"OK. And now?"

The girl put the other two bills on the chair, crouched down next to the couch, dug out the white packet from the kit, shaking out a razor blade. She's done this before. She's done this before.

The girl turned the razor blade to see which side was sharper. Then held it up next to her face. A little message, whose only word was: Swish. Swish. She said: She said: "You can't tell anyone about this."

"What happens if I do?"

"You cannot tell anyone about this. Ever."

"No." Tommy glanced at his outstretched arm, at the thousand kronor bills on the chair. "How much are you going to take?"

"One liter."

"Is that... a lot?"

"Yes."

"Is it so much that I..."

"No. You can handle it."

"Because it comes back."

"Yes."

Tommy nodded. Then watched with fascination as the razor blade, shining like a little mirror, was lowered against his skin. As if it was happening to someone else, somewhere else. Only saw the play of lines. The girl's jawbone, her dark hair, his white arm, the rectangle of the razor blade that pushed aside a thin hair on his arm and reached its goal, rested for a split second against the swelling of the vein, somewhat darker than the surrounding skin.

Then it pressed down, lightly, lightly. A point that sank down without puncturing it. Then- Swish.

He had an involuntary reaction to pull away and Tommy gasped, squeezed his other hand tightly around the bills. A creaking inside his head as his teeth bit down, grinding against each other. The blood streamed out, pressed out in spurts.

The razor blade fell to the floor with a tinkle and the girl grabbed hold of his arm with both hands, pressing her lips against the inside of his arm. Tommy turned his head away, only felt her warm lips, her tongue lapping against his skin, and again he saw that chart inside his head, the channels that the blood ran through, rushing toward that. . . opening. It's running out of me. It's running out of me.

Yes. The intensity of the pain increased. The arm was starting to feel paralyzed; he no longer felt the lips, he only felt the strong suction, how it was sucked out of him, how it was ...

Flowing away.

He got scared. Wanted to put an end to it. It hurt too much. The tears came to his eyes, he opened his mouth to say something, to ... couldn't. There were no words that would... He bent his free arm toward his mouth, pressed the clenched fist against his mouth. Felt the cylinder of paper that stuck out of it. Bit down on it.

11:17, SUNDAY EVENING, ANGBYPLAN:.

A man is observed outside the hair salon. He presses his face and hands against the gla.s.s, and appears extremely intoxicated. The police arrive at the scene fifteen minutes later. The man has left by this point. The window does not appear damaged in any way, only the traces of mud or earth. In the lighted window display there are numerous pictures of young people, hair models.

Are you sleeping?"

"No."

A waft of perfume and cold as his mom came into his room, sat down on the bed.

"Have you had a good time?"

"Yes."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing in particular."

"I saw some papers. On the kitchen table."

"Mm."

Oskar pulled the covers more tightly around him, pretended to yawn.

"Are you sleepy?"

"Mm."

True and not true. He was tired, so tired his head was buzzing. Only wanted to roll himself up in his covers, seal the entrance, and not emerge again until.. . until. . . but sleepy, no. And .. . could could he even sleep now that he was infected? he even sleep now that he was infected?

Heard his mother ask him something about his dad, and he said "fine" without knowing what he was answering. It got quiet. Then his mom sighed, deeply.

"Sweetheart, how are you doing, really? Is there anything I can do?"

"No."

"What is it?"

Oskar pressed his face into the pillow, breathing out so that his nose, mouth, and lips became hot and moist. He couldn't do it. It was too hard. Had to tell someone. Into the pillow he said:"... iemfecte ..."

"What did you say?"

He lifted his mouth from the pillow.

"I'm infected."

His mom's hand stroked the back of his head, across his neck, continued, and the blankets came off a little.

"How do you mean, inf... but... you're still wearing all your clothes!"

"Yes, I..."

"Let me feel you. Are you hot?" She leaned her cold cheek onto his forehead. "You have a fever. Come on. You have to take your clothes off and get into bed properly." She stood up and gently shook his shoulder. "Come on."

She was breathing faster now, thinking something else. Said in a different tone of voice: "Weren't you dressed warmly enough when you were at your dad's?"

"I was, it's not that."

"Were you wearing a hat?"

"Yes. It's not that." that."

"What is it then?"

Oskar pressed his face into the pillow again, squeezed it, and said: "... agoinbeahmpire ..."

"Oskar, what are you saying?"

"I'm going to be a vampire!"

Pause. The soft rustling of his mother's coat as she crossed her arms over her chest.

"Oskar. Get up. And take your clothes off. And get into bed."

