Page 22 of The Sleepwalker (Joona Linna #10)
The fire has died down in the stove.
They haven’t had anything to eat or drink, and have barely exchanged a single word, but she has had more than twenty orgasms, Pontus five or six.
Kimberly turns on the light and takes a quick shower before getting dressed – not bothering with her underwear – and calling her driver.
Pontus hears that her voice is huskier than usual.
Her eyes are bloodshot, and she is busy touching up her lipstick in front of the mirror when he moves over to her, pulls up her dress and enters her from behind.
They return to the bedroom and continue to have sex for another forty minutes before a third alert on her phone makes them stop.
Kimberly gets out of bed, sits down on the floor and pulls on her pumps. She then stands up on unsteady legs and leaves the room without even glancing back at him.
Pontus remains where he is, heart pounding. He hears the front door slam, followed by the sound of her footsteps and the chauffeur’s polite voice. The car doors open and close, and the gravel crunches beneath its tyres as it pulls away.
He should take two milligrams of Xanax and ten of zopiclone, he thinks, so that he can try to get a bit of sleep. His alarm is set to go off at seven, and then he will have to eat a quick breakfast, drive back to Falun and head straight to work.
He hears the same rattling sound from the kitchen again, as though someone has just opened the cutlery drawer.
It is quarter past two in the morning, and he is wide awake. He could easily have continued having sex; his erection is still rock hard, his muscles quivering.
Pontus raises his right hand and tentatively examines his forehead. The skin feels tender, and he suspects he will end up with a bruise. He had been doing Kimberly from behind when she cried out in orgasm and slumped forward. He collapsed with her and cracked his head against the headboard.
Four crazy hours.
The drug turbocharges the limbic system, causing the heart to race, endorphins to pump, and an intense longing to throb in his loins.
The increased blood flow made Kimberly’s skin hot to the touch and turned her lips a deeper shade of pink.
Pontus closes his eyes as fragmented memories from the past few hours wash over him.
The goosebumps on the waxed skin of her mons Venus when she parted her thighs.
The bedside lamp that toppled over and hit the floor with a strange metallic clang.
The faded tattoo on his bulging stomach, glistening with sweat.
Her sucking on his fingers, pushing them inside herself, swollen and wet.
Him crawling between her legs and licking her. Seeing her tense her thighs and buttocks before groaning loudly.
‘Keep going .?.?.’
Her straddling him, a bead of sweat dripping from the tip of her chin. Him squeezing her breasts with both hands, pushing them together and seeing the fine lines on her chest stretch up to her throat.
She was completely electric.
Some five or six times, he had flipped her over onto her back, pumping harder as she bucked her hips towards him.
‘Don’t stop, don’t stop .?.?.’
Those are the words she repeats most frequently on nights like this, but he would never stop; he is always utterly fixated on his own pleasure. An urge beyond all reason. A chemical rutting period, as she likes to call it.
He pulled out and ejaculated onto her stomach. His seed trickled along the scar from her caesarean section when she reached over to turn off the first alarm, then she rolled onto her front and raised her backside towards him.
Pontus is lying quietly in bed, but he is still high and can’t stop thinking about sex. He also knows that Kimberly has probably started masturbating in their Mercedes-Maybach.
He pictures her with her legs spread in the backseat, caressing herself, pushing three fingers inside and failing to hide her orgasm from the driver.
Deep down, however, he knows that probably isn’t the case.
He knows that Kimberly will have already begun to morph back into his wife in the car.
To Caroline, who – with a self-deprecating laugh – would say that a crystal-clear mind and a throbbing clitoris are the ultimate combination when doing business.
Pontus gets out of bed and checks his phone. He writes a quick text to Kimberly, asking her to come back, but she replies with nothing but a heart.
He notices that the veins on his arms are protruding as he picks up his clothes, turns them right side out and gets dressed with trembling hands.
His coat is hanging in the wardrobe, and he pulls it on, goes through to the porch, pushes his feet into his boots and opens the yellow double doors to the veranda.
The air outside is wonderfully cold.
He makes his way down the steps to the frosty lawn.
Tiny snowflakes swirl through the air.
The light from his room spills out onto the green garden furniture, and he takes a step back and turns around. From where he is standing, he has a clear view of the bed, the pillows, the messy sheets and the damp mattress. The minute the drugs took effect, he forgot all about drawing the curtains.
Pontus pulls his coat tighter, ties the belt around his waist and starts walking north along the narrow road.
The darkness between the trees is impenetrable.
Clouds of white breath hang in the air around his mouth.
He feels invigorated and full of energy, as though he could walk the eighty or so kilometres back to Uppsala and continue having sex with his wife once her meeting is over.
Pontus makes his way out onto a narrow wooden bridge and sees the full river surging around the bend with silent intensity.
The snowflakes dancing in the wind vanish as they hit the dark surface.
He becomes conscious of his own heavy footsteps, and his mind drifts back to the story of the Three Billy Goats Gruff his father used to read to him.
‘I’ve got two big spears, and I’ll poke your eyeballs out!’
He reaches the other side and continues towards a large, dark wooden building.
Pontus realises that he forgot to check whether anyone had actually drawn a sad face in the frost on their window.
Pausing beneath a streetlamp, he notices that his fingertips have turned grey in the cold air. He shoves his hands into his pockets and decides that it probably isn’t the best idea to walk to Uppsala after all.
The snow has started coming down more heavily now, and he has to blink frequently to clear the flakes from his eyes.
Pontus turns right onto Brobacken, and the roar from the main channel of the river grows louder the closer he gets.
