difficulty she climbed the stairs to her own apartment. She showered and wiped
the blood from her genitals. Then she drank a pint of water with two Rohypnol and
stumbled to her bed and pulled the duvet over her head.
She woke up at midday on Sunday, empty of thoughts and with constant pain in
her head, muscles and abdomen. She got up, drank two glasses of kefir, and ate an
apple. Then she took two more sleeping pills and went back to bed.
She did not feel like getting up until Tuesday. She went out and bought a big box
of Billy’s Pan Pizza, stuck two of them in the microwave, and filled a thermos with
coffee. She spent that night on the Internet, reading articles and theses on the
psychopathology of sadism.
She found one article published by a women’s group in the United States in which
the author claimed that the sadist chose his “relationships” with almost intuitive
precision; the sadist’s best victim was the one who voluntarily went to him because
she did not think she had any choice. The sadist specialised in people who were in
a position of dependence.
Advokat Bjurman had chosen her as a victim.
That told her something about the way she was viewed by other people.
On Friday, a week after the second rape, she walked from her apartment to a tattoo
parlour in the Hornstull district. She had made an appointment, and there were no
other customers in the shop. The owner nodded, recognising her.
She chose a simple little tattoo depicting a narrow band and asked to have it put
on her ankle. She pointed.
“The skin is very thin there. It’s going to hurt a lot,” said the tattoo artist.
“That’s OK,” Salander said, taking off her jeans and putting her leg up.
“OK, a band. You already have loads of tattoos. Are you sure you want another
one?”
“It’s a reminder.”