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

The squirrel's head jerks from side to side, his nose trembles as he looks down over the moon-shadowed landscape below and traces the sound to its source. Yes. Taking the long way around was worth it. The scratching, wet sound comes from the badger den.

Badgers can't climb trees. The squirrel relaxes a little and takes a bite of the nut while it continues to study the ground, but now more as a member of a theater audience, third balcony. Wants to see what will happen, how many badgers there are.

But what emerges from the badger's den is no badger. The squirrel removes the nut from its mouth, looks down. Tries to understand. Put what it sees together with known facts. Doesn't manage it.

Therefore takes the nut into its mouth again, dashes further up the trunk, all the way up into the very top.

Maybe one of those can climb trees.

You can never be too careful.

November [Evening/Night]

At is half past eight, Sunday evening.

At the same time as the ambulance with Virginia and Lacke is driving over the Traneberg Bridge, the Stockholm district chief of police holds up a photograph for the image-hungry reporters, Eli chooses a dress out of Oskar's mother's closet, Tommy squeezes glue into a plastic bag and draws in the exquisite fumes of numbness and forgetfulness, a squirrel sees Hakan Bengtsson-as the first living creature in fourteen hours to have done so-and Staffan, one of the ones who has been searching for him, is pouring out a cup of tea.

He has not realized that a sliver is missing from the very front of the spout and a large quantity of tea runs along the spout, the teapot, down onto the kitchen counter. He mumbles something and tips the teapot at an even steeper angle so the tea comes splashing out and the lid tumbles off and into the cup. Scalding hot tea splashes onto his hands and he slams the teapot down, holding his arms stiffly at his sides, while in his head he starts to run through the Hebrew alphabet in order to quell his impulse to throw the teapot against the wall.

Aleph, Beth, Gimel, Daleth…

Yvonne came into the kitchen, saw Staffan bent over the counter with closed eyes.

"How are you doing?"

Staffan shook his head. "It's nothing."

Lamed, Mem, Nun, Samesh…

"Are you sad?"

"No."

Koff, Resh, Shin, Taff. There. Better.

He opened his eyes, pointed at the teapot.

"That's a terrible teapot."

"It is?"

"Yes, it… spills when you try to pour the tea."

"I've never noticed."

"Well, it does."

"There's nothing wrong with it."

Staffan pinched his lips together, stretched out his scalded hand towards her with a gesture of Peace. Shalom. Be quiet. "Yvonne. Right now I feel such an… intense desire to hit you. So please, don't say any more."

Yvonne took half a step back. Something in her had been prepared for this. She had not admitted this insight into her conscious mind, but had still sensed that behind his pious facade Staffan stored some kind of… rage.

She crossed her arms, breathed in and out a few times, while Staffan stood still, staring at the teacup with the lid in it. Then she said: "Is that what you do?"

"What?"

"Hit. When something goes wrong."

"Have I hit you?"

"No, but you said-"

"I said. And you listened. And now it's alright."

"And if I hadn't listened?"

Staffan looked completely calm again and Yvonne relaxed, lowered her arms. He took both her hands in his, kissed the backs of them lightly.

"Yvonne. We have to listen to each other."

The tea was poured out and they drank it in the living room. Staffan made a mental note to buy Yvonne a new teapot. She asked about the search in Judarn forest and Staffan told her. She did her best to engage him in conversation on other topics but, finally, came the unavoidable question.

"Where's Tommy?"

"I… don't know."

"You don't know? Yvonne…"

"Well, at a friend's house."

"Hm. When is he coming home."

"I think he was… supposed to spend the night. Over there."

"There?"

"Yes, at…"

In her head Yvonne went through the names of Tommy's friends that she knew. Didn't want to tell Staffan that Tommy was gone for the night without knowing where. Staffan took this thing about a parent's responsibility very seriously.

"… at Robban's."

"Robban. Is that his best friend?"

"Yes, I guess so."

"What is he called, more than Robban?"

"… Ahlgren. Why? Is that someone you have…"

"No, I was just thinking."

Staffan took his spoon, hit it lightly against the teacup. A delicate ringing sound. He nodded.

"Great. You know… I think we're going to have to call this Robban and ask Tommy to come home for a while. So I can talk to him a little."

"I don't have the number."

"No, but… Ahlgren. You know where he lives, don't you? All you have to do is look it up in the telephone directory."

Staffan got up out of the couch and Yvonne bit her lower lip, felt how she was constructing a labyrinth that it was getting harder and harder to get out of. He got the local part of the telephone book and stopped in the middle of the living room, flipping through it and mumbling:

"Ahlgren, Ahlgren… Hm. Which street does he live on?"

"I… Bjornsonsgatan."

"Bjornsonsgatan… no. No Ahlgren there. But there is one here on Ibsengatan. Could it be him?"

When Yvonne didn't answer, Staffan put his finger in the phone book and said:

"Think I'll give him a try at any rate. It's Robban, right?"

"Staffan…"

"Yes?"

"I promised him not to tell."

"Now I don't understand anything."

"Tommy. I said I wouldn't tell you… where he is."

"So he is not at Robban's?"

"No."

"Where is he then?"

"I… I promised."

Staffan put the telephone book on the coffee table, went and sat down next to Yvonne on the couch. She took a sip of tea, held the teacup in front of her face as if to hide behind it while Staffan waited for her. When she put the cup down on the saucer she saw that her hands were shaking. Staffan put his hand on her knee.

"Yvonne. You have to understand that-"

"I promised."

"I only want to talk to him. Forgive me for saying this, Yvonne, but I think it is exactly this kind of inability to deal with a situation as it arises that is the reason… well, that they happen in the first place. In my experience, the faster young people have someone respond to their actions, the greater the chance that… take a heroin addict, for example. If someone takes action when he is only doing, say, hashish…"

"Tommy doesn't do things like that."

"Are you completely sure of that?"

Silence fell. Yvonne knew that for each second that went by, her "yes" in response to Staffan's question decreased in value. Tick-tock. Now she had already answered "no" without saying the word. And Tommy did act strange sometimes. When he came home. Something about his eyes. What if he…

Staffan leaned back in the couch, knew the battle was won. Now he was only waiting for her conditions.

Yvonne's eyes were searching for something on the table.

"What is it?"

"My cigarettes, have you-"

"In the kitchen. Yvonne-"

"Yes. Yes. You can't go to him now."

"No. You can decide. If you think-"

"Tomorrow morning. Before he goes to school. Promise me. That you won't go to him now."

"Promise. So. What kind of mysterious place is he holed up in anyway?"

Yvonne told him.

Then she went out into the kitchen and smoked a cigarette, blew the smoke out through the open window. Smoked one more, cared less about where the smoke went. When Staffan came out into the kitchen, demonstratively waved away the smoke with his hand, and asked where the cellar key was, she said she had forgotten for the moment but it would probably come back to her tomorrow morning.