Andrea moved across to the leg-extension machine. She performed a set of stretches to elongate and align the tendons of her legs before adjusting the seat and the cushioned shin bar. She pulled the pin from where the last person had set it and added ten kilos.
One… two… three…
Andrea felt the tight tingle that she knew was the signal that lactic acid was being released into the muscle tissue to lubricate and ease strain. It felt good. Sensual. A thrill ran through her limbs and chest. She knew these feelings came from her endocrine system releasing endorphins to combat the pain.
Four… five… six…
Her thighs were good. They responded to each abduction with a rope-ripple of muscle beneath her dark tanned skin. Yes, she was happy with her thighs. Her abs were probably her best feature, along with the stone-carved definition of her arms. It was her glutes that she was still disappointed with: both her medials and maxes. She spent hours working on them, but seemed unable to rid herself of the sheath of soft fat that cloaked their musculature.
Ten… eleven…
Andrea had six months until the competition. She had a good chance this time round, but her glutes would let her down. She had to work them harder. She would do an extra hour’s running tonight. Anything to try to burn off the last vestiges of the old Andrea. Soft Andrea. She thought of the couple in the cafe. About the girl and how she had let her boyfriend talk to her, treat her. The anger she felt whenever she thought about it drove her on harder. Another lift.
Twelve… thirteen… fourteen…
Andrea scowled through the pain of the lifts as a man came into the gym. She caught him staring at her. She met his gaze and he turned away to start his warm-up on the treadmill. Andrea was used to people looking at her. Some, like the man who had just come in, did so with an expression of part awe, part revulsion. And some, of course, just like the little shit in the cafe, with disgust.
Fifteen… sixteen…
What Andrea liked most was that moment when some men looked at her and were totally confused about their own reactions. In those faces she read a mixture of distaste and confused lust. And, of course, there was the way women looked at her. Andrea was proud of the body and the face she had sculpted for herself. Andrea the Amazon. She had added to the impact of her physical presence by dying her thick mane of hair platinum blonde. And she always wore expensive make-up: deep red lipstick and dark eyeshadow to emphasise the fire in her blue eyes.
Seventeen… eighteen…
It was one of those things that people didn’t like to talk about. That there were men who found a form like hers beautiful. Erotic. She had even been paid good money by Nielsen to pose nude. And, of course, there were the men who came to the competitions. Eager little men with eager little eyes.
Nineteen… twenty.
The last extension lift was tough and despite the restrainer across her thighs and the padded shin bar isolating the effort as much as possible, her whole body tensed and strained. Her neck and jaws became made of cable and wire; her arms, tensed against the lateral grips, tautened and swelled simultaneously. She saw the man looking at her again. This time he could not look away. It was there: the revulsion. But what was also written across his threatened expression was that he was looking at something awesome.
Something magnificent.
5.
Maria followed Viktor to two more pick-ups, each time noting the addresses as well as she could. It had been dark for a couple of hours and that gave her some protection from detection, but she was still taking a risk: Viktor might have already spotted her on his tail. In which case she would find out soon enough.
The Chrysler made its way back to what Maria now knew to be the Nippes area of the city. He berthed the American cruise ship at the kerb and locked it up. Maria pulled in further down the street and got out. Viktor walked about fifty metres before entering an apartment building. Maria had watched him do this so many times during the afternoon and evening, but Viktor was calling it a night and this was obviously where he lived. After half an hour of standing in the cold, Maria was satisfied that the giant Ukrainian wasn’t coming out again and she checked the names on the door buzzer panels. There was a Turkish name, two German, no Ukrainian. But one panel had been left blank. That was it. Third floor. The street Viktor lived in was reasonably busy. There was a bar across the road, a small supermarket with window stickers marked up in Cyrillic, and an electrical store. Maria’s options for surveillance seemed limited; she would probably have to resort to sitting in the car again. First, though, she would camp out in the bar across the street. It had a window from which she could watch the apartment.
She knew it was a mistake as soon as she entered. The customers in the bar were almost all men, apart from a scattering of brassy-looking female types, some of whom were dressed ten years too young for their ample figures. Maria, her body cloaked in the baggy pullover and jeans, was revolted by their exhibition of age-puckered flesh. She sat by the window that she had selected. A couple of men at the bar followed her progress, exchanged muttered remarks and burst into laughter. The waiter came to her table and she ordered a beer.
‘Nothing to eat?’
‘Nothing to eat.’ Maria paid for the beer as soon as it arrived. She was aware of the glances being cast across at her by the men at the bar, as well as the hostile, bottle-blonde glares of some of the women. She decided to watch the apartment from here for only a few minutes, and then from the car. Two patrolling policemen passed the window. Unlike the Polizei Hamburg, who had switched to new blue uniforms, the North-Rhine-Westphalia police still wore the nineteen-seventies-designed green and mustard. It made Maria feel strange watching the police officers go by; they seemed like alien creatures. Something, she knew, had become broken inside her and could not be repaired. Hamburg and her job as a detective seemed so very far away from her now.
‘Y’awright, darlin’?’
Maria knew without turning that it would be one of the drunks from the bar. She didn’t reply.
‘Asked if you was awright, darlin’?’ the man repeated, then added something in a thick dialect that she took to be Kolsch.
Maria left her beer untouched and stood up to leave. The man in her way wasn’t particularly tall but he was heavy, with a vast belly stretching his checked shirt. He stood too close to her. She felt her panic rise.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, avoiding eye contact with the drunk.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said in an offended manner. ‘I just asked if you was all right. My friend and I would like to buy you a drink.’
‘I’ve got a drink. And anyway, I’m leaving. Get out of my way, please.’
The heavy man stepped to one side with a shrug, but without allowing her much room to pass. Maria squeezed past him, fighting the revulsion that rose within her at the idea of physical contact. She simply wanted out of the bar: the scene was attracting a fair bit of attention and the barman was clearly considering intervening on her behalf. This was all wrong: surveillance meant keeping the target visible and yourself invisible. As she passed the drunk, she smelled the thick odour of stale beer on his breath. He winked at his partner at the bar. It was then that she felt his hand on her backside.
‘Not much there…’ he said loudly and laughed. ‘But you’ll do!’
The explosion of revulsion, hate and panic within Maria was immediate.
‘Don’t touch me!’ She screamed into the drunk’s face so loudly and so fiercely that his smile gave way to shock. The laughter in the bar died. ‘You FUCK!’ she screamed again. Her arm arced so fast that no one saw it coming. There was an explosion of glass, beer and blood on the side of the fat man’s face. He staggered sideways and Maria, now clear of the table, slammed her heavy boot into his groin. She looked at him and laughed as he doubled over. A shrill, not entirely sane laugh. Then she looked at everyone else in the bar. No one met her eye. Probably for the first time in years, the brassy bar blondes were trying not to be seen. Maria noticed the barman reaching for the phone. He was going to call the police and she’d seen a foot patrol just two minutes ago in the street. It was all fucked up. Her anger surged again and she kicked the fat man in the face as he lay on the floor. She grabbed her coat and headed for the door.