Читать книгу The Ice People 25 - The Angel - Margit Sandemo - Страница 8

Chapter 3

Tula roamed about more or less as it suited her. One day on her way from her grandfather’s house at Bergqvara Farm, she stopped near Bergunda Church as a funeral procession passed. The coffin was so very small. Tula knew who was in it: an eight-year-old girl from the parish, who had been found throttled in a grove. This had caused great consternation because the girl wasn’t the first such victim. She was the fourth child in two years to be found like this in Bergunda or Öjaby or Araby or other places around Växjö.

Tula’s mother and father, and everybody else, had banned her from walking about alone. But they couldn’t tie her. She was like the fox: she walked where she wanted. Grandfather Arv had very reluctantly let her walk home to her parents’ house, with strict orders not to speak to anybody. He had followed her down the avenue. After that there were houses all the way, except for the last bit where she was to run and not stop for anything or anybody!

She regarded the mourners behind the coffin. Her face was unreadable. As they passed, she dropped a respectful curtsey. However, nobody could have guessed what the sweet little girl was thinking. She reached home safely.

Tula was a member of a children’s choir. Her mother Gunilla had insisted on this because her daughter had a splendid voice, pure and clear. But Tula got restive. She attended the voice classes in the community hall in Bergunda, because all the children were very fond of the music teacher. But sadly, she was always sick when the choir was due to sing in church. It was true that she had taken part once, because she didn’t want her absence to seem conspicuous. However, on that occasion she had sung shamefully badly. Nobody had any idea that she was in a cold sweat at having to stand up there in the organ gallery, looking down on the congregation.

The choirmaster was a man from Växjö, one of the unfortunate parents who had lost a child in the terrible way just described. He was popular and his personal tragedy meant that people liked him even more. His name was Knutsson.

One day, he asked Tula to stay after choir practice, which she didn’t mind. Knutsson was so nice and he always wore such colourful scarves, which Tula admired. Today, it was one in several shades of purple. He put his hand gently on Tula’s neck and stroked her blonde hair.

“Dear Tula, what are we to do with you?” asked Knutsson.

Tula looked at him with her big blue eyes and said: “What do you mean?”

“You’re so very clever,” Knutsson murmured, giving her a concerned look in which you could detect a hint of sorrow. Tula thought that appropriate, considering that he had just lost his child. He was quite a good-looking man in his forties, slightly overweight but not too much, which actually suited him. He had dark eyebrows over slightly hazy, dreamy eyes and big, sensuous lips. All grown-up women wanted him to pay attention to them, which was horrible!

“You sing so well,” he went on, as he continued to stroke her hair. “But you refuse to perform.”

Only in church, Tula thought. If only he would stop stroking her hair. “Last Thursday, I sang in Växjö and last ...”

“Well, yes. But you seem to panic as soon as it becomes serious. Are you scared of the audience? They all think that you’re so sweet and clever ... and that you have a fine voice.”

Tula thought: how do they know that if they’ve never heard me?

It was horrible the way he was shaking. And sweating. He also smelled so strange. Just like when one of the cows in the barn was in season and the bull was bellowing in its stall.

“I’d better go now. My mother is waiting,” she said.

“Yes, of course,” Knutsson replied, and loosened his grip on her neck. “Where do you live, Tula?”

She explained.

“Oh, I see. I’ve never been there.”

Tula continued politely: “I also quite often stay with my grandfather on the Bergqvara Estate. I’ll be going there tomorrow afternoon.”

“Of course, I know Bergqvara. Well, you’d better be off so that your mother doesn’t have to wait for you,” Knutsson said, wiping his sweaty hands on his handkerchief. Tula noticed that he had a big bulge in his trousers. This reminded her of the couple she had surprised out in the forest a few years before and she giggled to herself. She curtseyed politely and ran out. Knutsson watched her run across the courtyard, making her curls swing.

Tula was the finest of them all! Her childish, round frame; her innocent, pure eyes. She was a true child. Soft skin, slightly chubby, warm ... Must be lovely to touch and embrace. In his thoughts, his hands were already exploring under her skirts. What did she look like underneath her fine dress? Feeling her, entering her. The scream. Oh, those delightful screams that made everything in him explode. Oh, that wonderful moment!

He ached so much that he had to sit down with his hands tightly clenched between his thighs. He moaned loudly. It was a long time now ... much too long ... he was no longer able to hold back. But he had to be careful. It was good that there were these children’s choirs scattered all over Sweden. Then he could be near the children and select them ...

