"I think he was after the blood. That's why he killed the guy, in order to get the blood. I think he took it with him."

Robban nodded slowly, picked away at the scab of a large pimple in the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, but why? To drink it, or why?"

"Maybe. For example."

Tommy and Robban sank into their respective inner reenactments of the killing and what had happened thereafter. After a while La.s.se raised his head and looked at them. He had tears in his eyes.

"Do they die fast, the pigs?"

Tommy met his gaze with equal seriousness.

"No, they don't."

I'm going out for a while."

"No."

"Just out into the courtyard."

"And nowhere else, do you hear?"

"Sure, sure."

"Do you want me to call for you when . . ."

"No, I'll be back in time. I have a watch. Don't Don't call for me." Oskar put on his jacket, his hat. He paused as he was putting his boot on. Went quietly back to his room and took out the knife, tucked it inside his jacket. Laced up the boots. He heard his mom's voice again from the living room. call for me." Oskar put on his jacket, his hat. He paused as he was putting his boot on. Went quietly back to his room and took out the knife, tucked it inside his jacket. Laced up the boots. He heard his mom's voice again from the living room.

"It's cold out there."

"I've got my hat."

"On your head?"

"No, on my feet."

"This is no joking matter, Oskar, you know how it is. . . ."

"See you in a while."

". .. your ears."

He walked out, looked down at his watch. A quarter past seven. Fortyfive minutes until the program started. Tommy and the others were probably down in their bas.e.m.e.nt headquarters but he didn't dare go down there. Tommy was alright, but the others ... They could get strange ideas, especially if they had been sniffing.

So he went down to the playground in the middle of the yard. Two big trees, sometimes used as a soccer goal, a play structure with a slide, a sandbox, and a swing set consisting of three tire-swings suspended from chains. He sat down in one of the tire-swings and rocked gently to and fro.

He liked this place at night. Hundreds of lighted windows all around him on four sides, himself sitting in the dark. Safe and alone at the same time. He pulled the knife out of the holster. The blade was so shiny he could see windows reflected in it. The moon.

A b.l.o.o.d.y moon ...

Oskar got up, snuck over to one of the trees, talked to it.

"What are you looking at, you f.u.c.king idiot? Do you want to die?" The tree didn't answer and Oskar carefully drove the knife into it. Didn't want to damage the fine smooth edge.

"That's what happens if you so much as look at me." He turned the knife so a small wedge of wood popped out of the trunk. A piece of flesh. He whispered, "Go on, squeal like a pig." He stopped, thought he heard a sound. He looked around, holding the knife by his hip. Lifted the blade to his eyes, checked it. The point was as smooth as before. He used the blade as a mirror, and turned it so it reflected the jungle gym. Someone was standing there, someone who had not been there a moment before. A blurry contour against the clean steel. He lowered the knife and looked directly at the jungle gym. Yes. But it wasn't the Vallingby killer. It was a child.

There was enough light for him to determine that it was a girl he had never seen before. Oskar took a step toward the jungle gym. The girl didn't move, just stood there looking at him.

He took another step and suddenly he grew scared. Of what? Of himself. He was on his way toward the girl with his hand tightly closed around the knife, on his way to stab her with it. No, that wasn't true. But that was how he had felt, for a moment. Wasn't she scared?

He stopped, pushed the knife back in its holder, and put it back inside his jacket.

"Hi."

The girl didn't answer. Oskar was so close now that he could see she had dark hair, a small face, big eyes. Eyes wide open, calmly looking at him. Her white hands were resting on the railing.

"I said hi."

"I heard you."

"Why didn't you answer?"

The girl shrugged. Her voice was not as high as he would have expected. Sounded like someone his own age.

There was something strange about her. Shoulder-length black hair. Round face, small nose. Like one of those paper dolls in Hemmets Hemmets Journal. Journal. Very... pretty. But there was something else. She had no hat, and no jacket. Only a thin pink sweater even though it was cold. The girl nodded her head in the direction of the tree that Oskar had cut. Very... pretty. But there was something else. She had no hat, and no jacket. Only a thin pink sweater even though it was cold. The girl nodded her head in the direction of the tree that Oskar had cut.

"What are you doing?"

Oskar blushed, but she probably couldn't tell in the dark.

"Practicing."

"For what?"

"For if the murderer comes along."

"What murderer?"

"The one in Vallingby. The one who killed that guy." The girl sighed, looked up at the moon. Then she leaned forward again.

"Are you scared?"

"No, but a murderer, that's like ... it's good if you can-defend yourself. Do you live here?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Over there," the girl gestured to the front door next to Oskar's. "Next door to you."

"How do you know where I live?"

"I've seen you in the window before."

Oskar's cheeks grew hot. While he was trying to think of something to say the girl jumped down from the top of the jungle gym and landed in front of him. A drop of over two meters.

She must do gymnastics or something like that.

She was almost as tall as he was, but much thinner. The pink sweater fit tight across her chest, which was still completely flat, without a hint of b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her eyes were black, enormous in her pale little face. She held one hand up in the air in front of him as if she were warding something off that was coming toward her. Her fingers were long and slender as twigs.

"I can't be friends with you. Just so you know."

Oskar folded his hands over his chest. He could feel the contours of the knife through his jacket.

"What?"

One corner of the girl's mouth pulled up in a half-smile.

"Do you need a reason? I'm just telling you how it is. So you know."

"Yeah, yeah."

The girl turned and walked away from Oskar, toward her front door. After a couple of steps Oskar said, "What makes you think I'd want want to be friends with you? You must be pretty stupid." to be friends with you? You must be pretty stupid."

The girl stopped. Stood still for a moment. Then she turned and walked back to Oskar, stopped in front of him. Interlaced her fingers and let her arms drop.

