The Traneberg bridge. When it was unveiled in 1934 it was hailed as a minor miracle of engineering. The longest concrete single-span bridge in the world. One single mighty arc that soared between Kungsholmen and the western suburbs which at that time consisted of the little garden cities of Bromma and Äppelviken. The single-family-house movement’s prefabricated prototypes in Ängby.
But the modern was already on its way. The first real suburbs of three-storey apartment buildings were already finished in Traneberg and Abrahamsberg, and the state had bought up large areas further west to start constructing everything that would one day become Vällingby, Hässelby and Blackeberg.
To all this, the Traneberg bridge was the link. Almost everyone who travelled to or from the western suburbs used it.
In the 1960s reports started to come in about how the bridge was slowly disintegrating as a result of the heavy traffic it was subjected to. It was renovated and reinforced from time to time but the large-scale renovation and new construction that came up in talks was still a thing of the future.
So on the morning of the 8th of November 1981 the bridge looked tired. A life-weary senior, sorrowfully pondering the days when the heavens were brighter, the clouds lighter and when it was still the longest single-span concrete bridge in the world.
The snow had started to melt towards morning and snow-slush ran down into cracks in the bridge. The city didn’t dare to salt it because it would eat away further at the ageing concrete.
There wasn’t much traffic at this time, particularly not on a Sunday morning. The subway had stopped running for the night and the occasional drivers who passed by were either longing for their beds or to return to their beds.
Benny Molin was an exception. Sure, he was looking forward to his bed at home but he was probably too happy to sleep.
Eight times now he had met with various women through the personal ads, but Betty, whom he had arranged to meet on Saturday night, was the first that he had clicked with.
This was going to be something. Both of them knew it.
They had doubled over with laughter at how ridiculous it sounded: ‘Benny and Betty’. Like a comedic duo, but what can you do? And if they had kids, what would they call them? Lenny and Netty?
Yes, they had had a lot of fun together. They had sat in her place in Kungsholmen, talking about their worlds, trying to fit their puzzle pieces together, with pretty good results. Towards morning there were sort of only two alternatives for what to do next.
And Benny had chosen what he thought was the right one, even though it was hard. He had said goodbye, with the promise of meeting up again Sunday night, then got into his car and driven home to Bromma while he sang ‘I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You’ out loud.
So Benny was not someone who had any energy to spare for complaining about, or even noticing, the miserable state of the Traneberg bridge this Sunday morning. For him it was simply the bridge to paradise, to love.
He had just arrived at its end on the Traneberg side and started singing the song’s chorus, for perhaps the tenth time, when a blue figure turned up in the beam of his headlights, in the middle of the road.
He had time to think—Don’t jump on the brakes!—before he took his foot off the accelerator and jerked the steering wheel to the side, swerving to the left when there were only about five metres between him and the person. He caught a glimpse of a blue coat and a pair of white legs before the corner of the car banged into the concrete barrier between the lanes.
The scraping sound was so loud it deafened him as the car was pressed up against and forced down along the barrier. The side-view mirror was torn off and fluttered away, and the car door on his side was pushed in until it touched his hip before the car was flung out into the middle of the road again.
He tried to correct it, but the car skidded over to the other side and hit the railing of the pedestrian walkway. The other side-view mirror was ripped off and flew away over the bridge railing, reflecting the lights of the bridge up into the sky. He braked carefully and the next skid was less violent; the car only nudged up against the concrete barrier.
After approximately a hundred metres he managed to stop the car. He exhaled, sat still with his hands in his lap and the engine running. He had a bloody taste in his mouth; had bitten his lip.
What kind of lunatic was that back there?
He looked up into the rear-view mirror and in the yellowish light of the streetlamps he could see the person stagger on down in the middle of the lane as if nothing had happened. That made him angry. A nutcase, sure, but there were limits, damn it.
He tried to open his door, but couldn’t. The lock must have gotten smashed in. He released his seat belt and crawled over to the passenger’s side. Before he wriggled out of the car he turned on the hazard lights. He stood next to the car, his arms folded, waiting.
Saw that the person making his way along the bridge was dressed in some kind of hospital gown and nothing more. Bare feet, bare legs. Would have to see if it was possible to talk any sense into him.
Him?
The figure got closer. The slush splashed up around the bare feet, he walked as if he had a thread attached to his chest, inexorably pulling him along.
Benny took a step towards him and stopped. The person was maybe ten metres away now and Benny could clearly see his…face.
Benny gasped, and steadied himself against the car. Then he quickly wriggled back into it through the passenger side, put the car in first gear and drove away so fast the slush sprayed out from his back wheels and probably hit…that thing on the road.
Once he was back in his apartment, he poured himself a good-sized whisky, drank about half. Then he called the police. Told them what he had seen, what had happened. When he had drunk the last of the whisky and started to lean towards hitting the hay after all, the mobilisation was in full swing.
They were searching all of Judarn forest. Five police dogs, twenty officers. Even one helicopter, unusual for this type of search.
One wounded, dazed man. A single canine unit should have been able to track him down.