No one would ever suspect him, he was safe. He had everybody’s compassion. Nevertheless, he would have to be careful. But he had waited long enough now. What did they want of him? Feeling stirred was such a pleasant sensation. Oh, to be kept away from his obvious right.

It was everyone else’s fault. Other people were to blame entirely ...

He walked home to his wife. She had a confused, submissive expression on her face, as if she was asking for forgiveness, as if she didn’t know why she wasn’t good enough. True, he had kept his distance for quite a long time now. Ever since he had failed to perform his marital duty.

His silent fury flared up again. How on earth could she ever believe that she had anything to offer him? She with her grown-up, dry body and her willingness? When they lived in Eksjö and he had been out in town, he had had to squeeze past a little girl in a gateway – and that was when lightning seemed to strike him. His skin prickled, his underpants became moist and he stared after the girl because he knew that he wanted her.

When he got back home, he realized why he had always felt so lukewarm and dutiful in bed with his wife. She was a rich young widow with four children, and he had thought that she was a good match. Besides, marrying her raised him in people’s esteem. But even if he found her extremely nice, he had never actually fallen in love with her.

But now!

Now he only had one thought on his mind – the little girl in the gateway. He had stalked her and one day when nobody could see them, he had lured her down into a basement that he had staked out in advance. It was a fantastic experience. A big moment for him. Heaven on earth. They found the girl a few days later, but nobody suspected him.

Then they moved to Växjö. He told his wife that her children were to be regarded as his, and she wept with gratitude. So how on earth could anybody suspect him when he became interested in his six-year-old stepdaughter? It wasn’t difficult for him to meet her after she had been out to visit a friend. A walk through the park ... and afterwards hurry home and ask his wife if they ought not to go and meet the girl on her way home because she ought to be back by now. Yes, said his wife. They ought to do that.

Then they met two policemen. They said that they were sorry to ask them but they had found the body of a young girl in the park and somebody believed that she might be their daughter?

Knutsson was devastated and a great comfort to his wife. She thanked him warmly for his consideration and everybody agreed that it was such a terrible tragedy. Since then he had felt safer, and what had happened to his stepdaughter wasn’t his fault. After all, he had asked to give a helping hand when the youngster was being bathed, hadn’t he? He had been allowed to touch her soft skin, washed her with a flannel over her whole body. Rub, rub ... he had ejaculated into the bathtub but the water was splashing anyway so nobody noticed. The girl thought that he was gasping a lot and hadn’t he rubbed her dry by now?

Two days later, he had picked her up on her way home and lured her into the park. Surely there was nothing wrong with that?

Quite some time had passed since the last child murder had taken place and people were beginning to be less vigilant. Perhaps the danger was over?

The day after Tula had spoken to the kind singing teacher, she was skipping happily on her way to Bergqvara. Her mother had accompanied her through the forest, then she was to walk the rest of the way by herself. As she entered the avenue, she saw a man. Could it be the choirmaster? What was he doing here? He was on his way to Bergqvara Estate. Oh, well, then they were going the same way. He seemed happy and surprised to meet her.

“Oh, is it you, Tula? Yes, you did say that you would be going there today!”

He stopped and gazed at her. He didn’t tell her that he had been waiting for her for several hours, hiding in the forest, while his agitation and desire had grown to volcanic proportions. Now he was hardly able to breathe. She was lovelier than anybody else he had had. Like a wonderful home-baked cake, like a cherub, a little angel of God. Oh, he just couldn’t bear it!

He smiled awkwardly. “Do you know what I saw a moment ago? A tiny, young hare leaping into the forest. I think it was hurt because it was limping badly. I was just on my way to look for it. Will you join me?”

Tula answered matter-of-factly: “You’ll never find a young hare!”

“I thought you loved animals. I also saw traces of blood.”

Tula shrugged her shoulders. “We can always look, but they’re too good at hiding themselves.”

“We’d better check to be absolutely sure,” he said eagerly. “Come, I know exactly ...”

As the trees grew very close to the avenue just at this spot, Tula and Mr Knutsson were soon hidden from the outside world. He drew her farther and farther into the forest.

“I don’t think there’s any point in searching for the young hare,” Tula decided.

He had settled on a mound, and patted the ground next to it. “Sit down and listen! Can you hear it? All the sounds of the forest!”

Tula sat down.

