He didn’t even blink. He looked at her with a wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other. ‘Expectant mothers usually don’t smoke or do coke, or other things,’ he said drily. ‘Charles Manson said you make your children what they are.’
Dorcas blinked. She couldn’t believe such an important event was being brushed off. She rushed her words out so they all came out together. ‘But what about you? You’re a sex addict, and you know it.’
Hans carried on smoking, tapping the chair with his foot. ‘Total paranoia is just total awareness,’ he said.
‘But you were seeing Anna!’ she said angrily, reaching defiantly for another cigarette. ‘The whole club knew you were carrying on. How could you do that, when I worked there too?’ Her trembling fingers took two attempts to light up. If she got him to think she was just jealous about Anna, then he wouldn’t suspect she knew more.
Hans’s face betrayed nothing. He was wearing his solemn poker face. Most of the time she had no idea what he was thinking.
‘Well, I’m glad the bitch has gone,’ she said, scraping back her chair and leaving the terrace abruptly in an apparent huff. She made her way to the bedroom and flung herself on the bed.
Outside, a thoughtful look passed over Hans’s face. ‘See you in Disneyland!’ he said with a bitter laugh and stepped inside. He followed her into the bedroom, banged the door. He didn’t so much walk as prowl over to the bed. Dorcas had the feeling he didn’t even notice the petals, all the little details. He unzipped and was instantly ready, as if he’d been sitting there with a rock on the whole time. He’d probably only eaten to work up the energy.
After kissing and fondling her neck for about ten seconds, he was already trying to mount her. Dorcas cried out. Lately he’d got more and more forceful. Once upon a time he’d been a thoughtful lover who had revelled languidly in her sexual experience, but the more sex he had, the rougher he wanted it. She tried to slow him down, get him to wait until she was ready, but he ignored her pleas. Dorcas smelt the odour of sweat, her own fear, and tried not to wince. He pistoned into her as forcefully as he could, his hands clawing at her, all the time moaning in a deep, guttural tone that was barely human. After five minutes of solid pumping, he came fiercely, grunting in pleasure. His back and forehead were coated with sweat. He was oblivious to her lack of sexual release. When he was done he threw himself down by her side and let out a huge sigh.
Dorcas lay there, fingering the ruined rose petals, with no expression on her face.
‘I don’t care,’ she said. If she could only persuade him to trust her, pretend, then he might open a clink of the darkness inside him. Let her see. ‘I don’t even care what happened to Anna, as long as I’ve got you all to myself.’ She flung herself on him. There’d be time later to work on his defences.
Hans let out a little snort of laughter and gave her the first kiss of the evening.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
Lars was so wired it had stopped being work. He was swimming it, throwing the crates round as though they were nothing. In between stops, he was really hitting the coke. Bloody nose would not stop running. He was in and out of the truck constantly; the lights from the various clubs burned into his eyes as he scurried in and out of the dark.
He’d show him! Hans thought he’d got this thing sewn up, but he was nothing but a jumped-up kid playing gangster. Let him dream. It was he, Lars, who had it, the power, the demon inside him. Now it was snapping, straining to get out. He felt so strong, nothing could stop it. The power was mightier than any mere man. And you couldn’t reason with it. It just kept on and on, consuming you till you had to act. There was no choice. He’d never had any goddamn say in it.
He kept moving, constantly alert for a sign of someone standing outside the crowd. Before he could spring, unleash it, first he had to pick someone up. The more he concentrated on his work, the more the idea burned in his brain. Tonight’s the night! he thought to himself, with a smirk. He wiped his nose with his sleeve and laughed out loud to no one in particular in the dark tunnel that led to the car park. Behind all the fancy buildings it was nearly always a run-down mess to get the drinks in. No one about!
He climbed back into his truck, reached into the glove compartment. My God, was the bag already nearly empty? It was good that he wasn’t with Hans. Wanker always disapproved of ‘consuming the merchandise’. Und? He was having a beautiful fucking night, had finished the deliveries in record time, and now he was going to cruise round a bit, enjoy it.
