Read Online The Stranglers Honeymoon by Håkan Nesser - Free Book Online
Authors: Håkan Nesser
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turned off the ceiling light using the switch in the doorway, lit the candle with a cigarette lighter and put it on the table. Sat down next to her again. She began to catch on to what was going to happen next.
I don’t want to, she thought. Not again.
‘So it wouldn’t be very good if your mother found out about us?’ he said.
‘No . . .’
‘If you can be nice to me just one more time, I promise I won’t breathe a word.’
She wouldn’t have thought it was possible to combine an emotional entreaty and an ice-cold threat in such an ingenious way, but it evidently was. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was so dry that it was no more than a facial twitch. He put his arm round her shoulders and hugged her closer to him.
‘I don’t want to,’ she said.
For a few seconds the only sound to be heard was his calm, regular breathing and the pattering of rain on the windows. When he started speaking again, she thought for a confused moment that it was somebody else. That it wasn’t him.
‘I couldn’t give a damn if you want to or not, you diabolical little whore,’ he said. ‘You will kindly allow me to fuck you, otherwise I shall make sure that your bloody mother ends up in a loony bin for the rest of her life.’
He said it in an almost normal conversational tone of voice, and at first she thought she had misheard him. Then she realized that he meant exactly what he had said. He held her tightly with one arm round her back and shoulders, and started pawing at her lap with his other hand. For the first time it dawned on her how strong he was, and how incapable she would be of resisting if he were to force himself on her.
‘Is that clear, you silly little bitch? Take your clothes off!’
Everything went black before her eyes; she had always thought that this kind of thing only happened in tenth-rate books or in old girls’ magazines – but it was happening to her, here and now. It became black in reality. The candle’s little flickering flame suddenly vanished as if someone had blown it out, and it was several seconds before it was lit again.
Help, she thought. God. Mum . . .
He pulled her closer and started kissing her. Forced her jaws apart and thrust his tongue so far into her mouth that she could scarcely breathe.
Then he let go of her.
‘Or perhaps you would prefer it a bit more gently?’
She was gasping and tried to think a sensible thought. Just one would do.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes please.’
The thought came. Slowly, like a thief in the night. I must kill him, it said.
Somehow or other. Kill him.
‘Take off your tunic,’ he said.
She did as she was told.
‘And your bra.’
She leaned forward on the sofa and unhooked the straps with her hands behind her back. But he didn’t bother about her breasts. He stood up instead and placed himself behind her. Moved her hair out of the way and put his hands on her bare shoulders. She felt herself going stiff.
‘You are tense,’ he said, stroking his fingers along the sharp edges of her collarbones, moving them inwards towards her neck. ‘My fingertips are like small seismographs. I can almost feel your thoughts . . . My sick rose. My sick, sick rose . . .’
‘I need a pee,’ she said. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’
‘Pee?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.
She stood up. He walked behind her into the hall, keeping his fingers on her shoulders, as if it were some silly kind of follow-my-leader game.
I must kill him, sang a voice inside her. Must find a way . . .
‘Like seismographs,’ he said again.
LONDON
AUGUST 1998
7
At first there were two of them.
Both in their thirties. Both of them jolly and a bit merry after visits to the cinema followed by a restaurant meal together. They lived in Camden Town: this pub was more or less halfway between home and Oxford Street, and this wasn’t the first time they had dropped in after a night out.
He had been to see a play at the old Garrick Theatre – one
I don’t want to, she thought. Not again.
‘So it wouldn’t be very good if your mother found out about us?’ he said.
‘No . . .’
‘If you can be nice to me just one more time, I promise I won’t breathe a word.’
She wouldn’t have thought it was possible to combine an emotional entreaty and an ice-cold threat in such an ingenious way, but it evidently was. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was so dry that it was no more than a facial twitch. He put his arm round her shoulders and hugged her closer to him.
‘I don’t want to,’ she said.
For a few seconds the only sound to be heard was his calm, regular breathing and the pattering of rain on the windows. When he started speaking again, she thought for a confused moment that it was somebody else. That it wasn’t him.
‘I couldn’t give a damn if you want to or not, you diabolical little whore,’ he said. ‘You will kindly allow me to fuck you, otherwise I shall make sure that your bloody mother ends up in a loony bin for the rest of her life.’
He said it in an almost normal conversational tone of voice, and at first she thought she had misheard him. Then she realized that he meant exactly what he had said. He held her tightly with one arm round her back and shoulders, and started pawing at her lap with his other hand. For the first time it dawned on her how strong he was, and how incapable she would be of resisting if he were to force himself on her.
‘Is that clear, you silly little bitch? Take your clothes off!’
Everything went black before her eyes; she had always thought that this kind of thing only happened in tenth-rate books or in old girls’ magazines – but it was happening to her, here and now. It became black in reality. The candle’s little flickering flame suddenly vanished as if someone had blown it out, and it was several seconds before it was lit again.
Help, she thought. God. Mum . . .
He pulled her closer and started kissing her. Forced her jaws apart and thrust his tongue so far into her mouth that she could scarcely breathe.
Then he let go of her.
‘Or perhaps you would prefer it a bit more gently?’
She was gasping and tried to think a sensible thought. Just one would do.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes please.’
The thought came. Slowly, like a thief in the night. I must kill him, it said.
Somehow or other. Kill him.
‘Take off your tunic,’ he said.
She did as she was told.
‘And your bra.’
She leaned forward on the sofa and unhooked the straps with her hands behind her back. But he didn’t bother about her breasts. He stood up instead and placed himself behind her. Moved her hair out of the way and put his hands on her bare shoulders. She felt herself going stiff.
‘You are tense,’ he said, stroking his fingers along the sharp edges of her collarbones, moving them inwards towards her neck. ‘My fingertips are like small seismographs. I can almost feel your thoughts . . . My sick rose. My sick, sick rose . . .’
‘I need a pee,’ she said. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’
‘Pee?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.
She stood up. He walked behind her into the hall, keeping his fingers on her shoulders, as if it were some silly kind of follow-my-leader game.
I must kill him, sang a voice inside her. Must find a way . . .
‘Like seismographs,’ he said again.
LONDON
AUGUST 1998
7
At first there were two of them.
Both in their thirties. Both of them jolly and a bit merry after visits to the cinema followed by a restaurant meal together. They lived in Camden Town: this pub was more or less halfway between home and Oxford Street, and this wasn’t the first time they had dropped in after a night out.
He had been to see a play at the old Garrick Theatre – one
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