The Last Fix Read Online Free PDF Page A

wine, beer and spirits to find the courage to
tell each other secrets, to slag each other off, to smooth the path for
infidelities and other hypocrisies. And there was Annabeth whispering secrets
to her she didn't have the energy to hear. But the painful stabbing in her
stomach also numbed her thinking. There was a rushing noise in her ears and she
discovered she could not hear what was going on in the room. Annabeth was
swaying and her lips were moving. Her teeth were long with black joins. They
were the teeth of an old person. A person who has smoked too many cigarettes
and uttered too many empty words. Annabeth's eyes were red, wet with tears,
swimming with water. In her hand she was holding what looked like an open
bottle of red wine. She waved the bottle and teetered again, took an unsteady
step to the side and the bottle exploded as it hit the door frame. In slow
motion a shower of red wine enveloped Annabeth; it was as though someone had
torn off her skin, as though blood were spraying out, wetting her hair,
streaming down her face and neck, a naked red wound that had once been a face.
At that moment Katrine's hearing returned; it returned as the old woman let out
a hoarse scream. The sound was just an undefined rush in Katrine's ears. For
one second she gazed into Annabeth's eyes; she stared into two dark, empty
tunnels in a brain which was no brain, just a pulsating mass of white worms.
Katrine's stomach heaved. She knew she was going to throw up, there was no
doubt in her mind; the contents of her stomach were on their way up right now.
Her vision became even hazier. The white worms came closer, and the red liquid
streamed down Annabeth's neck, like blood, as though from a fountain of blood.
        Someone
was supporting her. Katrine felt the cool tiles against her knees and knew she
was throwing up. She vomited into a toilet bowl. Sounds from the party
penetrated the lavatory door. She peered up. Ole was standing over her. His
expression was anxious. 'I want you out,' she groaned.
        'You
fainted,' he said. 'The bitch smashed the bottle of wine and you passed out.
Great party. You shouldn't drink so much.'
        She
looked up at him. 'I don't drink. I haven't touched a drop all evening.'
        'Why
were you sick then?'
        She
was unable to answer before the cramps in her stomach started again. This time
it wasn't food; it felt like she was disgorging burning hot tea. She groped for
toilet paper. Her fingers grabbed some cloth. Ole had passed her a towel.
        'Don't
know,' she groaned. 'May have been the food.'
        He
flushed the toilet. The noise drowned out the sounds of the party. She dried
the mucus, the snot and the tears from her face. 'Why are you still here?' she
asked. 'I want to be alone. I don't want you to see me like this.'
        He
mumbled: 'Do you think I want to be on my own with that lot outside?'
        She
nodded and had another violent retch. She brought nothing up. Yes, she did, a
drop of caustic bile rolled off her tongue. She felt the draught of the door as
he opened and left. That was a relief. She felt better.
        Ole
was full of lies, too. This place suited him. He slotted in among these people.
Ole could make conversation, he could drop small compliments to the ladies and
engage in small talk with other men. Ole was at home. Only she was at sea. She
had no business being here. And she wanted to go home. She should be with
people who made her feel good. That was the solution. Go home. If home existed.
        She
recovered a little and dragged herself up by the toilet seat. She sat on the
bowl staring at herself in a large mirror. In this house you could sit on the
toilet and admire yourself. Annabeth's husband, Bjørn Gerhardsen, too.
Perhaps he stood here in front of the mirror, jacking himself off before he
went to bed. She shook her head to remove the sight from her consciousness. Her
stomach was empty. She was not nauseous any longer. But her