But the stakes were raised in part because of the high media profile of the case (two officers had been assigned simply to handle all the reporters crowding around Weibull’s nursery next to the Åkeshov subway station) and the police wanted to demonstrate that they were putting in the maximum effort even on a Sunday morning.
And in part because they had found Bengt Edwards.
That is to say, they assumed it was Bengt Edwards since they had found a wedding band with the name Gunilla engraved on it.
Gunilla was Benke’s wife, his co-workers knew that. No one could bring themselves to call her. Tell her that he was dead, but that they still could not be completely sure it was him. Ask her if she knew of any defining bodily characteristics on, say…the lower half of his body?
The pathologist who had arrived at seven o’clock in the morning to work on the body of the ritual killer, found himself with a new case. If he had been presented with Bengt Edwards’ remains without knowing any of the circumstances he would have guessed that the body had lain outside for one or two days in severe cold, during which time it had been mutilated by rats, foxes, perhaps wolverines and bears—if ‘mutilate’ is the appropriate word to use in the context of animals. At any rate, larger predators could have torn off pieces of flesh in this way, and rodents could have been responsible for damage to protrusions such as nose, ears and fingers.
The pathologist’s hasty, preliminary assessment that went out to the police was the other reason for the considerable mobilisation. The offender was determined to be extremely violent, in official terms.
Completely fucking crazy, in other words.
That the man was still alive was nothing short of a miracle. Not a miracle of the kind the Vatican would want to wave their incense at, but a miracle nonetheless. He had been a vegetable before the fall from the tenth storey, now he was up and walking, and worse.
But he couldn’t exactly be in great shape. The weather was a little milder now, of course, but it was only a few degrees above freezing and the man was dressed in a hospital gown. He had no accomplices as far as the police knew, and it was simply not possible for him to remain hidden in the forest for more than a few hours.
The telephone call from Benny Molin had come in almost an hour after he had seen the man on the Traneberg bridge. But a few minutes later they had received an additional call from an older woman.
She had been out for a morning walk with her dog when she had spotted a man in a hospital gown in the vicinity of the Åkeshov stables where the King’s sheep were housed in the winter. She had immediately gone home and called the police, thinking the sheep were in danger.
Ten minutes later the first patrol car had turned up and the first thing the officers did was check the stables, their guns out and ready, nervous.
The sheep had become restless and before the officers were done combing the building the whole place was a seething mass of anxious, woolly bodies, loud bleating and an inhuman screeching that drew even more police.
During the search a number of sheep escaped from the pen into the walkway in the middle, and when the police finally determined that the place was clean and left the building—their ears ringing—a ram managed to slip out the front door. An older officer with farmers in the family threw himself on the ram and grabbed him by his horns, dragging him back to the pen.
It was only after he had finished coaxing the animal back that he realised some of the bright flashes during his quick action had been photoflashes. He had made the erroneous assumption that the matter was too serious for the press to want to use such a picture. Shortly thereafter, however, they managed to erect a base for the media, outside the perimeter of the search area.
It was now half past seven and dawn was creeping in under dripping trees. The search for the lone lunatic was well organised and in full swing. The police felt assured of a resolution before lunchtime.
Another couple of hours would go by of negative results from the infra-red camera on the helicopter, and from the secretions-sensitive noses of the dogs, before the speculation started that the man was no longer alive. That they were searching for a corpse.
When the first pale dawn light trickled in through the tiny gaps in the blinds and struck Virginia’s palm like a burning hot light bulb, she only wanted one thing: to die. Even so she instinctively pulled her hand away and crawled further back into the room.
Her skin was cut in more than thirty places. There was blood all over the apartment.
Several times during the night she had sliced her arteries to drink but had not had time to suck or lick everything that ran out. It had landed on the floor, on the table, chairs. The large rug in the living room looked like someone had butchered a deer on it.
The degree of satisfaction and relief lessened each time she opened a new wound, each time she drank a mouthful of her own rapidly thinning blood. Towards morning she was a whimpering mass of abstinence and anguish. Anguish because she knew what had to be done if she was to live.
The realisation had come to her gradually, grown to certainty. Another person’s blood would make her…healthy. And she couldn’t manage to take her own life. Probably it was not even possible; the cuts she made in her skin with the fruit knife healed with unnatural swiftness. However hard and deep she cut, the bleeding stopped within a minute. After an hour the scar tissue was already visible.
And anyway…
She had sensed something.
It was towards morning, when she was sitting on a kitchen chair and sucking blood from a cut in the crook of her arm—the second one in the same spot—that she was suddenly pulled into the depths of her body and caught sight of it.
The infection.
She didn’t really see it, of course, but she had an ever-increasing perception of what it was. It was like being pregnant and getting an ultrasound, looking at the screen showing you how your belly was filled with, in this case not a child but a large writhing snake. That this was what you were carrying.
Because what she had realised at that moment was that the infection had its own life, its own force, completely independent of her body. That the infection would live on even if she did not. The mother-to-be could die of shock at the ultrasound but no one would notice anything because the snake would take control of the body instead.
Suicide would make no difference.
The only thing the infection seemed to fear was sunlight. The pale light on her hand had hurt more than the deepest cut.
