Free TH03 - To Steal Her Love by Matti Joensuu Page A

could see herself from the outside, bent over the bathtub, her back to the door, naked, her back white and her bottom bare, and all she wanted to do was spin around and shout, shout, shout!
    But she told herself that she mustn’t do that, that it was very important that she didn’t do that; she mustered all the willpower she had and turned the water off, then she slowly stood up and stared ahead, as though there had never been anyone standing behind her. The mirror was there in front of her and she could see her hair. It was like corn. She could see her forehead and her eyes – they were beautiful eyes but she couldn’t see that; all she saw was that they were terribly frightened.
    She let her gaze wander, glide slowly along the tiles covered in images of seagulls flying with their wings spread open; she saw the clothes horse, all manner of little items hanging from it. Her tights had gone all funny and now they drooped like trolls’ ears – then there was the door. It was nothing but a dark, ominous rectangle, like a beast’s jaws or an open coffin, empty. Nobody was standing there watching her.
    Wheatlocks leaned with both hands on the edge of the sink and took deep, heavy breaths. Her shoulders suddenly began to tremble and she started to cry. She stood there blubbering, inconsolable as a little girl, and that little girl felt so wretched that she was about to collapse. She left everything as it was, didn’t brush her teeth, comb her hair or moisturise her face, but huddled her dressing gown in her arms as if to protect herself and ran into the kitchen, her bare feet slapping against the floor.
    The dressing gown fell to the floor as she opened the fridge and drank wine straight from the bottle. It dribbled down her chin, and though she knew that alcohol and pills don’t mix well she wrenched open the cupboard door, grabbed the box of pills, pressed a Diapam out into her hand and swallowed it. All she wanted was for her torment to end, to be able to put her mind to rest, and she turned the lights out and curled up in a tiny ball on the bed.
    She lay there listening to the rain and hoped that she’d soon become drowsy and fall asleep – she couldn’t do this sober any longer. She’d become afraid of sleep too, as she didn’t know what happened to her while she was asleep, and she couldn’t choose her dreams in advance.
    She often dreamed of being with Simo again, of making love in a yellowing hayfield full of butterflies. Once she’d woken in the night buther dream had continued nonetheless: Simo had been kneeling beside the bed caressing her thighs, she’d called his name and he had replied: ‘Sleep, my love. Everything will be fine.’ And it had made her feel so happy that she’d dreamed she could fly and they’d kissed each other high up in the air. But the following morning she’d begun to question it all; parts of the dream had seemed too real and she’d checked through the flat, but everything was just as it had been and the chain on the door was locked.
    Wheatlocks lay motionless and let the wine take effect, its warmth like a lullaby humming quietly inside her. The lamp crackled as it cooled and the floor seemed alive; the boards creaked a few times as though the Sandman had come to send her to sleep.

Open, Sesame
    The stairwell was dark, as though the night’s soul had stepped inside. Only the light switches glowed red.
    But on the fifth floor shone a barely perceptible light, and oddly this one was on the floor: a strip of light twenty or so centimetres long, gleaming like a worm that had swallowed a ray of sunshine.
    The worm came from Sparkle Eye. It was a narrow penlight, its bulb covered almost entirely in duct tape and with small indentations in its tin covering at the other end, the kind of marks left by someone nervously chewing a pencil. They were teeth marks: Tweety often held the torch in his mouth, especially when he was just getting to know a lock. But now he was already hard at