Read our exclusive short story by award-winning crime novelist Viveca Sten

The sun is a perfect glowing sphere, bathing the Åre Valley in its golden light as Andrea Franzén skis towards the Gondola, the lift that will take her to the top of the mountain. The train from Stockholm was delayed; she should have arrived early this morning, several hours ago. The rest of the gang are already waiting for her up on Åreskutan, the Mecca for skiers in Sweden.

It is early February. The annual girls’ get-together has been planned for months. All the others flew in yesterday, but Andrea had to put in extra hours at the legal practice where she has worked as an associate for the past few years. Her boss wanted the documentation for a major business acquisition completed before the weekend, which meant Andrea had to catch the night train rather than going by plane with the others.

The story of my life, she thinks as she quickly removes her skis and heads up the steps to the lift station where the queue begins. She finds it hard to say no – she is a good girl who always does as she is asked.

Her phone rings. It’s Hanna, the friend who moved to Åre a couple of years ago. She wonders if Andrea is on her way. There is so much noise on the line that Andrea can barely hear what Hanna is saying, but it sounds as if the others are in the Toppstugan café, waiting for her to join them. “I’m about to board the Gondola,” she yells in response. “I’ve got to go – see you soon.” She puts away her iPhone and glances at the electronic information board. It is minus eight Celsius at the summit today, but for once there is hardly any wind.

From her many visits to Åre she knows that the high zone is often closed because of strong gales, but she and her friends seem to be in luck this weekend. The queue for the lift isn’t too bad either, it moves forward quickly and Andrea sighs with relief. Sometimes it can take up to half an hour, but today it is no more than a few minutes. It is eleven thirty; most people are probably out on the slopes already.

There are not many stragglers left, and there is no one in the queue behind her. She soon reaches the boarding platform and sees the red, egg-shaped gondola slowly glide around the overhead rail. The doors open for embarkation. With practised ease she inserts her skis into the holder on the outside, carrying her poles in one hand. Her heavy boots scrape against the metal floor as Andrea steps aboard and sinks down on the seat, choosing the side that gives her a view across the valley.

It looks as if she is going to be alone, which is nice – it will give her the chance to catch her breath. Since the train arrived in Åre she has been rushing around like a crazy person, dropping off her luggage, renting skis and quickly making for the slopes in order to catch up with her friends. The gondola moves slowly along the platform, and Andrea loosens her boots.

Just as the doors are about to close, a man in his mid-thirties slips inside. He sits down opposite her and gives her a warm smile. Andrea smiles back politely, even though she has no desire to make small talk all the way up. She is still cross at having missed the first day of the trip, angry with herself for not saying no when her boss asked her to work late. He went home on time, of course, while she sat there buried in paperwork.

She has definitely earned a long weekend. She needs to learn to stand up for herself. Male colleagues, employed after her, have been promoted while she stays exactly where she is, and yet she works harder than most. However, she finds it difficult to put herself forward. She never boasts about her input, unlike certain others. She simply doesn’t have the sharp elbows necessary to make progress in the practice. She always steps up to the plate as soon as the partners ask her to do so, but it doesn’t seem to help.

“On your own today?” the man says, unzipping his jacket. Andrea shakes her head; she can’t cope with this right now. Why must she always play the role of the polite, well brought-up young lady?

She mumbles that her friends are waiting for her at the summit, then turns away. In order to occupy herself she takes out her phone, but realises that the battery has almost run out. There is only a feeble one per cent left. Shit. She must have forgotten to charge it on the train, and now it is dying before her very eyes. Dead, in fact. The screen flashes and goes black.

“Lovely day,” the stranger continues, as if he hasn’t noticed her attempt to shut him down. He is wearing mirrored sunglasses, making it impossible to see in which direction he is looking. Andrea nods in a way that she hopes signals a complete lack of interest. Then she takes off her ski helmet, allowing her long, blonde hair to spill out over her shoulders. She feels hot after all that rushing about, and the helmet is a little too tight; she needs to adjust the chin strap.

When she raises her head she sees that the stranger is leaning forward. “What beautiful hair you have,” he says. “So shiny!” Andrea can see her own quizzical expression reflected in his sunglasses. He probably doesn’t mean any harm, he just wants to pay her a compliment – but it’s an odd thing to say to someone you’ve never met before.

