measured the kitchen windows yesterday, and chose the smaller for her purpose. Slowly, carefully, she unpeels the Fablon and presses it against the smaller window, covering it exactly. In the department store she also purchased some good-quality yellow dusters, while at a small hardware shop the keen young assistant was only too pleased to sell some garden twine and a hammer to a lady keen to stake out her future vegetable plots.
She takes the hammer from her holdall. She has used some twine to tie a duster around the head. Out of the spare cuts of Fablon she has made some makeshift handles, which she attaches to the sheet of Fablon stuck to the window. She grips one of these handles as, softly, near soundlessly, she begins to tap away at the glass, which falls away from the window-frame but stays attached to the Fablon. Within three minutes she is lifting the whole window out from its frame, laying it on the ground. The alarm is just outside the kitchen door. If she’d set it off, it would probably be buzzing by now. But she can’t hear it. She can’t hear anything, not even her heart.
Upstairs, Henrik is asleep and dreaming in Danish. He’s dreaming of barmaids with pumps attached to their breasts, and of flying champagne bottles, and of winning a bodybuilding contest against Khan and the pre-movie star Schwarzenegger. He drank one glass of neat vodka before retiring, and watched ten minutes of the satellite movie on his eighteen-inch television before falling asleep, waking half an hour later just long enough to switch off the television.
He sleeps and he dreams with one hand tight between his legs, something he’s done since childhood. Girlfriends have commented on it, laughed at it even. If he catches himself doing it, he shoves the hand under a pillow, but it always seems to creep south again of its own volition.
The barmaids are singing. Topless for some reason, and singing in a language he doesn’t understand. His name? His name? Can they possibly be singing ... his name?
‘Wake up!’ A whisper. A woman’s urgent hiss. His eyes open to blackness and he tries to sit up, but a feminine hand pushes at his chest, and he sinks back down again. The hand remains against his chest, rubbing it. A silky-smooth hand.
Shari’s hand.
‘What is it?’ he hisses back. ‘What’s the matter, Shari?’
Her face seems very close to him. ‘It’s Khan. He’s sound asleep ... as usual. He just doesn’t ... I don’t want to put him down or anything, but he just doesn’t satisfy me.’
Topless barmaids ... breasts. Henrik gives a groggy half-smile in the dark. He reaches a hand to where he imagines her chest is. He’s not sure whether he finds it or not. She’s wearing her clothes ... maybe some sort of nightdress, a baby-doll or something.
‘I knew you’d come,’ he whispers. ‘I was going to call on you when we got back to London. Khan’s a shit, he’ll dump you the minute the plane lands.’
‘I know.’ Her hand rubbing him, rubbing in wider circles, taking in shoulders and down over his stomach. Feels good. ‘He doesn’t understand how I like it.’
‘Like it?’
‘Sex.’ A low guttural sound, more moan than whisper. ‘I love it.’ Still rubbing, smooth hand. ‘I like it tied up. Khan doesn’t like that, but it’s such a turn on. What about you, huh? Is it a turn on for you?’
‘Sure.’ He’s waking up now. Tied up?
‘Want to try? I’ve got some of Khan’s ties. Want to try it with his ties?’
‘Why not?’ Her hand is insistent on him now. She moves one of his arms, then the other, until his hands are behind him, grasping at the bedposts. He realises now that she wants to tie him up ... not what he had in mind, but all the same ... And in fact she’s already busy. It’s easy for her to slip the ties around his wrists.
‘Not too tight are they?’
‘No.’ Lying. His wrists feel like the circulation’s been cut.
And around his feet too, so he is splayed and naked
She takes the hammer from her holdall. She has used some twine to tie a duster around the head. Out of the spare cuts of Fablon she has made some makeshift handles, which she attaches to the sheet of Fablon stuck to the window. She grips one of these handles as, softly, near soundlessly, she begins to tap away at the glass, which falls away from the window-frame but stays attached to the Fablon. Within three minutes she is lifting the whole window out from its frame, laying it on the ground. The alarm is just outside the kitchen door. If she’d set it off, it would probably be buzzing by now. But she can’t hear it. She can’t hear anything, not even her heart.
Upstairs, Henrik is asleep and dreaming in Danish. He’s dreaming of barmaids with pumps attached to their breasts, and of flying champagne bottles, and of winning a bodybuilding contest against Khan and the pre-movie star Schwarzenegger. He drank one glass of neat vodka before retiring, and watched ten minutes of the satellite movie on his eighteen-inch television before falling asleep, waking half an hour later just long enough to switch off the television.
He sleeps and he dreams with one hand tight between his legs, something he’s done since childhood. Girlfriends have commented on it, laughed at it even. If he catches himself doing it, he shoves the hand under a pillow, but it always seems to creep south again of its own volition.
The barmaids are singing. Topless for some reason, and singing in a language he doesn’t understand. His name? His name? Can they possibly be singing ... his name?
‘Wake up!’ A whisper. A woman’s urgent hiss. His eyes open to blackness and he tries to sit up, but a feminine hand pushes at his chest, and he sinks back down again. The hand remains against his chest, rubbing it. A silky-smooth hand.
Shari’s hand.
‘What is it?’ he hisses back. ‘What’s the matter, Shari?’
Her face seems very close to him. ‘It’s Khan. He’s sound asleep ... as usual. He just doesn’t ... I don’t want to put him down or anything, but he just doesn’t satisfy me.’
Topless barmaids ... breasts. Henrik gives a groggy half-smile in the dark. He reaches a hand to where he imagines her chest is. He’s not sure whether he finds it or not. She’s wearing her clothes ... maybe some sort of nightdress, a baby-doll or something.
‘I knew you’d come,’ he whispers. ‘I was going to call on you when we got back to London. Khan’s a shit, he’ll dump you the minute the plane lands.’
‘I know.’ Her hand rubbing him, rubbing in wider circles, taking in shoulders and down over his stomach. Feels good. ‘He doesn’t understand how I like it.’
‘Like it?’
‘Sex.’ A low guttural sound, more moan than whisper. ‘I love it.’ Still rubbing, smooth hand. ‘I like it tied up. Khan doesn’t like that, but it’s such a turn on. What about you, huh? Is it a turn on for you?’
‘Sure.’ He’s waking up now. Tied up?
‘Want to try? I’ve got some of Khan’s ties. Want to try it with his ties?’
‘Why not?’ Her hand is insistent on him now. She moves one of his arms, then the other, until his hands are behind him, grasping at the bedposts. He realises now that she wants to tie him up ... not what he had in mind, but all the same ... And in fact she’s already busy. It’s easy for her to slip the ties around his wrists.
‘Not too tight are they?’
‘No.’ Lying. His wrists feel like the circulation’s been cut.
And around his feet too, so he is splayed and naked
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