The Beast (2 page)

    The
brunette has been silent for much longer than she's used to. Now she grabs hold
of the slightly plump blonde's hand, hard. She tugs at it and both of them
stumble.

    'Come
on, let's go now. He's just a crappy cap-man.'

    The
slightly plump blonde turns to the brunette and then to him, looks back at her
friend; obviously she's feeling stroppy.

    'Hang
on. We'll go soon.'

    The
brunette speaks more loudly.

    'No,
now. Right away.'

    Then
she turns to him, pulling at her long ponytail.

    'And
that cap's ugly. Like, it's the ugliest ever.'

    She
points at the cap, then jabs it with her finger.

    An
animal. A cat. A dead cat? They're nine, at most ten years old. A cat should be
fine.

    'You
never said what you were training at.'

    The
brunette looks accusingly at him with her hands on her hips, she's like an old
woman in a bad mood. He faced one once, in Säter secure that first time; she
was a nosy bitch hammering on about Reform. Change. He can't change. He doesn't
want to change. He is who he is.

    'Gymnastics.
We've been training gym. We do it lots, all the time. We're off now.'

    They
walk away, the dark-haired girl in the lead, the slightly plump blonde one
following, less confidently. He watches their backs, sees their backs naked,
bums naked, feet naked.

    He
goes after them quickly, passes them and stops, holding up his hands.

    'What
are you doing, crappy cap-man?'

    'Where?'

    'Where
what?'

    'Where
do you train?'

    Two
elderly women are strolling down the slope, getting close to the flowers that
may or may not be roses. He glances at the women, looks at the ground and
counts to ten quickly before looking up again. They're still there, but about
to turn off down the other path, the one that leads to the fountain.

    'What
are you doing, crappy cap-man? Praying?'

    'Where
do you train?'

    'Not
telling.'

    The
slightly plump blonde is staring angrily at her friend. Maria is speaking for
both of them again. And she doesn't agree. There's no need to be rotten.

    'We
train in the Skarpholm Centre. You know. It's over there, kind of.'

    The
blonde points in the direction of the hill they have just come walking down.

    The
cat. The dead cat. Bugger that. Bugger all animals.

    'Is
it any good?'

    'No.'

    'It's
yuckier than you.'

    Not even
the brunette could keep her mouth shut for long. Both are biting on the bait
now.

    He's
still standing in front of them, but lowers his arms. One of his hands slips
across his black moustache, pats it a little.

    'I
know where they got a new leisure centre, a brand- new one. Not far from here.
Look over there, near the big block of flats, there's a white house next to it.
See it? I know the guy who owns it. I hang out there a lot myself. Would you
prefer training there? All of your mates, the whole gym club, I mean.'

    He's
pointing eagerly, they look in the direction of his arm, the slightly plump
blonde curiously, the dark whore with that attitude of hers.

    'There's
no leisure centre in that house. You're a crappy cap-man. It's not true.'

    'Have
you been there?'

    'No.'

    'So
what do you know? It's there, brand new, that's for sure. It's not nasty at
all.'

    'That's
what you say. You're fibbing.'

    'Fibbing?'

    'You're
telling fibs.'

    Maria
just talks. Talks and talks, all the time. She shouldn't do that. Not for her.
And she shouldn't be so beastly. She's just cross because she didn't get his
cap. He gave Ida his red and green cap and she trusts him. He knows the man who
owns that new gym. She doesn't like the Skarpholm Centre, not one bit, it's
smelly and old, the mats smell like vomit.

    'I
believe you. Marwin said there's a new centre once. It's got to be better to
train there.'

    Ida
believes there's a new centre over there. She believes such a lot. Anyway, it's
just because he gave her that horrid cap.

    Maria
knows what a new leisure centre should look like. She saw one once in Warsaw
when she went there with her mum and dad.

    'I
know there isn't a new gym there, silly cap-man. It's a lie. I know that. And if
there's no new centre there I'll tell on you to my mum and dad.'

    It's
a nice day in June, sunny and warm. A Thursday. Two little whores are walking
ahead of him on the path through the park. The brunette is everyone's whore.
The slightly plump blonde is his own whore, nobody else's. Whores whores
whores. Long hair, thin jackets, tight trousers. He shouldn't have wanked.

    The
slightly plump blonde whore turns to look at him.

    'We've
got to go home soon. It's time to eat. Mum and Marwin and me. I'm really
hungry, I get that hungry after training, every time.'

    He
smiles. It's what they like. He reaches for the cap on her head, pulls gently
at the visor.

    'Listen,
it will be super-quick. I promised, didn't I? We're practically there. Then you
can check it out, see if you like it. If you want to do your training there. It
smells new, know what I mean? You know what new places smell like, don't you?'

    They
step inside. He's slept there the last three nights. Breaking in was no
trouble, he did the lock easily. A shared basement with storage pens, one for
each flat. Lousy pickings, though. Cardboard boxes full of household kit and
books, that sort of crap. Prams, IKEA shelving, a standard lamp or two. Fuck
all. Except for the kid's bike, black 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
Lord of the Rings
once, but it's the pocket Donald Ducks
he likes best. She feels sure that's what Marwin is doing.

    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
Dagens Nyheter
feels as weighty as the Bible. She
starts reading part of it in bed, looking at the words and then more words;
there are too many. Nothing makes sense to her. Lots of in-depth reports about
interesting people, she ought to read them but feels too tired to get her mind
round it all. She makes a careful pile, she'll tackle it later. She never does.

    She
is restless. All these hours. Read
DN,
then coffee, do teeth, breakfast,
make bed, wash up, teeth again. It's not even half past seven yet, a Sunday
morning in June with beams of sun piercing the Venetian blinds. She turns her
head away, can't face the light yet, too much summer out there, too many people
holding other people's hands, too many people sleeping close to other people,
too many who're laughing, making love. She can't face any of them, not just
now.

    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.