Although it was dark, twinkling stars lit up the sky. It was hot. Pitch black and still twenty degrees. Lars was running round in just a T-shirt, praying for the heat to drop, a bit of wind. He wiped the sweat off his brow and smoked a quick cigarette to slow him down. But his mind was racing like a speeding engine. He wanted the voice in his head to stop. But he was a long way from that.
What he enjoyed most was the zone. The time when he could do whatever he liked in his truck. He did some work for private companies. Lorry drivers worked alone, seemed to be masters of their own destiny, but they were always at the mercy of some computer system that worked out their routes, gave them a mileage and time for each destination, with no time for idling. If they ran into treacherous weather conditions or traffic snarl-ups, too bad. No, sir, they were constantly under pressure to perform, and, whatever problem cropped up, they had to make it up in their own time. He’d grown to hate car drivers. They were careless, and no professional could work without taking the right precautions.
Now his work was done, he was free to go. The truck was freedom; steady, throbbing movement. Sheer motion was progress, even when he was going nowhere. He got behind the wheel. Although his body was physically tired, he was too high to care. Deftly, he manoeuvred the truck out of the clogged-up city streets, escaped a long series of red lights. Now he was free!
With an almighty roar he entered the slipstream to the waiting Autobahn. As he picked up speed, the white lines either side of him turned into an endless flicker.
He whooped – ‘The zone, man! Fucking A!’ – put his foot down hard on the gas and the truck hurtled into the darkness. Ol’ whore wanted to ride it hard tonight. She was practically empty, and when she rattled around like an empty tin can she was much faster going through the gears.
Now he was prowling along, practically on autopilot in the slow lane, keeping his options open. His truck seemed to will him on. He patted the side of her white-painted frame. For the first time in days he didn’t have a headache.
His kept his eyes peeled for drivers to the left of him pulling over to his lane. These were the ones who might make a turn-off to the waiting lay-bys and petrol stations. If there was someone alone in a car who’d just pulled in somewhere, chances were that no one knew where they were. That was the time to get ’em, when they were mid-pee with their trousers open or just having a little smoke.
Nobody paid attention to a truck driver when he was off the road. They became invisible, part of a sub-human species that parked all over, no questions asked. Folks campaigned against gypsies, but truckers they didn’t even see.
It hadn’t been like this since he was first discharged from the Bundeswehr. He’d killed once before he hooked up with Hans, and then, after they got the club, he’d had the VIP room; his own private kill zone. How many had it been now? Over twenty? Lars licked his lips with his parched tongue. Thinking about that was like trying to remember how many sexual partners you’d had. After the first few you started to get ’em all mixed up.
When he thought of them at all, what he remembered was the light going out of their eyes, like TV screens being switched off. You got to see them ghosting out; not alive, but not yet consciously dead. That bit he enjoyed the most.
He rubbed his chin. Where was everyone? The dawn was getting up and that unnerved him. Everything seemed easier in the dark. Alright, he’d admit it: he was goddamn nervous. Hans had made it too easy for him. Bin fuckin’ spoiled. He slipped the last bit of c
oke on to his finger and waggled it around his gums to keep himself awake. He drove round remorselessly, his initial eagerness fading. It was a slow night. No one seemed to be out. He thought about crashing into someone and staging a small accident but rejected the idea. What he wanted was to mingle among them, catch them unawares. It was a form of seduction. Hans had never understood how he relaxed into a kill.
Indicating right, he went on to the B6, decided to hit civilisation again. There was nothing lonelier than a deserted Autobahn when you were cruising. He had to laugh: most of the time he wanted the Autobahn clear when he was working.
He pulled into a petrol station on the B6. If he was going to go any further he needed a coffee and a piss first. It was nearly five a.m. and the sun was slowly streaking through the sky. Through the windows he saw the wide, flat streets connecting the city like a spinal chord. This was the industrial bit, heading off west to Berenbostel with its giant multi-coloured shops, Möbel Hesse, Kibek and Baumarkt, that attracted shoppers like flies.
