Hunter. Ларс Кеплер

that her skin tears and blood starts to trickle down the bottom of her right arm.

      ‘Don’t do it,’ she sobs.

      The man pulls off his shirt, throws it on the floor, pushes his trousers down and rolls a condom onto his half-erect penis.

      He kneels down on the bed and she can smell the rubber on his fingers as he pushes her shredded underwear into her mouth. She starts to retch and comes close to throwing up. Her tongue is completely dry and tears are streaming down her cheeks. The man squeezes one of her breasts through the dress, then lies down heavily on top of her.

      Sofia wets herself with fear, and a hot pool of urine spreads out beneath her.

      When he tries to push into her, she twists to the side quickly and shoves him with her hip.

      A drop of sweat falls from his nose onto her forehead.

      He grabs her throat with one hand, looks at her, tightens his grip and lies on top of her again. His weight makes her sink into the mattress, which pulls her thighs further apart. Her ankles sting as the bedposts creak.

      She struggles to breathe, tossing her head until she manages to get some air into her lungs.

      He tightens his grip on her throat, and her vision starts to flicker. The room fades away as she feels him trying to force his way inside her. Sofia struggles to twist aside, but it’s impossible, this is going to happen anyway. She can’t stay inside her body, she has to think about something else. Flashes of memory dart past, cool evenings on the big football field, ragged breathing, clouds in front of her mouth, the silence down by the lake, the old school in Bollstanäs.

      The coach points at the ball, blows the whistle, and then silence.

      The grip on her throat disappears, Sofia spits out her underwear and gasps for air as she blinks.

      Someone’s ringing the doorbell downstairs.

      He grabs her chin and forces her mouth open, then shoves the underwear back in, and she starts to retch again, breathing through her nose, unable to swallow.

      The doorbell rings again.

      The man spits on her and gets off the bed, pulls his trousers up and grabs his shirt before leaving the room.

      As soon as he’s gone Sofia pulls her right hand as hard as she can, without thinking of the consequences.

      She feels excruciating pain, but her hand comes out of the strap.

      Only the underwear in her mouth stops her from screaming out loud.

      Her head is thudding. She’s on the brink of passing out, and her whole body is shaking with pain. Her thumb could be broken, and the ligament feels torn. Her skin looks like an old glove and blood is coursing down her arm. She pulls the underwear from her mouth.

      She whimpers out loud as she tries to loosen the strap around her left wrist. Her fingers keep slipping, but eventually she manages to pick the buckle open. She quickly tugs the strap through the catch, then sits up and removes the restraints from her ankles.

      She gets up on unsteady legs, clutching her wounded hand to her stomach, and starts to walk across the thick carpet. Her head is pounding with shock and pain. Her feet feel numb and her dress is wet and cold over her backside.

      Carefully she makes her way out of the bedroom and creeps along the hallway where the man has just disappeared.

      Sofia stops before she reaches the staircase. She can hear another voice downstairs, and decides to shout for help. She can’t hear what the other man is saying, and tentatively moves closer. There are clothes from the dry-cleaners hanging over the banister. Through the thin plastic she can see bundles of identical white shirts.

      She clears her throat carefully, ready to shout for help, when she realises that the other man isn’t inside the house. His voice is coming from the intercom. A messenger, asking to be let through the gate. Wille says that he’ll have to come back, then puts the phone down and walks back towards the staircase again.

      She staggers but manages to keep her balance. She has pins and needles in her feet as the blood flow returns.

      Sofia moves backwards. The floor creaks beneath her and she looks around and sees a larger room further down the hall, with painted portraits on the walls. She thinks about running in and opening a window to call for help, but realises that she doesn’t have time.

       5

      Sofia makes her way quickly along the wall and past the stairs, until she reaches a narrow cupboard door. She grabs the handle and pulls.

      Locked.

      Through the prisms of the chandelier, she watches the man walk up the stairs.

      He’ll reach her soon.

      She walks back towards the stairs and crouches down on the floor, hidden by the dry-cleaned shirts. If he looks directly at her he’ll see her, but if he just walks past she’ll have a few seconds’ headstart.

      Her hand hurts so much that she’s shaking, and her neck and throat are swollen.

      The steps are old and worn, and the staircase creaks. She sees him between the banisters and shrinks back cautiously.

      Wille reaches the top and walks down the hallway.

      He walks towards the bedroom without noticing the blood she’s left on the carpet.

      Carefully she gets to her feet, watching his back and suntanned neck as he walks into the bedroom.

      She walks silently around the railing and starts to run down the stairs.

      She realises that he’s turned around, and is already coming after her.

      The thudding footsteps speed up.

      She clutches the throbbing, bleeding fingers of her injured hand with her good one.

      All she knows is that she has to get out of the house. She rushes through the large hallway, hearing the harsh creak of the stairs as the man comes after her.

      ‘I don’t have time for this!’ he yells.

      Sofia runs across a narrow rug towards the door. She trips over a pair of shoes but keeps her balance.

      The alarm system is glowing on one side of the front door.

      Her fingers are so wet with blood that the catch slips out of her hand. She wipes her hand on her dress and tries again, but it won’t budge. She pushes the handle down and shoves the door with her shoulder, but it’s locked. Her eyes dart around, looking for the keys as she tries twisting the catch again. She gives up and runs through the double doors leading to the living room.

      Something metallic hits the floor in another room.

      She moves away from the large windows, her own reflection a silhouette against the pale wall behind her.

      She hears him coming from the other direction, retraces her steps and hides behind one of the doors.

      ‘Every door is locked,’ he says loudly as he enters the living room.

      She holds her breath, her heart pounding in her chest, and the door creaks gently. He stops in the doorway. She can see him through the crack between the hinges, his mouth half-open, his cheeks flushed.

      Her legs start to shake again.

      He walks a few more steps, then stops to listen. She tries to keep quiet, but her frightened breathing is loud.

      ‘I’m tired of this game now,’ he says as he walks past her.

      She hears him searching for her, opening doors and closing them again. He says loudly that he just wants to talk to her.

      Furniture scrapes the floor, then silence.

      She listens. She hears