For a long time she sat curled up in a corner of the living room, watching how the dawn light through the slats of the blinds laid a grate over the soiled rug. Thought about her grandson Ted. How he had crawled over to that place where the afternoon sun shone in onto the floor and fallen asleep in the pool of sunlight with his thumb in his mouth.
The naked, soft skin, the tender skin that you would only have to…
WHAT AM I THINKING!
Virginia flinched, staring vacantly into space. She had seen Ted, and she had imagined that she…
NO!
She hit herself in the head. Hit and hit until the picture was crushed. But she would never see him again. Could never see anyone she loved ever again.
I am never again to see anyone I love.
Virginia forced her body to straighten up, crawled slowly over to the sun-grate. The infection protested and wanted to pull her back, but she was stronger, still had control over her own body. The light stung her eyes, the bars of the grate burned her cornea like glowing-hot steel wire.
Burn! Burn up!
Her right arm was covered in scars, dried blood. She stretched it into the light.
She could not have imagined it.
What the light had done to her on Saturday was a caress. Now a blowtorch started up, directed at her skin. After one second the skin was chalk-white. After two seconds it started to smoke. After three seconds a blister formed, blackened and burst with a hiss. The fourth second she pulled her arm back and crawled sobbing into the bedroom.
The stench of burnt flesh poisoned the air, she didn’t dare look at her arm as she slithered up into her bed.
Rest.
But the bed…
Even with the blinds drawn there was too much light in the bedroom. Even if she pulled the covers over her she felt too exposed on the bed. Her ears perceived every smallest morning noise coming from the apartments around her, and every noise was a potential threat. Someone walked over a floor above her. She flinched, turned her head in the direction of the sound, listened. A drawer was pulled out, the clinking of metal one floor up.
Coffee spoons.
She knew from the delicateness of the sound that it was…coffee spoons. Saw before her the velvet-clad case with silver coffee spoons that had been her grandmother’s and that she had been given by her mother when she moved into the nursing home. How she had opened that case, looked at the spoons and realised that they had never been used.
Virginia thought about that now as she slid down out of bed, pulled the covers off with her, crawled over to the double closet, opened its doors. On the floor of the closet there was an extra duvet and a couple of blankets.
She had felt a kind of sadness, looking at the spoons. Spoons that had been lying in their case for perhaps sixty years without anyone ever picking them up, holding them, using them.
More sounds around her, the building coming to life. She didn’t hear them any more when she pulled out the duvet and the blankets and wrapped them around her, crawled into the closet and shut the doors. It was pitch-black in there. She pulled the duvets and blankets over her head, curling up like a caterpillar in a double cocoon.
Never ever.
On parade, standing at attention in their velvet bed, waiting. Fragile little coffee spoons of silver. She rolled over with the fabric of the blankets tight over her face.
Who will get them now?
Her daughter. Yes. Lena would get them, and she would use them to feed Ted. Then the spoons would be happy. Ted would eat mashed potatoes from the spoons. That would be good.
She lay completely still like a stone, calm spreading through her body. She had time to formulate one last thought before she sank into rest. Why isn’t it hot?
With the blankets over her face, wrapped in heavy cloth it should be hot and sweaty around her head. The question floated sleepily around a large black room, finally landing on a very simple answer.
Because I have not been breathing for several minutes.
And not even now when she was conscious of the fact did she feel any need to. No feeling of suffocation, no lack of oxygen. She didn’t need to breathe any more. That was all.
The mass started at eleven o’clock but Tommy and Yvonne were already on the platform in Blackeberg at a quarter past ten, waiting for the subway.
Staffan, who was singing in the choir, had already told Yvonne what the theme of today’s mass was going to be. Yvonne mentioned it to Tommy, cautiously asking if he wanted to go, and to her surprise he had accepted.
The theme was about the youth of today.
Taking their starting point from a place in the Old Testament that described the Israelites’ exodus from Egypt, the ministers had— with Staffan’s help—crafted a series of texts around the idea of guiding stars. Something a young person in today’s society could, so to speak, hold up before him, something he could use to guide him through his desert wanderings, and so forth.
Tommy had read this particular passage in the Bible and then said he was happy to attend.
So when the subway came thundering out of the tunnel from Iceland Square this morning, propelling a pillar of air in front of it that caused Yvonne’s hair to fly around, she was completely happy. She looked at her son who was standing next to her with his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his jacket.
It’s going to be all right.
Yes. Simply the fact that he was willing to come to church with her was big enough. But this also meant that he had accepted Staffan, didn’t it?
They got on the subway car and sat down next to an old man, across from each other. Before they got on the train they had been talking about what they had heard on the radio this morning; the search for the ritual killer in the Judarn forest. Yvonne leaned forward to Tommy.
‘Do you think they’re going to catch him?’
Tommy shrugged.
‘Probably. But it’s a big forest and all that…have to ask Staffan.’
‘I just think the whole thing is so horrible. What if he comes here?’
‘What would he do here? But, sure. What’s he going to do in Judarn? He might as well come here.’
‘Ugh.’
The older man stretched, made a movement like he was shaking something off his shoulders, said, ‘You have to ask yourself if someone like that is even human.’
