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

"Christening font."

"Yes, the christening font. The minister was in despair over it, there was like a… black crust over the whole… Staffan had to-"

"Staffan, Staffan."

"Yes, Staffan. He didn't say it was you. He said it to me, that it was

hard for him, with his… faith to stand there lying to the minister's face but that he… to protect you…"

"But you get it, don't you?"

"Get what?"

"That he's really protecting himself."

"He is not, I-"

"Think about it."

Yvonne took a last long drag of her cigarette, put it out in the ashtray, and immediately lit another.

"It was an… antique. Now they have to send it off to be restored."

"And it was Staffan's stepson who did it. How would that look?"

"You are not his stepson."

"No, but you know. If I said to Staffan that I was going to go see the minister and tell him that it was me, and that my name is Tommy and Staffan is my… sort-of stepfather. Don't think he would like it."

"You should talk to him yourself."

"No, not today anyway."

"You don't dare."

"You sound like a little kid."

"And you're behaving like one."

"But it was a little funny, wasn't it?"

"No, Tommy. It wasn't."

Tommy sighed. He knew his mom would get pissed, but he had still thought she might be able to see something comical in it. But she was on Staffan's side now. Had to come to terms with it.

So the problem, the real problem, was finding somewhere to live. When they got married, that is. For now he could crash in the basement those evenings when Staffan came over. At eight he was going to finish his shift at Akeshov and come straight out here. And Tommy had no intention of listening to some damn moralizing lecture from that guy. Not on his life.

So Tommy went to his room and got his blanket and pillow from his bed while Yvonne still sat there smoking, looking out of the kitchen window. When he was ready he stood in the kitchen door with his pillow under one arm, the rolled up blanket under the other.

"OK, I'm going now. I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell him where I am."

Yvonne turned to him. She had tears in her eyes. Smiled a little.

"You look like when… when you would come and ask…"

The words caught in her throat. Tommy stood still. Yvonne swallowed, cleared her throat, and looked at him with clear eyes, said quietly: "Tommy. What should I do?"

"I don't know."

"Should I?…"

"No, not for my sake. Things are what they are."

Yvonne nodded. Tommy felt that he was also going to get really sad, that he should go now before things went wrong.

"And you won't tell, that-"

"No, no. I won't."

"Good. Thanks."

Yvonne got up and went over to Tommy. Hugged him. She smelled strongly of cigarettes. If Tommy's arms had been free he would have hugged her back. But he didn't, so he just put his head on her shoulder and they stood like that for a while.

Then Tommy left.

Don't trust her. Staffan can start going off on some damn thing or other and…

In the basement he threw the blanket and pillow on the couch. Put in a wad of chewing tobacco and lay down to think things over.

It would be best if he got shot.

But Staffan probably wasn't the kind of guy who… no, no. Was more like the one who would plant a bull's-eye right in the killer's forehead. Get a box of chocolates from his police friends. The hero. Would turn up here later looking for Tommy. Maybe.

He fished out his key, walked out in the corridor and unlocked the shelter, took the chain in with him. With his lighter as a lamp he made his way through the short corridor with the two storage units on either side. In the storage units there were dry goods, cans of food, old games, a camp stove, and other things to make it through a siege.

He opened a door, threw in the chain.

OK, he had an emergency exit.

Before he left the shelter he took down the shooting trophy and weighed it in his hand. At least two kilos. Maybe he could sell it? The value of the metal alone. They could melt it down.

He studied the pistol shooter's face. Didn't he kind of look like Staffan? In that case melting it down was the right option.

Cremation. Definitely.

He laughed.

The absolutely best thing would be to melt everything down except the head and then give it back to Staffan. A solid pool of metal with only that little head sticking up. Was probably too hard to arrange. Unfortunately.

He put the trophy back in its place, walked out, and closed the door without turning the wheels of the lock. Now he would be able to slip in here if he had to. Which he didn't really think would happen.

But just in case.

Lacke let it ring ten times before hanging up. Gosta sat on the couch and stroked a striped orange cat over the head, didn't look up when he asked:

"No one home?"

Lacke rubbed his hand over his face, said with some irritation: "Yes, damn it. Didn't you hear us talking?"

"You want another one?"

Lacke softened, tried to smile.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to… sure, yes, what the hell, Thanks."

Gosta leaned over carelessly so the cat on his knee was squeezed. It hissed and slipped down onto the floor, sat down and stared accusingly at Gosta, who was pouring a touch of tonic and a good amount of gin in Lacke's glass, holding it out to him.

"Here. Don't worry, she's probably just… you know…"

"Admitted. Thanks. She's gone to the hospital and they've admitted her."

"Yes… that's right."

"Then say that."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. Cheers."

"Cheers."

They both drank. After a while Gosta started to pick his nose. Lacke looked at him, and Gosta pulled his finger away, smiled apologetically. Not used to having people around.

A large gray and white cat was lying flat on the floor, looked like it barely had the energy to lift its head up. Gosta nodded at it. "Miriam is going to have babies soon."

Lacke took a big sip, made a face. For every drop of numbness the alcohol gave him, the smell of the apartment lessened.

"Whadya do with them?"

"What do you mean?"

"The kittens. What do you do with them? Let them live, do you?"

"Yes, but mostly they're dead. Nowadays."

"So that… what. That fat one, you said… Miriam?… that belly, it's just… a bag of dead kittens in there?"

"Yes."

Lacke drank the rest of the glass, put it on the table. Gosta gestured to the gin bottle. Lacke shook his head.

"No, I'm taking a little break."

He lowered his head. An orange carpet so full of cat hair it looked like it was made of it. Cats and cats all over. How many were there? He started to count. Got to eighteen. In this room alone.

"You've never thought about… having them fixed? Like castration, or whatever it's called… sterilizing? You could make do with one sex, you know."

Gosta looked at him uncomprehendingly.

"How would I go about doing that?"

"No, you're right."

Lacke imagined Gosta getting on the subway with maybe… twenty-five cats. In one box. No, in a bag, a sack. Go to the vet and just pour out all the cats. "Castration, please." He chuckled. Gosta put his head to one side.

"What is it?"

"I was just thinking… you could get a group discount."

Gosta did not appreciate the joke and Lacke waved his hands in front of him. "No, sorry. I was just… uh, I'm all… this thing with Virginia, you know. I…" He suddenly straightened up, slammed his hand on the table.

"I don't want to be here anymore!"

Gosta jumped in his spot on the couch. The cat in front of Lacke's feet snuck away, hid under the armchair. From somewhere in the room he heard a cat hiss. Gosta shifted his weight, wiggled his glass in his hand.