Pop Goes the Weasel

82

She was splayed out on the ground, lifeless and pliable, her arms snaking out across the ground in capitulation. She was his now and he took his fill. He didn’t bother to wear a condom. In a few hours he would be on his way to Angola aboard the PZR Slazak. By the time they found her, he would be long gone. He always made good use of his shore leave and this time had been no exception.

It had taken him a while to gather himself after he’d strangled her. It always did. The adrenalin raged through him – his heart beating as if it were going to burst – and stars danced in front of his eyes. He was breathless and exhausted even in his triumph. The cuts on his face stung sharply and his senses were supercharged – every drip of water sounded like an approaching footstep, every blast of wind like a shrieking woman. But there was no one else here. It was just him and his prey.

She was just like all the others. Sinful, dirty and cheap. How many had he killed now? Seven? Eight? And how many had fought back – really fought back? None. This one had been tougher than most but like all the others she knew. She knew that she was fallen – that she had given away any chance of salvation thanks to her own depravity – and that’s why they were happy when he relieved them of their suffering. Did they know or care that they were going straight to Hell?

He shuddered to a finish. Closing his eyes, he savoured the moment. The tension that had been building up within him week upon week was already starting to dissipate. Soon he would feel that all-pervading calm that was so rare but so precious to him.

He opened his eyes, hoping to indulge himself with one last look at her bloodless face. But as soon as he did so, he froze.

Her eyes were open. And she was looking straight at him.

Next to her was her bag. And in her right hand was a very large knife.

‘Gówno!’

The knife punctured his face with a sickening crunch. He blacked out and within less than a minute Wojciech Adamik was dead.