She responds with civility, as she always does. “Thank you,” she says, with a polite smile. Behaving well is part of her DNA. At the same time she knows that this aspect of her character, this constant desire to please, is her downfall at work.

They take advantage of you, Hanna has said more than once. You need to put your foot down, or you’ll never gain their respect. It’s just so hard. Andrea doesn’t know how to do it, she has never learned that particular skill. All her life she has been a good girl, nodding and doing as she is told. And what thanks does she get? She sighs and gazes out of the oval window at the snow-covered fir trees and the low-growing mountain birch down below. The branches are covered in rime frost, resembling spun sugar. The snow is sparkling so brightly that it dazzles her, and the sky forms an azure background to the mountains in the south-west. The view is almost endless.

“May I touch it?” Andrea gives a start as the man’s voice jerks her out of her thoughts. She blinks and frowns at him. “It’s so beautiful,” he adds. Only now does she realise that he is still talking about her hair. She doesn’t know what to say. It’s a weird thing to ask a complete stranger, yet at the same time it seems silly to say no. No doubt he doesn’t mean any harm – he can’t help it if he doesn’t understand how to behave. Although there is something about his behaviour that oversteps the mark, something she can’t quite put her finger on. It makes her uncomfortable.

“May I?” he says again. Andrea hesitates. She can hear Hanna’s voice in her head. Just say no. Why is it so hard?

She feels exactly like she did at work yesterday, when her boss asked her to work late. She knew that she ought to refuse immediately, tell him she had a flight to catch. Instead she mumbled that it was no problem.

The silence is becoming uncomfortable. What does it matter if she lets him touch her hair? They are halfway up the mountain, they will reach the summit in just a few minutes. She will never see him again. With a nod she leans forward so that her hair swings over her shoulders. He takes a long strand between his thumb and index finger, sighs with pleasure and closes his eyes, as if he is experiencing intense enjoyment. His lips are moving. Andrea swallows – what is he doing?

Then he strokes the strand of hair with two fingers in a long, slow caress. This is far too intimate, and Andrea can’t help herself. Instinctively she recoils, leans the other way with such force that her back hits the glass wall. He doesn’t let go until the very last second, just before it would have caused her pain. “So beautiful,” he says again. “Thank you.” A shudder passes through Andrea’s body. She tells herself that they will soon be at the disembarkation point. Only a few minutes before she can leave the gondola and get away from this weirdo. Who does this kind of thing?

But suddenly the hum of the engine stops. The gondola sways and comes to a halt. They are hanging motionless in the air. The silence is absolute.

He noticed her when she took off her skis to join the queue for the lift. Even from a distance he knew that she was perfect. He likes them to look exactly like her, with long blonde hair and a curvaceous figure. An impression of innocence, cleanliness. But there was something else too – an unmistakable aura of uncertainty. He has always had a particular nose for that type, he knows precisely how they function.

Over the years he has developed a keen instinct for those who can’t say no. No violence is necessary under those circumstances. He usually begins with an innocent request that is impossible to refuse. Then he continues, building slowly, ramping up his demands until they can do nothing but obey. Eventually they will go along with anything.

He leans back in his seat, a shiver of pleasure running down his spine. Andrea feels a surge of panic when the lift stops moving. She wants to get out of the gondola as soon as possible, she certainly doesn’t want to be stuck here. In the company of this unpleasant stranger. She glances at him, tries to work out his reaction. He is hard to read; he has taken off his helmet, but he is still wearing the sunglasses. Looking at him more closely, she sees a strong nose above a disproportionately small mouth. He has a faint shadow of stubble, as if he couldn’t be bothered to shave this morning. Or he didn’t have time. His lips are narrow and colourless.

Andrea checks her watch. Only a minute or so has passed since they stopped. It happens now and again, usually because some beginner doesn’t know how to get on or off in the right way. The machinery shuts down in order to ensure that no one is injured. However, the operators should have sorted the problem by now.

Every second feels like an eternity. What’s going on, why aren’t they on the move? A scraping noise comes from the loudspeaker system above their heads, then a metallic voice announces: “We apologise, but a technical fault has arisen. We are working to fix the problem as quickly as possible, but it may be a few minutes before we can restart the system.” Andrea’s stress levels are rising. Why does the fucking lift have to go wrong today, when she’s ended up in the same gondola as a crazy person?

