Absolute Sunset (26 page)

“You degenerate! Pervert!” She yelled at the raven and chased him away with her pillow. He jumped up to the top of the wardrobe and laughed.

“You must guess, you must guess!” he repeated.

“I’ll kill you if you won’t tell me what this is all about! I have no clue where to start!”

The raven escaped to a shelf and, hidden behind an old vase painted with mallows, began to recite:

Nighttime riddles plague your mind

so what you’ve dreamt, you quickly write.

A notebook, words—that’s all you get,

No faint idea have you yet.

Be patient, and look close to see

what the riddle’s answer be

’Cause only one who learns that key

can read truth in my prophecies

So think, my dearest, long and deep

You might just find the news I keep.

“Don’t you give me your poetry!” Hanka hissed, searching for something that could help her get the ugly bird down to the floor.

“Yeah well. This time I’ll help you.”

“Just be direct instead of pretending to be a Mickiewicz!”

“Direct. I can see that you’ve had enough. And the number of casualties is increasing, too.”

“Does that actually bother you?”

“It bothers me. That’s why we’re still talking. Take a look at the newspapers tomorrow. You’ll understand.”

The newsstand was opened at 6:00 a.m. Hanka was waiting there by ten minutes to six.

“A newspaper, please!” she wheezed into the small window, through which one could see only the torso of the vendor.

“Which one?” the woman murmured.

“Doesn’t matter. Or no, I’ll take all of them.”

She started going through the papers on her way back to the flat, but in the end she lost patience. It was impossible to read while walking—the wind kept tearing the pages from her hands. In spite of the drizzling rain, she sat down on a bench. At least the rain had washed the bench clean. She unfolded three daily newspapers—the same news was on every front page. “Cruel murder.” “Rapist-sadist.” “Killed by a pervert.”

Passersby had come across bodies of several women in Katowice. One of the victims had been sitting at a bus stop. More precisely, she’d been sitting on the pavement, leaning against the shed-like plastic shelter. A history teacher on her way to work had noticed her. The second was found by a garbage collector right by a fountain near the shopping mall on Załęże.

The women had been carefully dressed, their hair and makeup done. They would have looked like they were simply asleep if it hadn’t been for their terribly battered faces. Crushed cheeks, cut lips and noses. The teacher testified that, upon seeing the victim at the bus stop, he vomited in a nearby bush. Once he’d pulled himself together, he’d looked more closely at the woman and seen that her fingernails had been torn from her hands, and strips of skin had been peeled from her thighs. The victim found by the garbage collector had similar injuries.

“She also had a brand burned into her skin, like a horse. I know, because I worked with stallions in Ochaby at one time,” the garbage collector told the journalist. The police issued a terse announcement: “We are continuing to search and are examining every lead. All the victims had criminal records in relation to prostitution and were known to police. We advise women to exercise caution around strangers.”

The rain began to come down harder, washing away the words of the police spokesperson. Hanka didn’t need to read any more. “Where is the third one? There’s a third one,” she thought. “Either they haven’t found her yet or she’s still alive.”

She had seen the faces of the women in her dream clearly, and she was certain she’d recognize them if she saw them in the street. They might change their makeup and clothes, but that wouldn’t alter their appearance much. So where was she going to look for prostitutes? Hanka had no idea.

She went to a local bar in a rundown area, stinking of beer and old tobacco. There had to be somebody here who would know where to find a prostitute.

“Excuse me,” Hanka approached the bartender. “I’m looking for girls, you know, prostitutes.”

The gorilla behind the counter glowered at her. Hanka felt ashamed, then scolded herself for it. This was about saving someone’s life! There was no time for explanations, and what exactly would she explain anyway? Was she going to say she needed a prostitute to keep her company, so they could play cards and talk about the latest fashion trends?

“Have a look around the railway station, in the parking lot,” the man muttered through teeth that clenched a cigarette.

“The railway station? But there are a lot of parking lots there. Where exactly?”

The guy put out his cigarette in an overfilled ashtray with a nervous motion and spat through his teeth.

“What, are you from vice squad?”

“No!” Hanka said. “No, nothing like that!”

“Why these questions?”

