'Come on, let's go now. He's just a crappy cap-man.'
The slightly plump blonde turns to the brunette and then to him, looks back at her friend; obviously she's feeling stroppy.
'Hang on. We'll go soon.'
The brunette speaks more loudly.
'No, now. Right away.'
Then she turns to him, pulling at her long ponytail.
'And that cap's ugly. Like, it's the ugliest ever.'
She points at the cap, then jabs it with her finger.
An animal. A cat. A dead cat? They're nine, at most ten years old. A cat should be fine.
'You never said what you were training at.'
The brunette looks accusingly at him with her hands on her hips, she's like an old woman in a bad mood. He faced one once, in Säter secure that first time; she was a nosy bitch hammering on about Reform. Change. He can't change. He doesn't want to change. He is who he is.
'Gymnastics. We've been training gym. We do it lots, all the time. We're off now.'
They walk away, the dark-haired girl in the lead, the slightly plump blonde one following, less confidently. He watches their backs, sees their backs naked, bums naked, feet naked.
He goes after them quickly, passes them and stops, holding up his hands.
'What are you doing, crappy cap-man?'
'Where?'
'Where what?'
'Where do you train?'
Two elderly women are strolling down the slope, getting close to the flowers that may or may not be roses. He glances at the women, looks at the ground and counts to ten quickly before looking up again. They're still there, but about to turn off down the other path, the one that leads to the fountain.
'What are you doing, crappy cap-man? Praying?'
'Where do you train?'
'Not telling.'
The slightly plump blonde is staring angrily at her friend. Maria is speaking for both of them again. And she doesn't agree. There's no need to be rotten.
'We train in the Skarpholm Centre. You know. It's over there, kind of.'
The blonde points in the direction of the hill they have just come walking down.
The cat. The dead cat. Bugger that. Bugger all animals.
'Is it any good?'
'No.'
'It's yuckier than you.'
Not even the brunette could keep her mouth shut for long. Both are biting on the bait now.
He's still standing in front of them, but lowers his arms. One of his hands slips across his black moustache, pats it a little.
'I know where they got a new leisure centre, a brand- new one. Not far from here. Look over there, near the big block of flats, there's a white house next to it. See it? I know the guy who owns it. I hang out there a lot myself. Would you prefer training there? All of your mates, the whole gym club, I mean.'
He's pointing eagerly, they look in the direction of his arm, the slightly plump blonde curiously, the dark whore with that attitude of hers.
'There's no leisure centre in that house. You're a crappy cap-man. It's not true.'
'Have you been there?'
'No.'
'So what do you know? It's there, brand new, that's for sure. It's not nasty at all.'
'That's what you say. You're fibbing.'
'Fibbing?'
'You're telling fibs.'
Maria just talks. Talks and talks, all the time. She shouldn't do that. Not for her. And she shouldn't be so beastly. She's just cross because she didn't get his cap. He gave Ida his red and green cap and she trusts him. He knows the man who owns that new gym. She doesn't like the Skarpholm Centre, not one bit, it's smelly and old, the mats smell like vomit.
'I believe you. Marwin said there's a new centre once. It's got to be better to train there.'
Ida believes there's a new centre over there. She believes such a lot. Anyway, it's just because he gave her that horrid cap.
Maria knows what a new leisure centre should look like. She saw one once in Warsaw when she went there with her mum and dad.
'I know there isn't a new gym there, silly cap-man. It's a lie. I know that. And if there's no new centre there I'll tell on you to my mum and dad.'
It's a nice day in June, sunny and warm. A Thursday. Two little whores are walking ahead of him on the path through the park. The brunette is everyone's whore. The slightly plump blonde is his own whore, nobody else's. Whores whores whores. Long hair, thin jackets, tight trousers. He shouldn't have wanked.
The slightly plump blonde whore turns to look at him.
'We've got to go home soon. It's time to eat. Mum and Marwin and me. I'm really hungry, I get that hungry after training, every time.'
He smiles. It's what they like. He reaches for the cap on her head, pulls gently at the visor.
'Listen, it will be super-quick. I promised, didn't I? We're practically there. Then you can check it out, see if you like it. If you want to do your training there. It smells new, know what I mean? You know what new places smell like, don't you?'
They step inside. He's slept there the last three nights. Breaking in was no trouble, he did the lock easily. A shared basement with storage pens, one for each flat. Lousy pickings, though. Cardboard boxes full of household kit and books, that sort of crap. Prams, IKEA shelving, a standard lamp or two. Fuck all. Except for the kid's bike, black with five gears, in Flat 33's pen at the far end. He'd flogged it but only got Z50 smackers. A whole block, and no goods except a fucking kid's bike.
He grabs hold of their arms as soon as they are in the basement corridor, one girl in each hand. He grips hard and they scream the way they all scream, so he tightens his hold. He's in charge, makes the decisions. Whores scream. After sleeping in this dump for three nights running he knows that not a fucking soul comes down there after dark. Twice he's heard someone in the morning, moving along the basement corridor and shuffling about in one of the storage pens. Afterwards, silence. The little slags might as well scream. Whores should scream.
She's thinking of Marwin. She's thinking of Marwin. She's thinking of Marwin. Marwin's room. Is he there now? She hopes he's there, in his room. At home. With Mum. She thinks of him lying on top of his bed, reading. That's what he likes doing in the evenings. Mostly Donald Duck, the small pocket books, they're still his favourites. He read a bit of Lord of the Rings once, but it's the pocket Donald Ducks he likes best. She feels sure that's what Marwin is doing.
Horrid crappy cap-man. Horrid crappy cap-man. Horrid crappy cap-man.
She mustn't speak to men like him. Mum and Dad keep nagging about it, go on and on at her and she swears she never speaks to them. And she doesn't. Or anyway, only to tell them off. Ida doesn't dare do that. But she dares. Mum and Dad will be furious if they hear that she's talked to one of them. She doesn't want them to hear that, they mustn't be angry with her.
Number 33 is best. That's where he nicked the bike. And where he slept.
They've stopped screaming. The fat little blonde whore is crying, red-eyed, snot running from her nose. The dark slag looks obstinate, staring at him, challenging him, hating. He ties their hands to one of the pipes running along the cement-grey wall. It's hot, must be a hot water pipe. It will burn their arms. They both kick, trying to hit him. Every time, he kicks them back. They get the message soon enough and don't try kicking any more.
They're sitting still now. Whores should sit still. Whores wait for what's coming to them. He calls the shots. He takes his clothes off. T-shirt, jeans, underpants, shoes, socks. In that order. He undresses in front of them. If they don't look at him, he kicks them until they do. Whores should look. He stands naked in front of them. He's handsome. He knows that he's handsome. Trained body. Muscular legs. Firm buttocks. No belly. Handsome.
'What do you think?'
The dark slag is crying now.
'Horrid horrid cap-man.'
She's crying, she took her time, but she's just like all the whores.