The stranger doesn’t seem bothered at all. He has taken off his ski gloves, his fingers are long and elegant, although the nails are bitten to the quick. And there is nothing wrong with his outfit; he is wearing a pair of extremely expensive ski boots, his helmet is a Giro Avance Mips, and his clothing is by Moncler. He also has an avalanche backpack, which suggests that he indulges in serious off-piste skiing. This is someone who is used to the mountains.

“It seems as if we could be here for quite some time,” he says. He doesn’t sound remotely irritated, despite the situation. On the contrary, he almost appears to be amused. Andrea immediately pushes away the thought – it makes her feel even more stressed. He’s just so... creepy. “Maybe we should find something to do?” “Mmm,” Andrea says, keeping her tone neutral and gazing through the window into the distance to make it clear that she’s not interested.

She shuffles into the corner. If only she’d charged her phone she could have called Hanna. That would have made her feel safe. Hanna is a police officer in Åre, she could have told Andrea how to deal with the weirdo. At the same time, the idea makes her feel uncomfortable. It is stupid, an over reaction. This isn’t a police matter, she is grown up enough to handle the situation on her own.

Pull yourself together, she silently admonishes herself. She is not going to let this idiot frighten her. There is nothing to be afraid of. At any second now, the lift will start moving. Within minutes they will reach the top station, and she will be able to disembark. Even so, she feels her pulse rate increase. She closes her eyes so that she doesn’t have to see him, tries to use her willpower to get the lift going again. “Is it okay if I come and sit next to you?”

When Andrea opens her eyes, the man is already on his feet. He moves across and sits down. It happens so fast that she doesn’t have time to object. One minute he is on the opposite side of the gondola, the next he is right beside her. The sudden movement makes the gondola sway. Andrea’s mouth goes dry, she can hardly speak. Her heart is pounding. She has used the gondola on many occasions in the past, but it has never felt so small and cramped. There is nowhere to go. And her phone is dead.

“Why do you need to sit here?” she manages, her voice hoarse with the strain. “Does it matter?” he replies in the same casual tone as before. Andrea would really like to yell at him, tell him to get away from her, as far away as possible, but something is holding her back. She tries to tell herself that he probably just wants to enjoy the view while they wait for the lift to restart.

Maybe she’s imagining things. Is she becoming paranoid? No. Asking to touch someone else’s hair is not normal. Something isn’t right. “Do you mind my sitting here?” the man asks. His voice is sharper now, as if it has been freshly honed. There is also a different undertone, one that makes the hairs on Andrea’s arms stand on end. She shakes her head. “No, no – why should I?” He leans closer, so close that his face is only a couple of centimetres from hers.

“With your looks, I expect you’re used to getting what you want,” he says. His tone is even harsher now. Acerbic. “You think you get to decide what happens.” “You can sit wherever you like,” Andrea stammers. Fear explodes in her chest. She is trapped with a madman, and she can’t get away.

When she turns her head, the height above the ground is dizzying. They must be dangling fifty metres up in the air. The mountainside is split by a black ravine, its sharp edges so ominous that even the snow has not settled. A chasm gaping hungrily at the sky. Even if she were able to force open the doors and get out, a jump would mean certain death. Desperately she looks around. Her poles are propped against the wall, but they are no good as weapons. He is tall and muscular, he weighs at least thirty kilos more than her, and he must be twenty centimetres taller. She wouldn’t stand a chance against his physical strength. “What do you want? ” she whispers, shrinking back into the corner.

“I just want to chat.” The words and the tone of voice don’t match. What he says sounds harmless, but the undertone makes her shudder. He reaches out and runs his fingers through her hair once more. Then he grabs a handful and buries his face in it while taking a deep breath, as if he wants to inhale every bit of her. “You smell so good,” he murmurs.

Andrea forces herself to sit still; she doesn’t want to provoke him. She feels like throwing up, but manages to swallow the sour surge of bile. She stares out of the window, where the sun is still shining brightly. Right now the stunning winter weather seems almost scornful, a piece of stage scenery that has been put up to hide the ugly reality. As if nature is trying to create an ironic contrast to the terrible thing that is happening inside the gondola.