“Because...” She tried to invent something believable. “Because I’m from the Church of Purity,” she said. “We want to convert...”

The bartender lifted his eyebrows and leaned over the counter toward Hanka. He was so close that she felt his sour, smoky breath on her face.

“I’ve never heard a dumber line!” He laughed. “Go to Dambonia Street, near the square by the Polonia Hotel. You’ll find them there, whole herds to choose from!” He spat again and went into the back.

For over a week, night after night, Hanka wandered around the streets surrounding the hotel. She made her way through gloomy back streets populated by bald cats and unconscious drug addicts. Huddling under an umbrella, she patrolled the darkest doorways and corners. She spoke with passersby, describing the victim she’d seen in the dream.

“Have you seen the girl I’m looking for? Blonde hair, about a meter and a half tall, dressed in a short skirt?” But people just quickened their pace—no one answered. And all the while the murderer carried on, oblivious to her. A couple going to the Church of the Holy Ghost found the third victim, the one Hanka was already expecting. Then the degenerate killed another two women.

“The murderers are carried out with extreme cruelty, probably in the killer’s own home,” announced a reporter on local television in a trembling voice. “Judging by the women’s injuries, the torture lasts for hours, leading police to conclude that the murderer has a safe place in which to carry out the killings. Only afterward does he move the body of his victim to a public place.”

“That’s news?” Hanka grumbled to the TV set. “I figured that out from the beginning.”

That night she dreamed about the next girl. Past her prime, she was well put together but a little bit flabby. Long red hair helped to make her more attractive.

The devil from Hanka’s dreams murdered her in a particularly nasty way. He tortured her for a long time, patiently inflicting pain, and the redhead’s screams had reached even the top of the palisade. After such a sadistic orgy, she wasn’t even able to leave the cottage on her own. Instead, the devil dragged her by the hair, which barely clung to her skull, as if her torturer had tried to scalp her.

“This one will be easy for me to find,” Hanka thought after waking up. She threw on the grey raincoat that she used for her nighttime expeditions and hurried off to Dambonia Street. The night was warm, but windy. Breezes pulled at Hanka’s coat, but she tied the belt firmly. Hands in her pockets, she began looking around.

She saw the woman right by the wall of the hotel, just five metres from the entrance. In the light that fell through the doorway she could see the colour of the woman’s long, curly hair. Red! The wind lifted it, so that it wouldn’t stay in place. The woman repeatedly tucked it behind her ears, talking to a customer, apparently negotiating. Hanka heard just a little of what they said.

“Well, one hundred zlotys. I’m staying right here, right upstairs!” the woman insisted.

“I don’t like hotels,” the customer argued. “I feel like ten guests have shot their load on the sheets before me. Two hundred, but we go to my place.”

Hearing Hanka’s footsteps, he turned around. Black eyes. Hair the color of tar. A dark complexion. Hanka barely prevented herself from shouting:
the devil!
She took a few more steps and stopped, close enough to hear more of their conversation. The prostitute, probably because of the recent murders, didn’t want to go to the guy’s flat, but he wasn’t going to back down.

“Three hundreds, we’re going and that’s it!” he said, tempting her.

Hanka could tell that the woman was wavering. Three hundred zlotys for something that brief was quite a lot, and for a woman her age it was a generous offer.

“Four hundred!” the customer said, upping the ante.

“I’ll go for two hundred!” Hanka said, unexpectedly joining in the negotiations.

“What?” Red looked at her, too surprised to curse.

“I’ll do it for half the price and I’ll be at least as good as her!” Hanka said, pressing the point.

“You cunt!” Red screamed so loudly that a guard looked out from the hotel doorway. Seeing that it was just a spat between two women, he disappeared again. “You fucking cunt, he’s not your customer!”

“He practically had to beg you. He won’t have any problems with me!” Hanka taunted.

But she’d gone too far. Red hissed like an angry cat, leaped at Hanka, grabbed her by the hair, and shoved her against the wall. Hanka barely managed to shield her head before it hit the wall. Then she pushed against the wall with both hands and moved to the right. The prostitute followed her.

“You cunt!” she howled. “Stupid cunt! You thief! He’s mine!”

