Chapter 7
The express to St. Gervais leaves Paris' Gare de Lyon at eight in the morning, arrives at its destination at six the next morning. In October the skiing season is just beginning in the French Alps, there are always some hardy souls who want to get a head start on their foolhardy compatriots.
And this night, in compartment 46, second-class carriage 54336-
Sharkawi hardly dared to believe his good fortune. Staring at the adolescent, a jeune fille of scarcely seventeen or eighteen, it was all he could do to keep his hands from shaking, his eyes from jumping out of his head. To conceal his extreme elation, not wanting to alarm the child in any way, betray his designs in the bargain, the pervert affected a brusque disinterest, buried his head in his copy of France-Soir, barely gave her a passing glance.
At least when she might be aware of his greedy surveillance. Often, as the train swept out of the station, meandered through the city's outskirts, he peaked around his paper, all but drooled at the pink innocence of the child, already wallowing in the subjugation he would wrest from her before the night was out.
The girl's name was Suzette Moreau, she was, in fact, eighteen, she was forced into traveling alone when her closest girl friend had defected at the last moment. Eschewing her indulgent parents' warnings about the dangers of traveling alone, moving in that supreme confidence of the young, she planned to meet other friends (her recent swain, Claude Lazair among them) upon her arrival at St. Gervais on the morrow.
Settled in her locked compartment, in the company of the comical mountain of fat across from her, she hummed softly to herself, worked on the sweater she was knitting for Claude, hadn't a care-or a fear-in the world.
If she knitted nonstop, went without her usual little catnaps, who knew? the sweater might be ready for Claude by the time the dawn-mantled Alps came into view. But in time, the loquaciousness of the young taking over, the newspaper reader's silence irritated her. At least he could say hello. And where she'd thought him somehow ominous at first, she now considered him in more and more of an amused light. Until at last, in a patronizing tone:
"Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur," she said. "Are you going all the way to St. Gervais? For the skiing perhaps?" The picture of the obese clown on skis flickered before her eyes, and she stifled a giggle.
The mockery wasn't lost on Skarkawi, and instantly the fury mounted within him. If he'd entertained the slightest thoughts of pity for this juvenile victim, they were gone now. "No, my dear," he smiled slowly, "I am not going to ski. My days of skiing are over, I fear. But I used to ski very well when I was young."
The raven-haired child's pretty mouth drew into a dubious bow. Without looking up from her knitting, she said, "Is that so, Monsieur?" Plainly she didn't believe him. "And where did you ski?"
Her insolence angered Sharkawi even more. He frowned, imagined how insolent and superior she would be an hour from now. Crawling at his feet. "At Chamonix. Near Mont Blanc. But that has been many years, Mademoiselle."
The archness never left her lovely, flawless face. Skarkawi marveled at those pouty red lips, the evenness of those small white teeth. He imagined the touch of the firm tongue, the dazed alarm he would soon induce into those lustrous, almond-shaped eyes. "Please, Monsieur," she said casually. "Call me Suzette. Suzette Moreau."
"Charmed, Mademoiselle." His eyes now fastened on the precocious swell of those breasts, at the smoothness of her stockingless knees. He wondered if she might possibly still be a virgin. More than-likely she was, he concluded. This high-handed type held themselves very dear, sold only to the highest bidder. After tonight, pig, you will have precious little left to barter with. "I am Ahmed Wastra."
"Wastra," she sniffed, the needles never stopping their clicking, "what a strange name. Where are you from?"
"I am Turkish. I came to France in the late forties. I am a tobacco importer."
"How interesting. And is business good?"
His eyes glittered as she shifted, gave him ample view of her white thighs. "Business is very good, my dear."
"Please. Suzette. It's more friendly. After all, we'll be traveling a long way together. Do you snore?"
"Yes, of course. Suzette. No, I don't snore. In fact, I probably won't sleep at all. I'm an insomniac." He patted his luggage. "I have my papers and magazines."
"Please," the girl said pettishly, "don't read now. Talk to me. This riding is so boring."
"Eh, bien, Suzette. But what shall we talk about?"
"I don't know. Tell me about your tobacco business. Anything. Have you seen any good movies lately?"
"No," Sharkawi said, noting they were coming into open country now. Furtively he snapped the clips on his portfolio, brought out the box of chocolates. "I don't go to the movies very often."
The girl sighed exasperatedly. "And books?"
"None, I'm afraid. Business keeps me extremely busy." Sharkawi listened for the sound of the conductor's rap. Where is that moron? he chafed. Will he never get here?
"You adults," Suzette sniffed. "You always seem so busy doing absolutely nothing. I should think...."
At that moment a sharp rap sounded on the door "Billets," the conductor called, "sil vous plait...."
It was only when the conductor had punched their tickets, had gone, that Sharkawi opened the box of candy, began to pick among the bonbons. He was swallowing his third piece when the girl looked up scathingly, said, "Well, the least you could do is offer me some."
Sharkawi feigned embarrassment. "Oh, I am sorry. How stupid I am. That comes of being alone so much. Please, Suzette, help yourself."
The girl was finicky; Sharkawi had to turn the box several times before she chose one of the drugged chocolates. But finally she picked one, lined it up on the arm rest of her seat along with the other four pieces she took. The lethal chocolate was fourth in line.
Their talk was desultory, she toyed with the candy. Sharkawi was a bundle of nerves, he watched her like a hawk. Then she took the loaded bonbon, bit into it. A slight grimace formed on her features. But greedy child that she was, she said nothing, went on to finish the piece.