Tommy looked up at the man, Yvonne said: ‘Hm,’ and smiled at him, which the man clearly took as encouragement.
‘I mean…first those terrible…deeds, and then…in that condition, a fall of that magnitude. No, I tell you, he can’t be human, and I hope the police shoot him on sight.’
Tommy nodded, pretending to agree.
‘Hang him in the nearest tree.’
The man was getting excited.
‘Exactly. That’s what I’ve been saying this whole time. They should have given him a lethal injection or something while he was in the hospital, like you do with crazy dogs. Then we wouldn’t have to be sitting here in a state of constant terror and be witness to this panicky search paid for with taxpayers’ money. A helicopter. Yes, I went by it on the train right by Åkeshov and they had a helicopter up there. Oh, they can afford that all right. But when it comes to paying out pensions large enough to live on, after a lifetime of service to society, that they can’t do. But to send a helicopter up there circling around, scaring the animals out of their wits…’
The monologue continued all the way to Vällingby where Yvonne and Tommy got off, while the man stayed on. The train was going to turn here, so he was probably going back the way he came to get yet another glimpse of the helicopter, maybe continue his monologue with a new audience.
Staffan was waiting for them outside the brick heap that was the St Thomas church.
He was wearing a suit and a pale yellow-striped tie that made Tommy think of the picture from the war: ‘A Swedish Tiger’. Staffan’s face lit up when he saw them and walked forward to greet them. He embraced Yvonne and held his hand out to Tommy, who shook it.
‘I’m so glad both of you wanted to come. Especially you, Tommy. What made you decide?’
‘I just wanted to see what it was like.’
‘Mmm. Well, I hope you like it. That we’ll get to see you here again.’
Yvonne stroked Tommy’s shoulder.
‘He read that part in the Bible…the passage you’re going to be talking about.’
‘Has he, indeed? Well, that’s very impressive. By the way, Tommy, I haven’t found that trophy yet. But…I think maybe we should just write it off, what do you say?’
‘Mmm.’
Staffan waited for Tommy to say something but when he didn’t, turned back to Yvonne.
‘I should be out in Åkeshov right now, but…I didn’t want to miss this. But as soon as it’s over I’ll have to go, so we’ll have to…’
Tommy walked into the church.
There were only a few older people with their backs to him sitting in the pews. To judge by their hats they were all old ladies.
The church was lit up by a yellow light coming from lamps that were suspended along either wall. In the walkway down between the pews was a red carpet woven with geometric figures, which went up to the altar; a stone bench with some flower arrangements. Above all that there was a large wooden cross with a modernist Jesus. His facial expression could easily be interpreted as a taunting smile.
At the very back of the church, by the entrance where Tommy was, there was a stand with brochures, a box to put money in and a christening font. Tommy walked up to the font and looked in.
Perfect.
When he first saw it he thought it looked too good to be true; that it was probably filled with water. But it wasn’t. The whole christening font was carved out of one large piece of stone, that reached up to Tommy’s waist. The bowl part was dark grey, had a rough surface and not a single drop of water in it.
OK, let’s do it.
He pulled out a two-litre plastic bag from his pocket, filled with a white powder. Looked around. No one even looking in his direction. He made a hole in the bag with his finger and let its contents pour into the christening font.
Then he tucked the empty bag in his pocket and walked back out, while he tried to figure out a good explanation for why he didn’t want to sit up next to his mum in church, why he wanted to sit way back, next to the christening font.
Could say he wanted to be able to leave without disturbing anyone, if it got too boring. That was good. That sounded…
Perfect.
Oskar opened his eyes and was filled with anxiety. He didn’t know where he was. The room around him was only dimly lit and he didn’t recognise the bare walls.
He was lying on a couch, a blanket pulled over him that smelled a little.
The walls floated in front of his eyes, swimming freely in the air while he tried to put them in their place, organise them so they made a room he recognised. He couldn’t.
He pulled the blanket up to his nose. A mildewy smell filled his nostrils and he tried to calm down, stop working on the room and remember instead.
Yes, now he remembered.
Dad. Janne. Hitching a ride. Eli. The couch. Cobwebs.
He stared up at the ceiling. The dusty cobwebs were still up there, hard to discern in the half-light. He had fallen asleep with Eli next to him on the couch. How long ago was that? Was it morning?
The windows were covered in blankets, but in the corners he could make out a faint outline of grey light. He pulled off the blanket and walked over to the balcony window, lifted the corner of the blanket. The blinds were drawn. He angled them open and yes, it was morning out there.
His head ached and the light stung his eyes. He drew his breath in sharply, dropped the blanket and felt his neck with both hands. No. Of course not. She had said she would never…
But where is she?
He looked around; his eyes stopped at the closed door to the room where Eli had changed her shirt. He took a few steps towards the door, stopped himself. The door lay in shadow. He balled his hands up, sucked on a knuckle.
What if she really…sleeps in a coffin.
Silly. Why would she do that? Why do vampires do that anyway? Because they’re dead. And Eli said she wasn’t…
But what if…
He sucked on his knuckle, ran his tongue over it. Her kiss. The table with food. Just the fact that she could do that. And…her teeth. A predator’s teeth.