They could be stuck here for hours before the machinery starts up. He could do absolutely anything during that time. I don’t want to die. The thought comes out of nowhere. Tears spring to her eyes, but she doesn’t want him to see that she is on the verge of crying. At that moment the lift finally begins to move. Andrea almost whimpers with relief. She has been saved, they will soon be at the top.

Without thinking about her actions, she stands up and moves across to the other side. Instinctively she wants him as far away from her as possible, even if they don’t have much longer to go. He doesn’t have time to react before she is seated opposite him. Only a few minutes more, then she will be safe.

For years he went from one relationship to the next. Once he had broken the woman down, it was time to move on. But gradually he came to want more. Their tears and pleading looks were no longer enough. They didn’t give him the kicks he was searching for. That was why he started to test the boundaries, putting himself in situations where he might almost – but only almost – get caught. One day he was sitting in the ski lift with a young girl, and realised that they were going to be alone all the way to the top. She was completely at his mercy. That was how it began.

The short journeys in the lift provide him with maximum excitement and maximum exposure. He loves the nervous tension when he succeeds in being alone with a woman in a gondola. When the doors slide shut, and she has no idea what is going to happen. Five, six minutes is enough for him to get what he wants. Sometimes he has settled for the hair, sometimes he has touched them in places they will never be able to forget. Sometimes he has really hurt them. None have fought back. He has been able to do exactly what he wanted.

Their powerlessness gives him the ultimate pleasure, better than anything else he has experienced. That is why he has done it over and over again. He has visited ski resorts in the Alps and the USA, Japan and the Pyrenees. Travelled the world with the same purpose. Before the shocked women have time to react, he has picked up his skis and disappeared. How could they possibly find him among all the other skiers wearing a black helmet and dark ski goggles? His description matches thousands of others, he has got away every single time. Most are so embarrassed and ashamed that they never even report the incident. He is untouchable. It has made him more and more daring.

Andrea holds her breath as they slowly, slowly climb up the mountainside. Time stretches out, every second feels like an eternity. She can’t bring herself to look at the man, she keeps her gaze fixed in the opposite direction, still fighting back the tears. A lone reflection of the sun plays around the window frame, dancing up and down as the gondola moves on. Way down below Andrea can see Lake Åre, an ice-covered oval surrounded by high mountains.

Then the gondola sways and stops again. Andrea doesn’t know if she can hold it together any longer. Not more problems! Please, no! She is trapped in here. With him. She is aware of the sour odour of her own sweat, the fear emanating from every pore in her body. A scraping noise, and the same metallic voice as before emerges from the loudspeaker: “We apologise, but it’s going to take a little while longer. We are working as fast as we can.”

A smile spreads across the man’s face. He looks triumphant, as if this is exactly what he was hoping for. But there is something else in his expression, something that fills Andrea’s veins with ice. She suddenly understands what triggers him. Her fear.

The realisation hits her with pure, physical force. He has wanted to frighten her all along, and now the technical problem has played right into his hands. She has no defence, and he is well aware of that fact. The more threatening his behaviour, the more she shrinks. “I think you should come and sit beside me,” he says. This time it is an order, not a request. With a casual gesture he removes his sunglasses, and they make eye contact for the first time. His gaze is bright blue, intense. But there is no warmth in it, no empathy. Only malice and ice-cold calculation.

His eyes tell her that she means nothing, that she is merely an object with which he is amusing himself. He is the cat and she is the mouse. A toy. “They’ll soon have the lift fixed,” Andrea whispers. She wants to come across as confident and self-assured, make her position clear, but she can hear how pathetic she sounds. “Leave me alone.” Her voice breaks on the last word, she cannot hide her fear. The tears begin to fall.

“Did I say you could speak?” He blinks several times, challenging her to stand up to him. “No, no you didn’t,” Andrea stammers. Right now she is prepared to go along with anything, as long as he doesn’t hurt her. If he wants to stroke her hair, he can. She just wants to get out of here. Unharmed. In spite of her warm clothing, her teeth are chattering. “This is what’s going to happen,” he says, emphasising every word. “You are going to come and sit beside me again, and this time you will obey me.” Andrea nods, so terrified that she can hardly move a muscle. Somehow she forces herself to cross the gondola, change places even though it’s the last thing she wants.

“Take off your jacket.”