“Isn’t it nice to sit like this?” he asked her with a trembling voice. Somehow, he smelled like a bull. Tula had an extremely well-developed sense of smell!

“Yes,” she replied flatly. She knew that it paid to be polite.

He put his arms around her shoulders. “You’re a very nice girl Tula. How old are you?”

“Eleven. I’ll be twelve soon.”

“Then I’m sure you already have a boyfriend.”

“A boyfriend? Yes, but he lives far away in Norway. I’ve only met him once. It’s a long time ago now.”

“Was he allowed to caress you?”

“What? Euw, no. That’s so silly!”

“It’s not silly. It’s very pleasant. Like this ...”

Mr Knutsson stroked her arm up from her hand so that the small hairs rose. He began to perspire and writhe about. His breathing became awkward.

What on earth was going on? Tula became curious and let him continue. His hand glided down her neckline, searching for her breasts. Then he laughed quietly and nervously. “There doesn’t seem to be much here. You’re only a child, Tula, but a lovely young child. I can make it nice and pleasant for you if you want.”

She wrinkled her brow. A glance at his trousers revealed that it was rather cramped in there. Perhaps she would get the chance to take a closer look at that male object that she had seen once before? That would be exciting.

“Sit on my lap,” he stuttered. He was hardly able to say the words because he was so excited.

Tula pretended to hesitate. She thought this was fun.

“Mother says that I mustn’t sit on the laps of grown-up men any more,” she explained innocently. “I’ve probably gotten too heavy.”

“You ... you can also ...” He was breathing like a pair of bellows. “You can lie down. Lean back a bit and pull your knees up.”

Tula obeyed. She was enjoying herself. What would this lead to? She was curious to investigate the grown-ups’ game, since they seemed to enjoy it so much.

He was immediately under her skirts, caressing her. He fumbled and was very excited. Oh, dear! What a wonderful tickling sensation ...

This was going to turn into something very exciting! His fingers were eager. Now Tula was beginning to understand a little bit about the game of the grown-ups. It didn’t seem to be at all stupid.

“What are you doing?” she asked naively.

“Nothing, nothing,” he muttered, his face distorted in a series of grimaces. “Don’t worry!”

He began to dig in his trousers. He moaned and gasped and then Tula got to see that strange object again.

“Well! You don’t look like me at all!”

He lay down. “Feel it. Feel it!” He stumbled over the words.

Tula felt, and laughed the special, childish laughter she resorted to when she wanted to fool people.

“Aren’t you afraid at all?” he said, surprised at her reaction.

His hand searched once more, groped and then turned violent. All of a sudden, he moaned and threw himself over her, spreading her legs.

Just like the couple in the forest, Tula thought. At last, I’m going to find out why the grown-ups like it so much.

“Ouch! It hurts!”

But Mr Knutsson groaned and went on pushing. This chubby young girl surpassed everything he had tried before. She was temptation personified.

With a wrinkled brow, Tula said: “This isn’t funny any more.” She tried to break loose. “It hurts!”

Her words had changed his face: every feature radiated evil and madness. “Yes, doesn’t it? It has to hurt,” he groaned so heavily that he whined. “You must be scared. You must scream! Scream! Otherwise I won’t ... for hell’s sake, SCREAM!”

His hands searched furiously for her throat. “This was meant to come afterwards,” he snarled. “So you wouldn’t tell! But I’ll make you scream – make you scared. I won’t let you cheat me out of my right!”

His hands squeezed. Then Tula thought, is this what it’s all about?

A few whispered words glided over her lips. A spell.

Knutsson let out a yell and quickly slipped off her.

“You’re burning,” he screamed, clasping his hands around his red-hot tool. Tula sat up and removed his hands with a single movement, muttering a series of strange words. She grabbed his pride and pulled it so that for a moment it seemed to his eyes unreasonably long and thin ... and then he screamed! His organ was curled round like a pig’s tail, with an unbearably tight knot in it.

This can’t be true, he thought, horrified. This just can’t be true. This is just not possible, this is physically impossible, nobody can tie a knot ...

But the knot was there.

Tula had got up. She stood over him and he was totally confused as he looked into her eyes. There was another spell, now with her hand pointed at his mouth. And yet another one while she held both her hands over his, without touching him.

Then she turned around and started to walk away. Over her shoulder, she said: “Five children, maybe more, have died, including your own daughter! How could you?”

Knutsson wanted to say that child wasn’t his – which was, of course, beside the point. He would probably have killed her anyway. His or others – the wonderful feeling of molesting a child and killing it in the middle of a violent orgasm was stronger than anything else.

