Ларс Кеплер: The Rabbit Hunter

The doorbell rings again.

The man spits on her and gets off the bed, pulls his trousers up and grabs his shirt before leaving the room.

As soon as he’s gone Sofia pulls her right hand as hard as she can, without thinking of the consequences.

She feels excruciating pain, but her hand comes out of the strap.

Only the underwear in her mouth stops her from screaming out loud.

Her head is thudding. She’s on the brink of passing out, and her whole body is shaking with pain. Her thumb could be broken, and the ligament feels torn. Her skin looks like an old glove and blood is coursing down her arm. She pulls the underwear from her mouth.

She whimpers out loud as she tries to loosen the strap around her left wrist. Her fingers keep slipping, but eventually she manages to pick the buckle open. She quickly tugs the strap through the catch, then sits up and removes the restraints from her ankles.

She gets up on unsteady legs, clutching her wounded hand to her stomach, and starts to walk across the thick carpet. Her head is pounding with shock and pain. Her feet feel numb and her dress is wet and cold over her backside.

Carefully she makes her way out of the bedroom and creeps along the hallway where the man has just disappeared.

Sofia stops before she reaches the staircase. She can hear another voice downstairs, and decides to shout for help. She can’t hear what the other man is saying, and tentatively moves closer. There are clothes from the dry-cleaners hanging over the banister. Through the thin plastic she can see bundles of identical white shirts.

She clears her throat carefully, ready to shout for help, when she realises that the other man isn’t inside the house. His voice is coming from the intercom. A messenger, asking to be let through the gate. Wille says that he’ll have to come back, then puts the phone down and walks back towards the staircase again.

She staggers but manages to keep her balance. She has pins and needles in her feet as the blood flow returns.

Sofia moves backwards. The floor creaks beneath her and she looks around and sees a larger room further down the hall, with painted portraits on the walls. She thinks about running in and opening a window to call for help, but realises that she doesn’t have time.

Sofia makes her way quickly along the wall and past the stairs, until she reaches a narrow cupboard door. She grabs the handle and pulls.

Locked.

Through the prisms of the chandelier, she watches the man walk up the stairs.

He’ll reach her soon.

She walks back towards the stairs and crouches down on the floor, hidden by the dry-cleaned shirts. If he looks directly at her he’ll see her, but if he just walks past she’ll have a few seconds’ headstart.

Her hand hurts so much that she’s shaking, and her neck and throat are swollen.

The steps are old and worn, and the staircase creaks. She sees him between the banisters and shrinks back cautiously.

Wille reaches the top and walks down the hallway.

He walks towards the bedroom without noticing the blood she’s left on the carpet.

Carefully she gets to her feet, watching his back and suntanned neck as he walks into the bedroom.

She walks silently around the railing and starts to run down the stairs.

She realises that he’s turned around, and is already coming after her.

The thudding footsteps speed up.

She clutches the throbbing, bleeding fingers of her injured hand with her good one.

All she knows is that she has to get out of the house. She rushes through the large hallway, hearing the harsh creak of the stairs as the man comes after her.

‘I don’t have time for this!’ he yells.

Sofia runs across a narrow rug towards the door. She trips over a pair of shoes but keeps her balance.

The alarm system is glowing on one side of the front door.

Her fingers are so wet with blood that the catch slips out of her hand. She wipes her hand on her dress and tries again, but it won’t budge. She pushes the handle down and shoves the door with her shoulder, but it’s locked. Her eyes dart around, looking for the keys as she tries twisting the catch again. She gives up and runs through the double doors leading to the living room.

Something metallic hits the floor in another room.

She moves away from the large windows, her own reflection a silhouette against the pale wall behind her.

She hears him coming from the other direction, retraces her steps and hides behind one of the doors.

‘Every door is locked,’ he says loudly as he enters the living room.

She holds her breath, her heart pounding in her chest, and the door creaks gently. He stops in the doorway. She can see him through the crack between the hinges, his mouth half-open, his cheeks flushed.

Her legs start to shake again.

He walks a few more steps, then stops to listen. She tries to keep quiet, but her frightened breathing is loud.

‘I’m tired of this game now,’ he says as he walks past her.

She hears him searching for her, opening doors and closing them again. He says loudly that he just wants to talk to her.

Furniture scrapes the floor, then silence.

She listens. She hears her own breathing, the ominous ticking of a clock, but nothing else.

Just silence.

She waits a little longer, listening for creeping footsteps, knowing this could be a trap, but still chooses to leave her hiding place, because this could be the only chance she gets.

She creeps further into the living room. Everything is quiet, as if enveloped in a hundred-year sleep.

Sofia goes over to one of the chairs around the polished table and tries to lift it, but it’s too heavy. Instead she drags it by its back with her one good hand, pulling it towards the windowed patio doors, groaning with pain when she has to use both hands. She runs two steps, spins her body, and yelps as she swings the heavy chair against the glass.

The chair hits the window and falls back into the room. The inner pane shatters and crashes to the floor, scattering splinters of glass everywhere. Larger pieces slide down and are left leaning against the intact outer glass.

The burglar alarm starts howling at an ear-splitting volume.

Sofia grabs the chair again, ignoring the fact that the splinters are cutting her feet, and is just about to swing it against the window when she sees the man coming towards her.

She lets go of the chair and walks straight into the big kitchen, her eyes darting across the white floorboards and stainless steel countertops.

He follows with measured steps.

She remembers being chased as part of a game when she was little: the feeling of impotence when she realised her pursuer was so close that there was no chance of escape.

Sofia leans against the countertop for support and manages to knock a pair of glasses and an unusual-looking bracelet to the floor.

She doesn’t know what to do. She looks over at the closed patio doors, then goes over to the island unit which has two sparkling saucepans standing on top of it, and yanks the drawers open with shaking hands, panting hard. She finds herself staring at a row of knives.

The man comes into the kitchen and she picks up one of the knives and turns to face him, backing away slowly. He stares at her, clutching a soot-stained poker from the fireplace in both hands.

She holds the broad-bladed kitchen knife up at him, but realises immediately that she doesn’t stand a chance.

He could easily kill her. His weapon is much heavier.

The alarm is still shrieking. The soles of her feet are stinging from where she’s cut them, and her injured hand feels numb.

‘Please, stop,’ she gasps, backing into the island unit. ‘Let’s go back to bed, I promise, I won’t give you any trouble.’