He thought about Dorcas: she’d probably be asleep now. And Hans was probably in somebody else’s bed. He squeezed his eyes shut. Don’t think about that now.
He ordered a triple espresso and drank it in one hot gulp. The bitterness made him gasp. Now he was thirsty. He’d get a juice to go, from the machine. First he needed the john. He was having a serious come-down from the coke. He’d done so much he didn’t think he could get it up anyway. There was always tomorrow.
He went to the men’s, which was outside the main building. Lorry drivers knew all the conveniences and best places to park.
On the way to the john he saw someone standing around. Not a day over twenty. Hoody on, with his jeans halfway down his arse, seemed to be unsure, like he was planning his next move and hadn’t worked it out himself yet. The face was dark, intelligent, with wiry hair dark as black molasses. Turkish most likely, or Algerian. Lars walked by without saying anything but left his face open. The easiest way to pick up folks was just to look agreeable.
The boy turned around and came after him. Lars relaxed, made all his movements very deliberate. He was standing there having a piss when the bathroom door opened and closed. The boy approached hesitantly, still had the bloody hood on. Lars tapped out the last few drops and zipped himself up. He made to go to the sink to wash his hands, then with lightning speed turned and grabbed the boy and, before he could struggle, banged his head viciously against the plain white-tiled wall.
There was a sickening crack, a wail, and the boy fell into his arms. Lars felt as though it was divine deliverance. He stood there, sweating. He’d forgotten the arm-pulling dead weight of a body. Holding him, he had to grit his teeth. Being this close to the boy’s beating warmth… He was like a dog who’d unexpectedly caught a rabbit.
In a vice-like grip Lars dragged the boy towards the door, and peered round. His truck was just about ten metres away. He hesitated, breathing in deep, laboured breaths. He couldn’t hold up much longer. There was no one in sight. Should he risk it?
He half-dragged the boy to the truck and threw him in the back. The body flopped like a fish and fell with a sickening thud. He turned on the lights, jumped in and locked them both in, nearly gagging on the stuffy trapped air, which smelt like a sauna for the homeless. If he could keep the boy quiet he could work undisturbed.
The boy lay on his back like a wounded bird. A bruise was already coming out on his forehead. Lars ran his fingers over the delicate, well-tanned face like a sculptor admiring his work. He liked ’em young – the symmetry was just right. After twenty, twenty-five, gravity set in, distorting all the proportions until a face was all nose. Even Hans was changing. But this way he got to keep them just right.
He bent down to kiss the lips and the boy murmured. The smell and sight of him defenceless in front of him was too much and he cried out. Immediately he worried someone might have heard. Now he longed for the confines of the kill room, which was soundproofed, private. The kill room allowed him to be intimate about it. Here he was cramped, kneeling painfully on the uneven metal of the truck floor.
He breathed in dust as took off the boy’s navy hood and put a hand under his neck so that he had full access to the naked throat. The boy was wearing a black T-shirt with some kind of graffiti pattern on it that made no sense to Lars. The skin was musky when he licked it, as if slightly smoked. With one hand licking at the exposed neck, he opened his trousers. The feeling was electric as he touched himself. He had been fully erect ever since he’d had the body in his arms. He groaned again, trying to muffle his sounds.
He wanted to turn the boy over and take him from behind, but it was too much hassle to get the jeans off. Normally he took willing participants: they’d have the sex first and then if he got too aroused he wouldn’t be able to help himself and the kill would follow. He sighed. This was hard work. He tried to figure out a way to get himself going. Repeatedly he slapped the boy’s face but there was no response. He’d cracked the boy’s skull too hard, probably done internal damage. Scheisse! Desperately, he furiously wanked, but it was no good. Lars was panting, nearly spent. This could not be happening!
As a last resort he opened the guy’s trousers. He liked oral sex, both giving and receiving. The guy was wearing no pants. Lars put his face close and just smelled. A young body smelt different to an older one, as if they sweated sugar and talcum powder. The boy was circumcised, clean.