If only it wasn’t so dark in here.
The switch for the overhead lamp was next to the door. He pushed on it, thinking nothing would happen, but yes, it went on. He screwed up his eyes in the strong light, let his eyes get used to it before he turned to the door, rested his hand on the door handle.
The light didn’t help at all. In fact it was only more horrible now that the door was only a normal door. Like the door to his own room. Exactly the same. The door handle felt the same. What if she was lying in there? Maybe her arms neatly folded across her chest.
I have to look.
He pushed the handle down, tentatively; it only offered light resistance. The door must not be locked, then it would only have glided down. He pushed it down all the way and the door opened, the gap widened. The room inside was dark.
Wait!
Would she be hurt by the light if he opened the door?
No, yesterday she had sat next to the floor lamp without it seeming to bother her. But the overhead light was stronger and perhaps there was a…special kind of bulb in the floor lamp, a light that…vampires could withstand.
Ridiculous. ‘The specialty store for vampire lamps.’
And why would she have let the overhead light remain in place if it could be…harmful to her?
Even so he opened the door cautiously, allowing the cone of light to slowly widen into the room. It was as sparsely furnished as the living room. A bed and a pile of clothes, nothing more. The bed only had a sheet and a pillow. The blanket he had slept with on the couch must have come from there. There was a note taped to the wall next to the bed.
The Morse code.
So it was here she had been lying when she…
He drew a deep breath. He had managed to forget it.
My room is on the other side of this wall.
Yes, he was two metres from his own bed, from his own normal life.
He lay on the bed, had the impulse to tap out a message on the wall. To Oskar. On the other side. What should he say?
W.H.E.R.E. A.R.E. Y.O.U.
He sucked on his knuckle again. He was here. It was Eli who was gone.
He felt dizzy, confused. Let his head flop down onto the pillow, his face turned out facing the room. The pillow smelled funny. Like the blanket, but stronger. A stale, greasy smell. He looked at the pile of clothes near the bed.
It’s so repulsive.
He didn’t want to be here any more. It was completely quiet and empty in the apartment, and everything was so…abnormal. His gaze travelled over the pile of clothes, stopped at the closets that covered the whole length of the opposite wall, all the way to the door. Two double closets, one single.
There.
He pulled his legs up against his stomach, staring at the closed closet doors. He didn’t want to. His stomach hurt. A shooting pain in his lower belly.
Had to pee.
He stood up from the bed, walked to the door with his eyes glued to the closet doors. He had the same kind of closets in his room and knew she could easily fit inside. That’s where she was and he didn’t want to see any more.
Even the light in the hall worked. He turned it on and walked along the short hallway to the bathroom. The door to the bathroom was locked. The coloured strip above the handle was red. He knocked on the door.
‘Eli?’
Not a sound. He knocked again.
‘Eli? Are you in there?’
Nothing. But when he said her name aloud he remembered that it was wrong. That was the last thing she had said as they lay together on the couch. That her real name was…Elias. Elias. A boy’s name. Was Eli a boy? They had…kissed and slept in the same bed and…
Oskar pressed his hands against the bathroom door, rested his forehead against his hands. He tried to think. Hard. And he didn’t get it. That he could somehow accept that she was a vampire, but the idea that she was somehow a boy, that that could be…harder.
He knew the word. Fag. Fucking fag. Stuff that Jonny said. To think it was worse to be gay than to be a…
He knocked on the door again.
‘Elias?’
A weird feeling in his stomach as he said it. No, he wasn’t going to get used to it. She…His name was Eli. But it was too much. Regardless of what Eli was, it was too much. He just couldn’t. Nothing about her was normal.
He lifted his forehead from his hands, held the pee back firmly.
Steps outside in the stairwell and shortly thereafter a sound of the letter slot opening, a thud. He walked out there and looked at what it was. Advertising.
Ground beef. 14.90 per kilo.
Garish red letters and numbers. He picked up the advertisements in his hand with dawning comprehension; pressed his eyes against the keyhole while footsteps echoed in the stairwell; more bangs as additional letter slots were opened and shut.
After half a minute his mum passed, on her way down. He only managed to catch a glimpse of her hair, the collar of her coat, but he knew it was her. Who else would it be?
Delivering the advertising packets in his absence.
With the flyers clenched in his hand Oskar sank down into a crouch by the front door, leaned his forehead against his knees. He didn’t cry. The need to pee was like a stinging nest of ants in his groin that in some way prevented him.
But the thought ran through his head over and over:
I don’t exist. I don’t exist.
Lacke had spent the night worrying. Ever since he left Virginia a sneaking anxiety had been gnawing a hole in his stomach. He had spent about an hour with the regulars at the Chinese restaurant on Saturday night, trying to share his concerns but the others wanted none of it. Lacke had sensed things could get out of hand, that there was a danger he would get really ticked off, so he left.
Those guys weren’t worth shit.
Sure, it wasn’t exactly news to him, but he had thought that… well, what the hell had he thought?
That we were all in on it.