As he makes his way out across Karl XIII’s bridge, the water is almost deafening.
The streetlamps in front of him look like snowy orbs of light, hovering silently in the darkness.
On the other bank, the old power station looms so tall that it merges with the black sky and the falling snow.
The river is unusually high, frothing as it hits the breakwater. The inky backwater swirls in anxious circles below the turbines.
Pontus can no longer hear his own footsteps, and he flinches as a car passes close by.
As the glow of the rear-view lights disappears between the trees, he thinks he catches a glimpse of someone standing at the far end of the bridge.
At first, he decides it is probably just the swirling snow thrown up by the car, but it really is a person.
I must still be dreaming, Pontus thinks, pausing in the middle of the river. He uses his hand to shield his eyes, but the figure is now nowhere to be seen.
Perhaps he was mistaken.
He lowers his eyes and sees the snowflakes settling on the yellow lichen growing on the wooden railing. He sees his dirty black boots and the gaps between the planks, the water surging down below.
Going out in this state was a bad idea, he thinks. He should head back to the villa and wait for the comedown.
Snow blows across the bridge at a right angle to the churning water, as though he is standing at the centre of a swirling white cross
Pontus squints over to the far side again.
This time, there is no doubt about it: there really is a slim figure standing right by the bridgehead.
What are they waiting for?
It is impossible to see their face in the haze.
Pontus decides he should keep walking, possibly even say hello, but that he would rather not stop to chat.
He reminds himself to act normally if they do exchange a few words, that he can’t forget that he is likely radiating a kind of manic energy, his pupils dilated.
Despite that, something makes him hold back, and he can’t bring himself to start walking. Instead, his eyes start compulsively scanning the driving snow again.
The figure is a little closer now, even though they seem to be standing perfectly still.
Pontus feels a childish fear of the dark take hold of him, and he lifts his hand to shield his eyes again.
As he does so, the figure starts walking towards him, stooped over with a hood or shawl covering their head. They are getting closer to the next lamppost, causing the snow on the ground to swirl up behind them like some sort of train.
Pontus sees something gleam in their hand, and wonders if they are using some sort of walking stick.
Their movements do seem disjointed, halting.
The object in their hand catches the light again, giving Pontus time to catch the flash of an axe blade.
He feels a sting of anxiety in the pit of his stomach.
This is surreal, he thinks. The urge to turn and run takes hold of him, but he decides against it, knows that the drugs can cause rash behaviour.
It’s probably just a forest ranger out clearing fallen branches from the road.
And yet .?.?. There is something off about the person up ahead, something that just doesn’t feel right.
The snow and the shifting light from the streetlamps make it look as though they are approaching at a speed that seems out of sync with their movements.
Pontus realises that he can’t simply stand still, waiting for them to reach him, and he hears a rattling sound, like small pebbles in a bag.
He turns around, his mouth suddenly bone dry, and decides to walk away as fast as he can without breaking into a run.
He takes a step forward, but something immediately yanks him back. Glancing down, he realises that the belt of his coat is caught on the railing.
The slender figure has almost reached him now, their heavy footsteps thudding against the boards.
Pontus tugs at the belt, but it is well and truly stuck, and he has just started to struggle out of his coat when the broadside of the axe hits him square on the cheek.
His head snaps to the side, and his left knee gives way.
His vision goes dark and he falls blindly, somehow managing to break his fall with his hands. He scrambles up onto all fours and spits out his broken teeth.
A string of bloody saliva dangles from his mouth.
There must be some sort of misunderstanding, he thinks. He just needs to get to his feet and run.
Right then, for some reason, he remembers the tiny, tame bees from his childhood.
‘God,’ he pants, straightening up.
The roar of the river comes surging back to him, as loud as a freight train. It is dark and it is snowing, and he feels confused, can’t immediately remember where he is.
Pontus reaches up and touches his face, taking in his sticky hair and the bump on his cheek. He feels a searing pain, and he gasps.
‘I’ve got money,’ he slurs, taking out his phone. ‘I can make a transfer. Just give me your account number and .?.?.’
Swallowing blood, he dials 112 and puts his phone down on the railing. He is just about to explain that there is a limit of two million on his account when the figure twists towards him again.
Their shoulders move jerkily, with a dry, rattling sound.
The blow knocks Pontus to one side. The blade of the axe has struck his upper arm, and the pain is immediate and unbearable.
‘What the hell, you hit me!’ he cries out in shock.
He reaches for the wound with his other hand, groaning in pain.
He can feel hot blood and soft flesh, smooth edges and broken bone.
This can’t be happening. He is about to pass out, needs to lie down.
His arm has been completely severed, and the only thing holding it in place is a scrap of fabric from the inside of his shirt and coat sleeves.
‘Listen,’ he says between shallow breaths. ‘Listen, I don’t know what—’
The next stroke hits him in almost exactly the same place, knocking the wind out of him and causing him to stagger to the side and crash against the railing.
His arm drops lower, now hanging by his thigh.
The pain is explosive, like hugging a red-hot poker. Impossible to let go, no matter how much it hurts.
Pontus is pulled along with the blade as the person yanks it back, but he remains on his feet.
He splutters and sees the axe swinging through the air again. The sharp blade is getting closer to his face, but for some reason he finds himself thinking about the bees gathering nectar from the heather.
They were early bumblebees. A tiny species, no bigger than a pea.
As his head is severed from his body, he remembers the way he used to tame the little bees by cupping his hands around them.
The shockwave meant they were unable to fly for a few minutes, and they would crawl over his skin as though they felt some sort of affection for him. As though they actually wanted to stay.