But Knutsson was unable to say a single word! That little witch had made him dumb forever so that he couldn’t betray her. But he didn’t want to admit that he was defeated – he would see to her, he would get revenge!

He dragged himself back to Bergunda, semi-conscious with pain. He had been unable to loosen the knot no matter how hard he tried, digging his nails in until he bled. He managed to get home to Växjö, where he went to bed without a word to anybody. He couldn’t, he would have to lie down and scream silently because his vocal cords wouldn’t do as he wanted them to.

After two days, he couldn’t stand it any more. His bladder was about to burst and his life was in danger. He wrote a note to his hysterical, baffled wife telling her to call the doctor, who turned up and stared incredulously at his misery.

“No,” said the learned man with determination in his voice. “I simply don’t understand any of this!”

Mr Knutsson waved and gesticulated that he wanted pen and paper to tell the doctor about Tula, the witch, about the words that he thought he had discerned in her low mutterings: “Knot, magical knot, never loosen.” And much, much more that he hadn’t really perceived. Nobody could understand what he was on about. Meanwhile, the doctor had pulled and pulled to loosen the knot, as Knutsson silently moaned and yelled.

Finally, the doctor said: “No, this won’t do.” He was completely exhausted. “There’s only one solution. We must cut if off above the knot, because if we don’t your bladder will burst and you’ll die from poisoning.”

Knutsson tried to bellow a protest but not a sound passed his lips.

“How on earth did all this happen?” the doctor asked.

At long last, he realized that his patient was asking for pen and paper. Now Tula’s final spell took effect ... Knutsson put pen to paper to identify her and accuse her of witchcraft. However, the pen wrote what it wanted, and all he could do was follow the pen: “I’m the one who raped and murdered those innocent children and I enjoyed it. This is God’s punishment!”

The last sentence was an expression of Tula’s sense of humour. Because heaven was hardly involved in this. Knutsson’s wife and the doctor read the words and believed them – especially the last sentence. Knutsson tried desperately to make clear that this wasn’t at all what he had wanted to tell them but it was all in vain. Tula’s name would never cross his lips no matter how hard he tried.

The wife and the doctor went into the next room. The wife was devastated. “My husband? My dear, kind husband? How could he do this to my little girl? I don’t understand, I just don’t understand it.”

The doctor, who knew about these things, said: “Who the child is means nothing to them. These creatures are known as paedophiles. They’re only satisfied when they touch children. Your husband was probably one of the worst kind, who had to go even further ... And such people tend to find work that puts them in contact with children. Alas!”

Despite the doctor’s attempt to save him by cutting off most of his vital parts, Knutsson died that night.

And rumours spread. Although the two witnesses had agreed to say nothing, the story was too sensational to be hushed up. Somehow, the public got to know the identity of the child molester and that he had now been caught. Nothing was said about the details – after all, nobody would believe something so absurd.

Gunilla heard the rumours. She took young Tula in her arms and squeezed her hard as she rocked her back and forth.

“Just think – it was your singing teacher, Tula! Just imagine what might have happened! You’ve done that long walk between Bergqvara and our house so many times! You might have met him! I just don’t dare to think what could have happened, Tula, you’re so naive!”

“Well, he’s dead now,” said Tula in her light, clear voice. “Now nobody needs to be afraid any more.”

“No, thank goodness for that,” Gunilla sighed.

Tula hadn’t thought much about what had happened, because she had a certain ability to float above everything that was unpleasant. Now she went out into the barn, where her big black cat tended to spend its time. It came up to her immediately with its tail in the air.

Tula sat down with the cat in her arms, burying her face in its soft fur. Slowly, tears began to trickle down her cheeks. She didn’t cry over what had happened to her and her lost virginity, which didn’t mean very much to her. It had just been an interesting experiment. No, Tula wept for the unfinished lives: the dear young children who would never see the light of day any more. The victims of that very popular choirmaster. She thought of their last hours, those who didn’t have her pluck and strength, let alone her special gifts.

Tula wasn’t totally cold.

She wiped away her tears resolutely.

“I know it, I’m just like Sol,” she whispered to the cat. “Sol had to die because you can’t just go about killing people you don’t care for. That is precisely what I can do. I need to be more careful. Sol wasn’t careful at all: she bragged about her special gifts. I’ll never do that!

The cat looked her solemnly in the eyes.