That at least one other person also had the feeling that something damn creepy was going on. There was so much talk, big words, especially from Morgan, but when it came down to it, no one had the gumption to lift a finger to actually do something.
Not that even Lacke knew what to do, but at least he was worried about it. If that helped. He had lain awake most of the night, tried to read a little from Dostoevsky’s The Demons but kept forgetting what happened on the previous page, the previous sentence, and he gave up.
But the night brought something good with it; he had made up his mind about something.
Sunday morning he had gone over to Virginia’s place, knocked on the door. No one answered and he had assumed that…hoped that she had gone to the hospital. On his way back home he walked past two women who were talking, heard something about a murderer that the police were searching for in the Judarn forest.
There’s a murderer behind every damn bush these days, for god’s sake. Now the papers have something else to jump all over.
About ten days had passed since they captured the Vällingby killer and the newspapers had grown tired of speculating about his identity and possible motive.
In the articles that mentioned him there had been a strong streak of…ghoulish delight. With painstaking care they had described the murderer’s present condition and how he was unlikely to leave his hospital bed for six months. There was a separate fact box about hydrochloric acid and what it could do to the body, so you could really revel in how much it must hurt.
No, Lacke took no pleasure in that kind of thing. Just thought it was creepy how people got all worked up about someone getting their ‘just deserts’ and all that. He himself was absolutely anti-death penalty. Not because he had some ‘modern’ sense of justice, no. More like a pre-modern one.
His reasoning went something like this: if someone kills my child, then I kill that person. Dostoevsky talked a lot about forgiveness, mercy. Sure. From society’s perspective, absolutely. But as a parent to the child it is my moral right to end the life of the one who ended that of my child. That society gives me in turn eight years in jail or something, is a different matter.
That wasn’t what Dostoevsky meant, and Lacke knew it. But he and Fyodor simply didn’t see eye to eye on this point.
Lacke thought about these things as he walked home to Ibsengatan. Once there he realised he was hungry and cooked up a batch of quick macaroni, ate it from the pan with a spoon, squeezed on some ketchup. While he was pouring water into the pan to make it easier to wash up later he heard something in the mail slot.
Advertisements. He didn’t care about that, had no money anyway.
No, that was just it.
He wiped the kitchen table with the dish rag, went and got his dad’s stamp collection from the sideboard, which he had also inherited from his father, and that had been hell to transport back to Blackeberg. He placed the album on the kitchen table, opened it.
There they were.
Four unmarked specimens of the first stamp ever to be issued in Norway. He leaned closer and squinted at the lion raised up on its hind legs against a light blue background.
Incredible.
They had cost four shillings when they were issued in 1855. Now they were worth…more. That they were connected in two pairs made them even more valuable.
That was what he had made up his mind about last night, while he tossed and turned between his smoke-saturated sheets; that it was time. This thing with Virginia had been the last straw. Then on top of that the complete incomprehension on the part of the guys, his realisation that: you know, these are not people worth hanging around with.
He was going to leave this place, and so was Virginia.
Depressed market or not, he would get about three hundred thousand for the stamps, plus two hundred for the apartment. Then they would get a house in the country. Or all right: two houses. A little farm. There was enough money for that and it would work out. As soon as Virginia had recovered he would present her with the idea, and he thought that…he was almost certain that she would agree to it, would love it in fact.
So that was how it was going to be.
Lacke felt calmer now. He saw everything clearly. What he would do today, and in the future. It would all work out.
Filled with pleasant thoughts, he wandered into the bedroom, lay on the bed to rest for five minutes, and fell asleep.
‘We see them on streets and squares and we find ourselves standing before them at a loss, saying to ourselves: what can we do?’
Tommy had never been this bored his whole life. The service had only been going for half an hour and he thought he would have had more fun if he had sat in a chair staring at the wall.
‘Blessed Be’ and ‘Hallelujah!’ and ‘Joy of the Lord’, but why did they all sit there staring in front like they were watching a qualifying match between Bulgaria and Romania? It didn’t mean anything to them, that stuff they read in the book, that they sang about. Didn’t seem to mean anything to the minister either. Just something he had to get through in order to collect his paycheque.
Now the sermon was underway at least.
If the minister mentioned that place in the Bible, that stuff Tommy had read, then he would do it. Otherwise he wouldn’t.
Let him decide.
Tommy checked his pocket. Everything was ready and the christening font was only three metres from where he sat in the back row. His mum was sitting in the very front, no doubt so she could twinkle at Staffan as he sang his meaningless songs with his hands loosely clasped front of his police dick.
Tommy clenched his teeth. He hoped the minister was going to say it.
‘We see a lost look in their eyes, the look of someone who has wandered astray and is unable to find his way back home. When I see a young person like this, I always think about the Israelites’ exodus from Egypt.’
Tommy stiffened. But maybe the minister wasn’t going to mention that exact place. Maybe it would be something about the Red Sea. Still, he took the stuff out of his pocket; a lighter and a small tinder cube. His hands were trembling.
