clenched his teeth, said calmly: "Let me go."

She did not let go. The cold arc of anger in Oskar's chest started to vibrate, sing, and he threw himself on top of her. Landed on top of her and pressed her backwards into the couch. She weighed almost nothing and he had her pinned up against the armrest, sat down on her chest while the arc bent, shook, made black dots in front of his eyes as he raised his arm and hit her in the face as hard as he could.

A sharp slapping sound bounced between the walls and her head jerked to the side, drops of saliva flew out of her mouth, and his hand burned. The arc cracked, fell to pieces, and his anger dissolved.

He sat on her chest, looked bewildered at her little head that lay turned in profile against the black leather of the couch as a flush bloomed on the cheek he had struck. She lay still, her eyes open. He rubbed his hands over his face.

"Sorry. Sorry. I…"

Suddenly she turned around, threw him off her chest, pushed him up against the back of the couch. He tried to get a grip on her shoulders, but missed, got ahold of her hips, and she landed with her belly right over his face. He threw her off, twisted around, and both of them tried to get ahold of the other.

They rolled around on the couch, wrestling. With tensed muscles and utter concentration. But with care, so that neither would hurt the other. They snaked around each other, bumped against the table.

Pieces of the black egg fell to the floor with the sound of raindrops on a metal roof.

He didn't bother going up to his room to get his coat. His shift was over.

This is my time off and this is something I'm doing for the sheer pleasure of it.

He could help himself to a spare pathologist's coat in the morgue if it was really… messy. The elevator came and he walked in, pushed the button for lower level two. What would he do in that case? Call the ER and see if someone could come down and sew him up? There was no protocol for this kind of situation.

Probably the bleeding, or whatever it was called, had already ended, but he had to make sure. Would not be able to sleep otherwise. Would lie there and hear the dripping.

He smiled to himself as he got out of the elevator. How many normal people would be prepared to take care of this kind of thing without batting an eye? Not many. He was pretty pleased with himself for… well, for doing his duty. Taking responsibility.

I'm not completely normal.

And he couldn't deny it: there was something in him that was actually hoping that… that the bleeding had continued, that he would have to call the ER, that there would be a hoopla. However much he wanted to go home and sleep. Because it would make a better story, that's why.

No, he was not completely normal. He had no problems with the corpses: organic machines with the brains turned off. But what could make him a little paranoid were all these corridors.

Simply the thought of this network of tunnels ten meters underground, the large rooms and offices in some kind of administrative department in Hell. So large. So quiet. So empty.

The corpses are a picture of health by comparison.

He punched in the code, automatically put his finger on the opener, which only answered with a helpless click. Pushed the door open manually and walked into the morgue, pulled on a pair of rubber gloves.

What was this?

The man he had left covered in a sheet now lay fully exposed. His penis was erect, pointing to one side. The sheet lay on the floor. Benke's smoke-damaged airways squeaked as he gasped for breath.

The man wasn't dead. No. He couldn't be dead… since he was moving.

Slowly, in an almost dream-like way, the man turned over on the gur-ney. His hands fumbled for something and Benke instinctively took a step back as one of them-it didn't even look like a hand-swept past his face. The man tried to get up, fell back onto the metal stretcher. The lone eye stared straight ahead without blinking.

A sound. The man was uttering a sound, heeeeeeeee…

Benke rubbed his face. Something had happened to his skin. His skin felt… he looked at his hand. Rubber gloves.

Behind his hand he saw the man make another attempt to get up.

What the hell do I do?

Again the man fell down onto the gurney with a moist boom. A few drops of that fluid splattered onto Benke's face. He tried to wipe it away with the rubber glove but only managed to smear it around.

He took up a corner of his shirt and wiped himself with it.

Ten stories. He fell ten stories.

OK, OK, you've got a situation here. Deal with it.

If the man wasn't dead, he was surely in the process of dying. Needed care.

"Eeeee…"

"I'm here. I'll help you. I'm going to bring you to the emergency room. Try to lie still, I will…"