Andrea dare not protest. She is shaking so violently that it is difficult to get her fingers to co-operate, but she pulls down the zip and her jacket falls open. Underneath she is wearing ski pants with braces, a thick polo-neck sweater and merino wool thermals. He stares at her with a different look in his eyes. She sees desire, arousal. She knows now that the way he stroked her hair was only a beginning, a horrible prelude to something much worse. He intends to have her, here in the lift.

The beginnings of a hysterical scream bubble up in her throat, but disappear just as quickly. This isn’t happening, she thinks. I can’t be raped here, on a ski lift in broad daylight. Women are attacked in dark alleys or on their way home from the subway, when they’re drunk and can’t defend themselves. “Strip to the waist,” the man snaps.

Andrea’s breathing is rapid and shallow, she feels as if she can’t get enough air. The walls of the cramped space are bellying inwards, she is sick with fear. And he is enjoying every moment, she can see it in his face. Which makes it so much worse. “What are you waiting for?” He winds her hair around his fingers, then suddenly he yanks so hard that her head slams into the wall. Pain shoots down the back of her neck, and it has the desired effect. Quickly she shrugs off her jacket, which falls to the floor.

“And the rest.”

Andrea stares at him for a few seconds, then slips the braces off her shoulders so that she can remove the thick sweater. He doesn’t wait for her to finish. Her arms are still trapped by the sweater when he launches himself at her. He grabs her breasts with rough fingers, kneading and squeezing with such force that she lets out a scream. Her hands are stuck in the sleeves, and as she struggles to free herself he pulls up her thermal vest and shoves his hands beneath her bra. He pinches her nipples so hard that it brings tears to Andrea’s eyes.

This isn’t happening, she thinks again. And then she becomes someone else. She sees herself from the outside, with his revolting hands on her body, his disgusting mouth seeking her breasts. A victim. The winter sunshine pours in through the window, illuminating every detail of her humiliation. He is touching her where he is not allowed to touch her, without her consent or permission. No.

The thought flashes through her mind like a bolt of lightning, awakening something new and primitive within her. A rage she has never felt before, nor thought herself capable of. Humiliation brings fresh strength. With a roar she frees her hands and tries to push him away. She will not allow him to do this. I won’t let him. The stranger is strong, much stronger than her, but Andrea pummels his chest with her fists. She scratches him wherever she can, tries to bite his cheeks. Spits.

Now she is the one who wants to inflict pain and suffering. She hates him as she has never hated anyone before. She wants him to die. They fight, with heavy, panting breaths as they tumble around. Andrea crashes into one of the seats, and lets out a groan as intense pain explodes in her back. She kicks out with one foot, hitting him so hard that it sounds as if a rib cracks. But somehow he manages to lock her hands in a powerful grasp. She can’t get away. She tries to knee him in the crotch, but finds only thin air.

She writhes and wriggles, hisses like a cat, but he won’t let go. Instead he starts fumbling with his other hand, unbuttoning her ski pants. Andrea’s wrists are still locked as he tugs at her clothes. He is about to pull down the zip when he loosens his grip a fraction. She feels his erection against her abdomen, and somehow manages to break free. She feels around for something, anything with which to defend herself, and finds the end of one of her ski poles on the floor. Her fingers close around the ring near the bottom. She doesn’t have time to think.

With another roar she stabs blindly towards his face with the point, connects with something soft that gives way. She feels the pole penetrate the eye socket, dig deep into human flesh. A loud scream slices through the air. The pole falls to the floor with a clanking sound. Then silence. When Andrea looks up, the stranger is slumped on the seat. She stares at his grotesquely distorted face. A gaping wound has opened up below one eyebrow, the white of his eye has been replaced by a viscous red gunk that is growing. Andrea throws up. At that moment the gondola begins to move.

When the lift stopped in mid-air, he felt as if fate was smiling at him. He couldn’t believe his luck. She was his, possibly for several hours. She had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. The realisation was intoxicating, it was like playing God. There was only one problem, a problem that had never arisen before. She refused to co-operate.

He tries to take a deep breath, even though his body is in shock. The pain is starting to befuddle his brain, everything is going into spasm. At that moment the gondola slides over the top; they have arrived. The doors open and he manages to get to his feet. His eye is burning as he staggers away, but he grabs his skis and heads for the exit. In seconds he has been swallowed up by the crowd. No one will ever find him among the other skiers. He has got away with it. Again.