‘For it is thus we have to view these young people who sometimes leave us so perplexed. They are wandering in a desert of unanswered questions and unclear future prospects. But there is a great difference between the people of Israel and the young people of today…’
Go on, say it…
‘The people of Israel had someone leading them. You are probably familiar with the words of the Scripture. “And the Lord went before them by day in a pillar of cloud, to lead them the way: and by night in a pillar of fire, to give them light.” It is this cloud, this fire that the young people of today lack and…’
The minister looked down into his papers.
Tommy had already set fire to the tinder cube, holding it between thumb and forefinger. At the top end of it there was a pure, blue flame trying to reach down towards his fingers. When the minister looked down at his papers, he took the chance.
He crouched down, took a long step out of the pew, stretched his arm out as far as he could and dumped the tinder cube into the font, pulled himself quickly back into the pew. No one had noticed anything.
The minister looked up again.
‘…and it is our responsibility as adults to be this cloud, this guiding star for young people. Where else will they find one? And the strength for this we can get from the works of the Lord.’
White smoke rose up from the christening font. Tommy already had a whiff of the familiar sweet smell.
He had done this a bunch of times; burned saltpetre and sugar. But rarely in this quantity, and never inside. He was excited about what the effect would be without a wind to disperse the fumes. He interlaced his fingers, pressing his hands hard together.
Bror Ardelius, temporary minister of the Vällingby parish was the first to notice it. He took it for what it was: smoke from the christening font. He had been waiting for a sign from the Lord his whole life and it was undeniably the case that when he saw the first pillar of smoke he thought for a moment, Oh, My Lord. At last.
But the thought did not last long. The feeling of it being a miracle left him so quickly that he took it as proof that it was no miracle, no sign. It was simply smoke from the christening font. But why?
The janitor whom he was not on particularly good terms with had decided to play a practical joke. The water in the font had started to…boil.
The problem was that he was in the middle of a sermon and could not spend a long time thinking about this. So Bror Ardelius did what most people do in these situations: he carried on as if nothing had happened and hoped the problem would resolve itself. He cleared his throat and tried to remember what he had just said.
The works of the Lord. Something about seeking strength in the works of the Lord. One example.
He glanced down at his notes. He had written, ‘Barefoot’.
Barefoot? What did I mean by that? That the people of Israel walked barefoot or that Jesus…wandered for a long time…
He looked up and saw that the smoke had thickened, formed a pillar that rose from the font to the ceiling. What was the last thing he had said? Yes, now he remembered. The words were still hanging in the air.
‘And the strength for this we can take from the works of the Lord.’
That was an acceptable conclusion. Not great, not what he had been planning, but acceptable. He gave the congregation a somewhat bewildered smile and nodded to Birgit who led the choir.
The choir, eight people, stood up as one and walked up to the podium. When they turned to the congregation he could tell by their expressions that they also saw the smoke. Blessed be the Lord; it had occurred to him that perhaps he was the only one who could see it.
Birgit looked at him for guidance and he gestured with his hand: go on, get started.
The choir started to sing.
‘Lead me, God, lead me into righteousness.
Let mine eyes behold Thy path…
One of old Wesley’s beautiful compositions. Bror Ardelius wished he had been able to enjoy the beauty of the song, but the pillar of cloud was starting to worry him. Thick white smoke was billowing up out of the christening font and something inside the basin itself was burning with a blue-white flame, smoking and sputtering. A sweetish smell reached his nostrils and the members of the congregation started to turn around to figure out where the crackling sound was coming from.
‘For only you, my Lord,
offer my soul
peace and security
One of the women in the choir started to cough. The members of the congregation turned their heads from the smoking font to Bror Ardelius for instructions on how they should behave, if this was a part of the service.
More people started to cough, holding handkerchiefs or sleeves in front of their mouths, noses. A thin haze had started to form inside the church, and through this haze Bror Ardelius saw someone from the very last row get up and run out the door.
Yes, that is the only reasonable thing to do.
He leaned towards the microphone.
‘Yes, well, there has been a small…mishap and I think it is best if we…clear the building.’
Already at the word ‘mishap’, Staffan left the podium and started walking towards the exit with quick, controlled steps. He got it. It was Yvonne’s hopeless delinquent of a kid who had done this. Even now, walking down from the podium, he was trying to control himself, because he sensed that if he got hold of Tommy he would give him a good hiding.
Of course this was exactly what the young hooligan needed, it was exactly the kind of guidance he was lacking.
Pillar of cloud come help me. A good spanking is what this kid sorely needs.
But Yvonne wouldn’t accept it, as things were just now. Once they were married things would be different. Then he would, God so help him, take on the task of disciplining Tommy. But first and foremost he wanted to get a hold of him right now. Shake him up a little bit, at the very least.
Staffan didn’t get very far. Bror Ardelius’ words from the podium had worked like a starting gun on the members of the congregation who had only been waiting for his go-ahead to stampede out of the church. Halfway down the aisle Staffan found himself blocked by little old ladies who were hurrying towards the exit with grim determination.
His right hand flew to his hip but he stopped it halfway, clenched it into a fist. Even if he had his baton this would hardly have been a good time to use it.
The smoke production in the font was starting to die down but the church was now full of a thick haze that smelled of candy and chemicals. The exit doors were wide open and through the haze you could see a strong rectangle of morning light.
