Little Star

‘There is no one in this world like you…’

When the song was over Max Hansen sat there with his mouth hanging open and realised that he had probably been crying; his eyes felt as if he had. The girl standing in front of him was immensely talented, there was no doubt about it. It wasn’t just that she sang perfectly, there was something about the timbre of her voice that penetrated straight through the breastbone and squeezed, squeezed.

If only he could have been satisfied with that. He wanted to be satisfied with that. He was already exhausted, sated as if he’d had terrific sex. He should have simply rolled over and lit a cigar to celebrate. Not risked this.

But the little red devil that lived in his chest woke up and started swishing his tail around Max’s nether regions, tickling where he could feel it the most. Max Hansen put his strategies to one side; after Tora’s song he just couldn’t do it anymore.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘With a bit of practice I think you could be really good. I’d like to work with you.’

‘Am I going to make a CD?’

‘Yes. You’re going to make a CD. I’ll make sure of it. I’m going to make you a star. A big star. There’s just one thing.’

Max Hansen knocked back the remains of the wine in his glass in order to combat the desert-dryness in his mouth. He didn’t want to say it. He wasn’t going to say it. He had his best chance for a very long time here, and he mustn’t mess it up. But then the devil’s forked tongue shot out and said the words for him.

‘I need to know what you look like with no clothes on.’

There, it was said. The cards were on the table, and Max Hansen’s body tensed as if expecting a blow. The expression, the howl from Tora that would crush all his hopes.

It happened so fast he almost didn’t realise what was going on. Tora put her glass down on the bedside table, shrugged off her jacket, pulled off her T-shirt, stepped out of her trousers and knickers and stood there naked, two metres away from him. Max Hansen blinked. And blinked again. He didn’t understand. He went over what had happened in the last few minutes, how it had come about that he was sitting here in an armchair with the girl he desired standing naked in front of him. The dialogue. What he had said. What she had said. He could see the pattern.

She does whatever you tell her to do.

It was that simple. Max Hansen’s eyes drank in the smooth, slender body in front of him and if he had believed in God, if his prayers being answered had been a possibility, then the moment had come.

She does whatever you tell her to do.

A dizziness came over him. The possibilities. Go there, Tora. Sing here, Tora. Come here, Tora. Lie down here, Tora. Feverishly he tore off his shirt and vest, struggled out of his trousers and underpants and stood up, his arms spread wide. Tora looked at his erection. It wasn’t too impressive, he knew that. Twelve centimetres, and even then you had to press the ruler right down to the root.

But that didn’t matter now. Everything had become so simple when Tora just removed her clothes. They were like two children, innocents before each other’s bodies.

‘You’re so beautiful,’ whispered Max, falling to his knees.

The carpet rubbed against his kneecaps as he crawled towards Tora to bury his face in the blonde bush between her legs. When he was almost there she backed away half a step, bumping into the bed frame. She said, ‘No.’

‘Yes,’ said Max Hansen. ‘Come here, it’s nice, I promise. Just a little…’

‘No,’ said Tora. ‘Don’t touch.’

Max Hansen grinned. Don’t touch. This really was like a game. He couldn’t remember when he had last felt so uncomplicatedly happy. Two naked bodies. Don’t touch. Come on, a little bit, just a little bit. He shuffled forward and grabbed hold of her buttocks, buried his nose in her pussy and stuck out his tongue, sliding over the warm flesh inside.

He heard a crack, and a second later felt as if someone had slapped him across the back. His tongue was just slithering out again when a cramp shot through the muscles in his back, and he felt another blow. And another. He twisted his head around awkwardly, but couldn’t see anything.

Strange, really, because it felt as if someone was standing there pouring warm water over his back. He looked up at Tora and saw that she was holding something in her right hand, although he couldn’t work out what it was. In her left hand she was holding her champagne flute, which seemed to be missing its base.

That was what she was holding in her right hand. The base, with a piece of broken stem three centimetres long and dripping red with his blood. Tora raised the weapon again and Max Hansen cried out and curled up into a ball. A second later he felt a deeper blow between his shoulder blades. The glass spike penetrated his flesh and stayed there.

He screamed. The uneven surface of the broken stem must have damaged some nerve when it went in, because he started jerking as if he were having a fit. It was throbbing and pounding. He managed to raise his head to beg for mercy, but Tora was no longer there. He managed to haul himself to his feet with the help of the bed head. Throbbing, pounding. Then he heard the door opening.

***

There was something not right about that Max Hansen. Teresa had felt it as soon as he opened the door of the hotel room. Something wasn’t quite right about the look on his face or the tone of his voice. Perhaps everyone in the music industry was like that, but she wouldn’t have left Theres alone with him if it hadn’t been necessary, and if Theres hadn’t said that was what she wanted. She was going to make her CD.

However, there was absolutely no chance of Teresa going down to reception. As soon as Max Hansen had closed and locked the door, Teresa crept over and placed her ear to the door. She could hear the sound of voices inside, but not what they were saying. After a while she heard Theres singing ‘A Thousand and One Nights’ and felt a stab of jealousy. That was their song, somehow. Although of course Theres didn’t know that.

And what if she had known? Would it have made any difference?

Teresa had a sentimental streak. She liked what was known as elegiac mood in poetry. A persistent, imprecise longing for what had been, even if it hadn’t been particularly good. She was sometimes struck by a blissful melancholy when she saw Bananas in Pyjamas on TV, despite the fact that she hadn’t really liked it when it was on the first time round.

Theres was the least sentimental person she had ever met. Only the present existed, and when Theres spoke about things that had happened in the past, it was as if she was reading aloud from a history book. Dry facts that had no relevance to what was happening now.

Teresa heard a scream from inside the room. She leapt to her feet and rattled the handle, banged on the door. When no one opened it, she banged again. A moment later the door opened and Theres was standing there, naked. There were streaks of blood on her stomach. One hand was red, and in the other she was holding a champagne glass without a base.

‘What have you…what…’

Before Teresa managed to formulate a sensible question she caught sight of Max Hansen, disappearing into the bathroom. He too was naked, and before he locked the door she caught a glimpse of his back. A T-shaped object was sticking out in the middle of all the red, a tap that had been opened and let out the blood.

‘Help me,’ said Theres. ‘I don’t understand.’

If it hadn’t been for the word ‘help’ Teresa would have taken to her heels. This was too much. But Theres had asked for help. Theres needed help. Therefore she had to help. Teresa walked into the room and closed the door behind her.

‘Here,’ said Theres, holding out the glass with the broken stem. ‘Do you like this stuff? I don’t. It tastes bad.’

Teresa shook her head. ‘What…have you done?’

‘I sang,’ said Theres. ‘Then I took off my clothes. Then he tried to eat me up. I wasn’t scared. I knew I could make him dead.’

‘Listen. Get dressed. We have to get out of here.’