Even though the guy was hurt, in just seconds he felt him stiffen as he worked on him vigorously. The boy was starting to murmur out, jerking his head. Lars carried on sucking whilst at the same time furiously masturbating. It was hard to relax in these surroundings, but if he could just carry on at this tempo for another five minutes…
The boy was fully erect now, but, as he stirred into consciousness, he started to scream, huge, ear-splitting wails. The inside of the truck seemed to vibrate. Lars was not sure if it was his sexual actions or the pain of his head injury that were making him so loud. He put his hand over the guy’s mouth and sat back. ‘Was ist los?’ he said, and hovered over him, deftly masturbating. The sweaty closeness of him was thrilling. Nearly there, oohh!
But the boy couldn’t bloody lie still; kept getting in the way. Lars could have stabbed him with frustration. And he continued to shout out. His loud, frantic cries were disturbing, even for Lars. Normally, he took them when they were already ecstatic; that was why the pain of him sliding in the knife was only like a nick: a little piece of love all in one piece.
The boy was out of control now. Lars stood up to find something to shut him up, frustrated. Bloody hell, all this hassle for nothing. He grabbed one of the thick blankets he sometimes used for packing. It was made from rough, grey material; just holding it dried out your hands. He chucked it over the boy’s face and started to smother him with it. He held on to him as the body furiously struggled. Lars was being bruised, his bare knees scraped, just trying to keep his grip. Clouds of dust were rising up from the blanket that he nearly choked on. He was so tired by this point, he had half a mind to just the kick the boy out and drive home, but he’d gone too far already. Once he’d smacked the head on the tiles he’d crossed a line. And the boy had seen his face.
The boy was young and strong. Lars had to grit his teeth as he held him down. But after a long, grasping struggle, the boy was still. Jesus, he hadn’t even been able to watch his eyes. Lars pulled the blanket off, looked in disgust at the now obviously dead face, purple from lack of oxygen, smeary with dust. Now he’d have to dispose of the body as well. The boy’s shirt had come half-undone in the struggle and Lars suddenly found his erection at full-mast again as he leant over the body inspecting his handiwork.
He sucked in the stale air. Whatever he did, it had to be quick. He took the knife out of his pocket and carefully felt for the vein. He was only just dead. With trembling hands he carefully made an incision. If it was too big, it would make too much mess.
He cut a little hole right over the jugular vein as best
he could and got ready to suck. As soon the crimson seeping started, he swallowed it. The blood was like warm liquid energy. He felt his own body relax and transform as it entered his body. He only had a few minutes, had to relish every second.
With the blood filling his mouth, Lars instantly wanted to come, and after all the frustrations he let go and came like a rocket. His orgasm seemed to stab itself out of him. For a second he felt godlike, as if there was nothing he could not do. His body felt as if it had been shot with bright white light.
Afterwards, he sat back on his haunches and looked at what he’d done. He’d managed to come on the floor of his own truck. The boy’s neck was still bleeding out and he had to get it out of here before the vein completely disintegrated. Lars didn’t understand these things exactly, but he knew DNA could be traced in blood and semen. He’d clean up the van later, but he had to get the body out now.
Normally Hans sorted this out. It scared Lars, how difficult every little thing was. He thought about burning the body but didn’t know where to go to do it undisturbed. He rubbed his eyes. Of course, his body now craved rest.
He quickly pulled his trousers up and opened the back of the van. He was deafened by birdsong. It was now full daylight. No other cars had parked nearby. Clear. Fuck it, he was gonna risk it. He shoved a cap over his face and dragged the body to the edge of the truck. Jumped down, looked again. He picked the body up over one shoulder and tried to run back to the toilets. Jesus, it felt as if every bone in his body was going to collapse, but his fear of being caught was so strong that he was able to stagger the few steps back to the public toilet.
There was one stall. He sat the body awkwardly on the toilet and locked the door. The body already slumped, it would probably fall down soon, but for now he could escape detection until the toilet was checked.
Night Driver Page 17