"What did you say?"

Oskar wrapped his arms more tightly around himself, pressed one hand against his knife, and stared down into the ground.

"You must be stupid ... to say something like that."

"Oh, I am, am I?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry. But that's just how it is."

They stood still, about half a meter between them. Oskar continued staring into the ground. A strange smell was emanating from the girl. About one year ago his dog Bobby had gotten an infection in one paw and in the end they had been forced to have him put down. The last day Oskar had stayed home from school, lain next to the sick dog for several hours, and said good-bye. Bobby had smelled like the girl did. Oskar screwed up his nose.

"Is that strange smell coming from you?" I guess so. Oskar looked up at her. He regretted having said that. She looked so . . . fragile in her pink top. He unfolded his arms and made a gesture in her direction.

"Aren't you cold?"

"No."

"Why not?"

The girl frowned, wrinkling up her face, and for a moment she looked much much older than she was. Like an old woman about to cry.

"I guess I've forgotten how to."

The girl quickly turned around and walked back to her door. Oskar remained where he was, looking at her. When she reached the heavy front door he fully expected that she would need to use both hands to pull it open. But instead she grasped the door handle with one hand and pulled it open so hard it banged into the wall stop, bounced, and then closed behind her.

He pushed his hands into his pockets and felt sad. Thought about Bobby and how he had looked in the makeshift coffin Dad had made for him. Thought about the cross he had made in wood shop that had snapped in two as they hammered it into the frozen ground.

He ought to make a new one.

FRIDAY.

23 OCTOBER.

Hakan was sitting on a subway train again, on his way downtown. Ten thousand kronor bills in his pocket, secured by a rubber band; he was going to do something good with them. He was going to save a life. Ten thousand was a lot of money, and when you thought about the fact that those Save The Children campaigns claimed that "One thousand kronor can feed one family for a whole year" you would think that ten thousand could save a life even in Sweden.

But whose life? And where?

You couldn't just walk up and give the money to the first drug addict you b.u.mped into and hope that... no. And it had to be a young person, anyway. He knew it was silly, but ideally it would be a weeping child like in one of those pictures. A child who took the money with tears in his eyes and then . . . and then what?

He got off at Odenplan and, without knowing why, walked in the direction of the public library. In the days that he had lived in Karlstad, when he was a Swedish teacher at the high school level and still had a place to live, it was generally known that the Stockholm public library was a . . . good place.

Not until he saw the cupola, familiar to him through pictures in books and magazines, did he know why he had come here. Because it was a good place. Someone in the group, probably Gert, had told him how you went about buying s.e.x there.

He had never done that. Buy s.e.x.

Once Gert, Torgny, and Ove had found a boy whose mother had been brought back from Vietnam by someone Gert knew. The boy was maybe twelve years old and knew what was expected of him, was well-paid for his trouble. And yet Hakan couldn't bring himself to do it. He had sipped his Bacardi and c.o.ke, enjoyed the boy's naked body as he writhed and turned in the room where they had gathered.

But that was the limit.

The others had, one by one, been sucked off by the boy, but when it was Hakan's turn a hard knot formed inside him. The whole situation was too disgusting. The room smelled of arousal, alcohol, and mustiness. A drop of Ove's c.u.m glistened on the boy's cheek. Hakan pushed the boy's head aside when he lowered it to Hakan's groin.

The others had taunted him, called him names, finally threatened him. He was a witness; he needed to be a partner in crime. They taunted him about his scruples, but that wasn't the problem. It was simply too ugly, the whole thing. The single room of Ake's commuter apartment, the four mismatched armchairs arranged for the event, the dance music from the stereo.

He paid for his part of the affair and never saw the others again. He had his magazines and photos, his films. That had to be enough. Probably he also had his scruples, that only showed themselves this once in the form of a distaste for the situation.

Why then am I on my way to the City Library?

He was probably going to take out a book. The fire three years ago had consumed his life, and his book collection. Yes. He could borrow The The Queen's Diadem Queen's Diadem by Almquist, before he performed his good deed. It was quiet inside the City Library this morning. Older men and students, mostly. He quickly found the book he was looking for, read the first few lines, by Almquist, before he performed his good deed. It was quiet inside the City Library this morning. Older men and students, mostly. He quickly found the book he was looking for, read the first few lines, Tintomara! Two things are white Innocence- a.r.s.enic a.r.s.enic and put it back on the shelf. A bad feeling. It reminded him of his earlier life. He had loved this book, used it in his cla.s.s. Reading the first few words made him long for his reading chair. And the reading chair was supposed to be in a house that was his, a house filled with books, and he should have a job again and he should and he would. But he had found love, and that dictated his life nowadays. No reading chair. and put it back on the shelf. A bad feeling. It reminded him of his earlier life. He had loved this book, used it in his cla.s.s. Reading the first few words made him long for his reading chair. And the reading chair was supposed to be in a house that was his, a house filled with books, and he should have a job again and he should and he would. But he had found love, and that dictated his life nowadays. No reading chair.

He rubbed his hands together as if to erase the book they had been holding, and walked into an adjacent reading room.

There was a long table with people reading. Words, words, words. At the very back of the room there was a young man in a leather coat. He had tipped the chair back and was flipping uninterestedly through a book of photographs. Hakan moved in his direction, pretended to be interested in a shelf of geology books, glancing now and then at the youth. Finally the boy lifted his gaze and met Hakan's, raised his eyebrows in a question: Want to? Want to?

No, he didn't want to. The youth was around fifteen years old, with a flat, Eastern European face, pimples and narrow, deeply set eyes. Hakan shrugged and walked out of the room.

Outside the main entrance the youth caught up with him, gestured with his thumb and asked "got a light?" Hakan shook his head. "Don't smoke," he said in English.