Perhaps five minutes later the needles stopped clacking. Suzette slumped back, stared blankly into space.
Instantly Sharkawi was up, locking the door, drawing the curtains. Seconds later he had lowered Suzette to the seat, he was frenziedly hauling at her clothes.
When Suzette drifted up from her doze, blinked her eyes, tried to focus them, she was suddenly hit by a sense of suffocating closeness, she could hardly breathe.
Small wonder, she mused hazily. This fat pig has taken his shoes off. He has his foot in my mouth.
Then her senses were jolted, she felt vague alarm. She squinted, squirmed, tried to understand what had happened. But her mind kept tilting, kept sliding into a midnight abyss. She couldn't think, she couldn't move. In an embryonic reflex she clamped her mouth, tried to draw those wriggling toes even deeper. She sighed, fainted again.
And Sharkawi cursed his luck. The dose had been too strong. Prepared for a grown woman, it had all but paralyzed this stupid girl. He felt sudden rage, a sense of being cheated. With a liquid plop he pulled his toes from between those pretty lips, stood over Suzette, tried shaking her back to consciousness. Momentarily he felt panic. Suppose the dose was toxic, suppose the girl died.
He shook harder, smiled as she moaned softly.
Dropping her on the bench cushions, he wheeled, did a happy little jig. Then he began tearing off his clothes.
For a long time, as Suzette climbed up those slippery stairs to consciousness again, the naked whale sat beside her, handled her pristine body, the firmness of her flesh. In the whiteness of her body, the firmness of her flesh. In time, this no longer pleasing him, he committed unspeakable outrages on that nubile form. None of which the sleeping child would ever know about.
Suzette surfaced another time, managed a barely coherent, "What ... what's happening to me ... " Then the words were blocked, she gasped, knew that horrendous suffocation again. Her eyes focused, she looked up, found her torturer kneeling, pinning her shoulders.
She realized what abomination he was forcing upon her, she felt her brain shrivel at the concept. Her eyes widened, she fought to scream, to repel the man. Her heart nearly burst as she found herself helpless. As she discovered she could barely move, that she couldn't utter another sound.
Her brain reeled, rebelled. The furry grayness invaded anew. She felt herself sinking. Again that childish, uncontrolled reflex took control. From somewhere far off heard the sound of fiendish cacklings.
So the dreary night passed, Suzette drifting in and out of stupor through those hours, becoming more lucid, staying awake for longer and longer intervals. Remembering, to her everlasting shame, the horrors of the man forced to her.
When she slept he was content to sit close to her, to dip first one, then another foot into her gaping mouth. When she awoke, was aware of his presence, he employed more stomach-turning mortifications, slapped her when she malingered at her duties.
By one a.m. she was rapidly emerging from the effects of the drug. And moaning and babbling softly in her throat, too terrified to openly scream, she awaited each new vilification with wide, haunted eyes. It was here, when she almost totally recovered, that he coldly, graphically told her what he would do to her now.
When Suzette began to protest too loudly he took her brassiere, made a rope of it, bound it tightly between her teeth. She writhed, tried to kick him as he pried at her legs. He only giggled, clawed her calves more sadistically.
Then he was standing. And only Suzette's shoulders and back resting on the roughly upholstered bench, he jammed her knees about his hips. He drove himself ruthlessly to her, felt her reflexive lurch of pain, heard her muffled screams. That and one other phenomenon told him that his original estimate was correct-Suzette was a virgin.
Correction: Had been a virgin.
His initial release was a rapid thing.
Then there was time to force her to repeat her lessons.
At 2:00 a.m., revitalized, he assaulted her again.
Once more he forced her to indescribable degradations.
At 3:00 a.m., the gag in place again, Suzette a hysterical, mind-addled ball of flesh, he made her kneel on the bench. Her head jammed into a corner, her white buttocks gleaming, he administered the coup de grace.
The outrage, the pain was too great. Suzette fainted once more.
But even this wasn't satisfaction enough for the madman. The sense of being cheated still prevailing, he saw his perversion through. Afterward, seeing the helpless, white lump of flesh, thinking of the insufferable torment she would have put her beaus through had she not been given this valuable lesson in humility, he was driven to a more psychotic rage.
The thought of her with some other man, beautifully dressed and made up, all traces of this bestialization behind her, the thought of her deceiving that youth, of her masquerading as a pure girl drove Sharkawi wild. And beyond that, the thought that he had never been comely enough to have a girl once look at him with any semblance of affection in her eyes, that he would never know that voluntary female surrender-
If Sharwaki had been disturbed before, he was a hissing lunatic now. And to punish this slutty girl, to punish a world that had treated him so foully-
He raised his arms. And with no hesitation whatsoever, began to beat the limp, lifeless body with all his strength. He pounded and slashed and kicked, felt ecstatic elation when he heard the dull snap of bones. He hit her again and again. Still he pounded her.
At 4:00 a.m., calm now, neatly dressed, Kamil Sharkawi left the night express, debarked at Dijon. Because it was the middle of the night few people noted his departure.
At 6:00 a.m., when the train reached St. Gervais the conductor was hard put to awaken the occupants of compartment 46. It was then that he tried the door handle, found it unlocked. Risking the indelicacy, he slowly turned the handle, pushed the door in.
He froze, his heart died as he saw the bloody body on the floor, as he saw that the once pretty girl, her right arm shattered, was now more dead than alive.
The conductor was a timid man, a man with a weak stomach. He released a sick gasp, backed from the cubicle. A shriek escaped him as he wheeled. Then he was running the length of the narrow corridor, shouting as he went.