The congregation moved towards the light, coughing.
There was a single wooden chair in the kitchen, nothing more. Oskar pulled it up to the sink, stood on it and peed into the drain, while he had water running out of the tap. When he was done he put the chair back. It looked strange in the otherwise empty kitchen. Like something in a museum.
What does she keep it for?
He looked around. Above the fridge there was a row of cabinets you could only reach by standing on the chair. He pulled it over and steadied himself by putting a hand on the refrigerator door handle. His stomach rumbled. He was hungry.
Without thinking more about it, he opened the fridge in order to see what there was. Not much. An open carton of milk, half a packet of bread. Butter and cheese. Oskar put his hand out for the milk.
But…Eli…
He stood there with the milk in his hand, blinked. This didn’t add up. Did she eat real food as well? Yes. She must. He put the milk on the counter. In the kitchen cabinet above the bench there was almost nothing. Two plates, two glasses. He took a glass and poured milk into it.
And then it hit him. With the cold glass of milk in his hand it finally hit him, with full force.
She drinks blood.
Yesterday evening, in his tangle of sleepiness and sense of detachment from the world, in the dark, everything had somehow felt possible. But now in the kitchen where no blankets hung in the window and the blinds let in a weak morning light, with a glass of milk in his hand it seemed so…beyond anything he could comprehend.
Like: If you have milk and bread in your fridge you must be a human being.
He took a mouthful of milk and immediately spat it out. It was sour. He smelled the rest that was in the glass. Yes, definitely bad. He poured it into the sink, rinsed the glass and then drank some water to get the taste out of his mouth. Looked at the date on the carton: USE BY 28 OCTOBER.
The milk was ten days too old. Oskar had a realisation.
The old guy’s milk.
The refrigerator door was still open. The old guy’s food.
Revolting. Totally revolting.
Oskar slammed the door shut. What had that old guy been here for anyway? What had he and Eli…Oskar shivered.
She has killed him.
Yes. Eli must have kept the old guy around to be able to…drink from him. To use him like a living blood bank. That’s what she did. But why had the old guy agreed to it? And if she had killed him, where was the body?
Oskar glanced up at the high kitchen cabinets. Suddenly he didn’t want to be in the kitchen any more. Didn’t want to stay in the apartment at all. He walked out of the kitchen, through the hall. The closed bathroom door.
She’s in there.
He hurried into the living room, collected his bag. The Walkman was on the table. He would have to buy new headphones, that was all. When he picked it up to put it into his bag he saw the note. It was on the coffee table, at the same height as his head had been resting.
Hi.
Hope you’ve slept well. I’m also going to sleep now. I’m in the bathroom. Don’t try to go in there, please. I’m trusting you. I don’t know what to write. I hope you can like me even though you know what I am. I like you. A lot. You’re lying here on the couch right now, snoring. Please. Don’t be afraid of me.
Please please please don’t be afraid of me.
Do you want to meet me tonight? Write so on this note if you do.
If you write No, I’ll move tonight. Probably have to do that soon anyway. But if you write Yes I’ll hang around for a while longer. I don’t know what I should write. I’m alone. Probably more alone than you can imagine, I think. Or perhaps you can.
Sorry I broke your music machine. Take the money if you want. I have a lot. Don’t be afraid of me. There’s no reason for you to be. Maybe you know that. I hope you know that. I like you so very much.
Yours,
Eli
P.S. Feel free to stay. But if you leave make sure the door locks behind you.
Oskar read the note several times. Then he picked up the pen next to it. He looked around the empty room, Eli’s life. The bills she had tried to give him were still on the table, scrunched up. He took one thousand kronor bill, put it in his pocket.
He looked for a long time at the space on the page under Eli’s name. Then he lowered the pen and wrote in letters as tall as the space:
YES
He put the pen down, got up and slipped the Walkman into his bag. He turned around one last time and looked at the by-now upside down letters.
YES
Then he shook his head, dug the thousand kronor bill out of his pocket and put it back on the table. When he was out in the stairwell he checked that the door had locked securely behind him. He pulled on it several times.
From the Daily Update, 16:45, Sunday 8 November 1981
The official search for the man who early Sunday morning escaped from Danderyd Hospital after having killed one person has not yet yielded any results.
The police have searched all of Judarn forest in western Stockholm in an attempt to track down the man who is assumed to be the so-called Ritual Killer. At the time of his escape the man was critically wounded and police now suspect he had an accomplice.
Arnold Lehrman, of the Stockholm Police:
‘Yes, that’s the only logical explanation. There is no physical possibility that he would have been able to keep himself hidden this long in his…condition. We have had thirty officers out here, dogs, a helicopter. It’s just not feasible, that’s all.’
‘Will you keep searching Judarn forest?’
‘Yes. The possibility that he remains in the area cannot be ruled out. But we will divert some of our forces from here to concentrate on…in order to investigate how he has been able to proceed.’
The man is severely disfigured and at the time of his escape was dressed in a light blue hospital gown. The police ask that anyone with information regarding the disappearance contact them at the following number…