with five gears, in Flat 33's pen at the far end. He'd flogged it but only got Z50 smackers. A whole block, and no goods except a fucking kid's bike.
He grabs hold of their arms as soon as they are in the basement corridor, one girl in each hand. He grips hard and they scream the way they all scream, so he tightens his hold. He's in charge, makes the decisions. Whores scream. After sleeping in this dump for three nights running he knows that not a fucking soul comes down there after dark. Twice he's heard someone in the morning, moving along the basement corridor and shuffling about in one of the storage pens. Afterwards, silence. The little slags might as well scream. Whores should scream.
She's thinking of Marwin. She's thinking of Marwin. She's thinking of Marwin. Marwin's room. Is he there now? She hopes he's there, in his room. At home. With Mum. She thinks of him lying on top of his bed, reading. That's what he likes doing in the evenings. Mostly Donald Duck, the small pocket books, they're still his favourites. He read a bit of
Horrid crappy cap-man. Horrid crappy cap-man. Horrid crappy cap-man.
She mustn't speak to men like him. Mum and Dad keep nagging about it, go on and on at her and she swears she never speaks to them. And she doesn't. Or anyway, only to tell them off. Ida doesn't dare do that. But she dares. Mum and Dad will be furious if they hear that she's talked to one of them. She doesn't want them to hear that, they mustn't be angry with her.
Number 33 is best. That's where he nicked the bike. And where he slept.
They've stopped screaming. The fat little blonde whore is crying, red-eyed, snot running from her nose. The dark slag looks obstinate, staring at him, challenging him, hating. He ties their hands to one of the pipes running along the cement-grey wall. It's hot, must be a hot water pipe. It will burn their arms. They both kick, trying to hit him. Every time, he kicks them back. They get the message soon enough and don't try kicking any more.
They're sitting still now. Whores should sit still. Whores wait for what's coming to them. He calls the shots. He takes his clothes off. T-shirt, jeans, underpants, shoes, socks. In that order. He undresses in front of them. If they don't look at him, he kicks them until they do. Whores should look. He stands naked in front of them. He's handsome. He knows that he's handsome. Trained body. Muscular legs. Firm buttocks. No belly. Handsome.
'What do you think?'
The dark slag is crying now.
'Horrid horrid cap-man.'
She's crying, she took her time, but she's just like all the whores.
'What do you think? Handsome or what?'
'Horrid horrid cap-man. I want to go home.'
His cock is hard. He calls the shots. He comes up close, pushes his penis at their faces.
'Looks good, eh?'
He shouldn't have wanked. He did it twice this morning. He can only manage two more times, probably. He does it in front of them, his breathing quickens. He kicks the fat blonde when she looks away for a moment, empties himself in their faces, on their hair, it gets messy when they shake their heads.
They're crying. Whores always cry, all the fucking time.
He undresses them. Their tops have to be cut first, now that their hands are tied to the hot pipe. They're younger than he'd thought, no sign of tits.
He pulls everything off except their shoes. Not the shoes. Not yet. The fat blonde slag has got pink shoes, shiny, like patent leather. The brunette is wearing white trainers, like for playing tennis in.
He bends over the fat blonde whore. He kisses her pink shoes on top, near the toes. He licks both of them, starting at the toe, all along the shoe, the heel too. He takes them off. Her little whore's feet are gorgeous. He lifts one of her feet, she almost tips over backwards. He licks her ankle, her toes, sucks a little on each one. He glances up at her face, she's crying quietly.
He feels an urgent desire.
She always wakes when the newspaper arrives. Every single morning. It falls on the wooden floor with a sodding awful thump. Then there're two more thumps, next door, and then the next one along. She has tried to catch him, tell him to stop, but has been too late every time. She caught sight of his back quite a few times. He's young, with his hair in a ponytail. If she gets hold of him she'll explain how people feel at five o'clock on Sunday mornings.
She can't go back to sleep now. She twists and turns, she's sweating. Must go back to sleep, should sleep, but no, it can't be done. She never used to have this problem, it's different now, her thoughts attack her at once and by six o'clock she's really tense, to hell with the paperboy and his ponytail.
The Sunday version of
She is restless. All these hours. Read
She walks down the steps to the basement, to the store. It's dark down there, lonely and untidy. She knows she's got at least two hours of work ahead, sorting and packing. It'll take her to half past nine. Not so bad.
The first thing she notices is that the padlock has been forced. And the padlocks on either side as well, on both 32 and 34. She'd better find out who owns them; after seven years in the house she wouldn't even recognise her neighbours. But now they've got forced padlocks in common. Now they can talk to each other.
The next thing she notices is the bike. Or rather, that the bike isn't there. Jonathan's expensive five-geared black mountain bike. And to think that she was going to sell it; it should have been worth at least 500 kronor. Now she's got to phone him, he's with his father, but better tell him now so he'll have time to calm down before he comes to stay with her.
Afterwards she cannot explain why she didn't see them. Why she was worrying about the owners of pens 32 and 34, about Jonathan's bike. As if she did not want to see, was unable to see. When the police asked what she had noticed first on entering the pen, wanting her crucial first impressions, she started laughing hysterically. She laughed for a while, started to cough and then explained, with tears flowing down her cheeks. Her first reaction had been that Jonathan would be upset, because his black mountain bike was gone and he wouldn't be able to spend the money he'd get from-selling it on the PlayStation game he wanted. It cost at least 500 kronor.
Of course, she had never seen death before, never come across anyone so still, looking at her without breathing.
That's what they did. They looked at her. They were lying on the cement floor with their heads propped up on upturned flowerpots, like rigid pillows. Two little girls, younger than Jonathan, no more than ten years old. One blonde, one dark. There was blood all over them, on their faces, chests, thighs, between their legs. Dried blood everywhere, except their feet; their feet were so clean, almost as if they had been washed.
She had never seen them before. Well, maybe. They lived nearby, after all. Sure, she might have seen them. In the shop, maybe, or in the park. Always so many children in the park.
They'd been on the floor in her storage pen for three days and two nights, that's what the police doctor said. Semen had been sprayed all over them, in vagina and anus, on chest and hair. Vagina and anus had received what the doctor called sharp trauma. A pointed object, probably made of metal, had been repeatedly forced inside, causing severe internal haemorrhaging.
They might have been in the same school as Jonathan. Crowds of girls there, all looking alike, girls do, alike as a thousand sisters.
They were naked. Their clothes had been arranged in front of them, just inside the door of the pen. One piece of clothing after another, lined up like exhibits. Jackets folded, trousers rolled up, T-shirts, panties, tights, shoes, a hair- ribbon, everything was very neatly and precisely placed with about two centimetres between each item. Just about exactly two centimetres apart.
The girls had been looking at her. But they had not been breathing.
