The Beast Read Free Page A

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.
        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,