"I'm going to be a vampire." vampire."

His mom's breathing. Deliberate, angry. "Tomorrow I am going to throw away all of those books you're always reading."

The covers were pulled off him. He got up, slowly took his clothes off, avoided looking at her. Lay down in the bed again, and his mom tucked the covers in around him.

"Do you want anything?"

Oskar shook his head.

"Should we take your temperature?"

Oskar shook his head harder. Now he looked at her. She was leaning over the bed, hands on her knees. Searching, concerned eyes.

"Is there anything anything I can do for you?" I can do for you?"

"No. Yes."

"What?"

"No, nothing."

"No, tell me."

"Could you ... tell me a story?"

A string of different emotions crossed his mom's face: sadness, joy, worry, a small smile, a wrinkle of concern. All in a few seconds. Then she said: "I... don't know any fairy tales. But I... I can read one to you if you want. If we have some book . . ."

Her gaze went up to the bookcase by Oskar's head.

"No, don't bother."

"But I'm happy to do it."

"No, I don't want you to."

"Why not? You said-"

"Yes, I did, but. . . no. I don't want you to."

"Should I... should I sing something?"

"No!"

She pressed her lips together, hurt. Then she decided not to be, since Oskar was sick, said: "I guess I could think of something, if that is-"

"No, it's fine. I want to sleep now."

His mom eventually said good night, left the room. Oskar lay there, his eyes open, staring at the window. Tried to feel if he was in the process of. . . becoming. Didn't know what that felt like. Eli. How had that actually worked when he .. . was transformed?

To be separated from everything.

Leave. His mom, dad, school. . . Jonny, Tomas . . .

To be with Eli. Always.

He heard the TV go on in the living room, how the volume was quickly lowered. Distant clatter of the coffee pot from the kitchen. The gas stove being turned on, rattle of a cup and saucer. Cupboards opened. The normal sounds. He had heard them a hundred times. And he felt sad. So very sad.

The wounds had healed. The only remaining traces of the lacerations on Virginia's body were white lines, here and there the remnants of scabs that had not yet fallen off. Lacke stroked her hand, pressed against her body with a leather strap, and yet another scab crumbled away under his fingers.

Virginia had resisted. Had made violent resistance when she came to her full senses and understood what was happening. She had torn out the catheter for the blood transfusion, screamed and kicked.

Lacke had not been able to watch as they struggled with her, how she seemed like a different person. Had gone down to the cafeteria and had a cup of coffee. Then another, and another. When he was in the process of pouring himself his fourth cup, the woman at the register had pointed out in a tired voice that he was only allowed one one free refill. Lacke had then said that he was broke, felt like he was going to die tomorrow, could she make an exception? free refill. Lacke had then said that he was broke, felt like he was going to die tomorrow, could she make an exception?

She could. She even offered Lacke a dry mazarin mazarin cake that would have been thrown away the next day anyway. He had eaten it with a lump in his throat, thinking about people's relative goodness, relative evil. Then he went and stood out by the front doors and smoked the second to last cigarette in the packet before he went back up to Virginia. cake that would have been thrown away the next day anyway. He had eaten it with a lump in his throat, thinking about people's relative goodness, relative evil. Then he went and stood out by the front doors and smoked the second to last cigarette in the packet before he went back up to Virginia.

They had tied her down with straps.

A nurse had received such a blow that her gla.s.ses had broken and a sliver had slashed an eyebrow. Virginia had been impossible to calm. They had not dared give her an injection because of her general state and therefore they had strapped her arms down with leather straps, mainly to prevent-as they put it-"to prevent her from injuring herself." Lacke rubbed a scab between his fingers; a powder as fine as pigment colored the tops of his fingers red. A movement in the corner of his eye; the blood from the bag hanging from the stand next to Virginia's bed fell in drops down a plastic tube, and on down through the catheter into Virginia's arm. Apparently, once they had identified her blood group, they had first given her a transfusion where they literally pumped in a quant.i.ty of blood, but now, when her condition had stabilized, she received it by the drop. There was a label on the half-full blood bag printed with incomprehensible markings, dominated with a capital A. The blood type, of course.

But. . . wait a minute . . .

Lacke had blood type B. He now recalled that he and Virginia had talked about that one time, that Virginia also had the blood group B and that therefore he could ... yes. That was exactly right. That they could give blood to each other because they had the same blood type. And Lacke had B; he was completely sure of that.

He got up, walked out into the corridor.

Surely they don't make these kinds of mistakes?

He got hold of a nurse.