She started bashing Hanka on the back with her bag. But Hanka had experience with Sabina. She bent down and rammed Red, her head hitting the woman right in the solar plexus. Red collapsed to the ground, unable to get her breath.

“You bitch!” she wheezed, but Hanka was already walking away with the man.

“What’s your name?” he asked once Red had disappeared behind them.

“Hanka.”

“Nice.”

“Where are we going?”

“To Orkana Street. My place. I live there,” the man replied and moved ahead, not looking at her.

They turned into a deserted Cechowa Street, walking in silence. From time to time the wind whipped their faces with dust from the street. Hanka didn’t mind. She felt as if she’d left her body and was watching the entire situation evolve from a great distance.

“Here we are!” the man declared after fifteen minutes of walking, showing Hanka a heavy, black door. Hanka looked at it blankly.

“Here we are!” he repeated. “The top floor,” he added, opening the door. Hinges creaked. Hanka stopped on the threshold and held on to the doorway. “Ladies first,” the guy urged her. Hanka laughed, then did what she thought any prostitute would do and entered.

Inside, it was dark and quiet. Somewhere high above a dying light bulb shone. Hanka could smell mice. The clatter of their soles echoed, but no one looked out to see who was wandering around at night.

“Don’t worry, nobody lives here,” her host said, seeing that she had been startled by a noise and stopped on the first floor. “We’re all alone,” he whispered almost romantically. Hanka smiled and he jumped towards her and brutally caught her delicate cheeks.

“Ouch!” Hanka shouted feeling nails pressing into her skin.

The man took an even firmer hold on her and then pushed her back against the balustrade. Strained screws creaked and gypsum dust fell to the floor. Hanka whirled her arms, trying not to lose her balance, then braced against the railing. The devil came closer, pushed her hips with his, and bit Hanka’s lips lustfully.

He was so horny, he almost blocked her throat with his tongue, his teeth hitting hers roughly. She didn’t fight, wanting to get on with it. While the devil was simultaneously undoing his trousers, searching for her breast, and calling her some lurid names, she began cautiously digging in her pocket—gently, so as not to alert the pervert. Slowly, slowly. Here it is! The cool black handle was familiar to Hanka. The blade was old, but well tempered and strong. Her knife! She had put it in her pocket the day before. An ordinary knife, for peeling potatoes or cutting meat—one that’s been in the drawer forever.

She wasn’t going to bother searching around for soft places between his ribs, or stabbing him in the heart or lungs. She clenched her fingers firmly around the handle and raised her hand. The devil was panting, busy pinching her buttocks. It hurt. His tongue lapped at her neck. Disgusting! Hanka lifted her hand higher—and struck with all her might. Straight into his neck. She had read about this kind of blow in detective stories. It should cause almost instant death, with massive blood loss within a few seconds.

The knife slipped into his body as smoothly as into butter, the skin not even resisting. Hanka expected that it would at least tighten as she pushed, like an inflated rubber ball, but no. It split open silently and the blade immediately cut an artery.

The man didn’t even manage a shout. The blood spilled everywhere, gushing onto Hanka’s face, warm and slightly sweet. Almost tasty, like the old Coke. The devil tried to stop the bleeding with his hands. No way. Blood kept streaming out of him, the pulsing rhythm soaking his clothes. Hanka watched it with wide eyes so she’d remember every moment. Revenge!

“Why?” the man croaked out with his last breath.

He sank to his knees, fell on his face, and died. Just like in the detective stories, in just a minute or two. Hanka stepped over his body. She dropped the knife. Then she wiped her face with her sleeve, cleaned the coat as best she could, and headed home.

For a few days there were no reports about the murders. Hanka checked the news regularly, but the devil’s body hadn’t been found yet. “He’s probably decaying in his burrow,” she thought with satisfaction.

Five days after that memorable night, though, the next news report appeared. But it didn’t concern the corpse in the old building. They’d found Red, scalped—her head, her crotch, even her armpits. The murderer had packed her hair into a bag.

Hanka almost fainted. “He wasn’t the one!” she thought and raced off to vomit.

The murderer turned himself in to the police the following day. Why? The speculation was endless—psychologists, detectives, and other experts all giving their opinions. Boredom, remorse, stupidity?