Missing (10 page)

S
he dumped the newspaper in a rubbish bin in Ropsten tube station. The ticket had been paid for properly with another twenty-kroner note from her treasure trove. She dared not cheat in case she ended up drawing attention to herself. Standing on the platform waiting for the Lidingö train, she thought grimly that Stockholm Transport had now got more money off her in one day than it had over the last fifteen years.

It was half past twelve and there were relatively few people in the train. She examined her image in the window-pane. How weird she looked! This would surely give her a little more time. Maybe she would be able to work out how to deal with it all. First, she must collect the money from her post box and return the money she had spent to her savings. They mustn't be allowed to take her hope away.

Her
post box.

Oh fuck.

The insight sent a high-voltage current through her body. How could she have been so bloody
stupid that she hadn't figured the police would've got her number by now?

She was just wandering blithely into a trap. It was highly likely that the police knew of the one fixed point in her existence. Her name was attached to that post box. Of course they would have discovered the only register that had her name in it.

Once she saw the full extent of her loss, rage started boiling inside her. So, she'd never be able to collect her money again? She was unconsciously balling her fists, feeling her anguish fade and being replaced by defiance. They were not going to do this to her. If she'd been a respectable person, sticking to the social norms, they would never have treated her like this. She had never demanded anything from society and she didn't intend to start now.

She could take so much shit being poured over her but no more. Now she would fight.

Thomas lived in a boat, anchored at the Mälar docks on Långholm Island. She got off at Hornstull and crossed the Pålsund Bridge.

Thomas was the only person she trusted enough to ask for help. Ten years ago, before he inherited the houseboat, they'd been living together in a caravan parked in the Lugnet industrial area. Now and then the police would knock on the door with a warrant to move them on and each time they pulled the caravan a few
metres away, settling down again to wait for the next attempt to shift them.

On the whole, they'd been left in peace. There was no question of being in love with each other, but they both needed human warmth and company. That was all they had to offer each other and at the time it had been enough.

She had not been there for many years and at first she couldn't see his boat. Walking back along the quay, she finally discovered it next to a camouflage-painted Navy vessel. Mooring space must be hard to come by.

Taking her rucksack off and propping it up on a pile of wooden pallets to keep it out of the wet, she suddenly had last-minute doubts about Thomas. When he got drunk, he ceased to be a trusted friend. She still carried several scars which proved the point. She breathed in deeply, clenching her fists to rekindle the fighting spirit.

She looked around, but the quayside was deserted.

‘Thomas!'

‘Thomas, it's me – Sylla!'

A head popped up above the railing on the Navy boat. He had grown a beard and was barely recognisable. His expression was baffled at first, but then his face broke into a large grin.

‘Christ, it's you! Haven't they got you locked up yet?'

She had to smile back at him.

‘Are you alone?'

‘Sure thing.'

She knew him well enough to know he was sober.

‘Can I come in?'

He didn't answer at once, just kept looking at her and smiling.

‘Would I be safe then?'

‘Come off it! You know I didn't do it.'

The smile widened.

‘No problem then. Open-door policy. Just leave all sharp objects behind on deck.'

The face vanished again. Thomas was a real friend, maybe her only one. Just now this mattered more than anything else.

He had left the hatch open and she lowered her rucksack down to him, then started down the ladder. The space that was once the hold was serving both as a home and a joinery workshop, possibly never cleaned this century. Everything was covered in sawdust and pieces of sawed wood, confirming that he wasn't living with anyone now. Good.

He followed her eyes which examined the room.

‘I guess it looks the way it did last time you were here.'

‘No way, it was really neat and tidy then.'

He smiled and went to start the coffee-maker. What might be loosely called the kitchen corner contained a table, three odd chairs, a fridge and
a microwave oven. No empty bottles in sight, which was another good sign.

‘Fancy a cuppa?'

She nodded, watching as he emptied the old coffee into the wastepaper basket. The inside of the coffee-maker jug was coated with a black film. Settling down on the soundest-looking chair, she watched Thomas filling the jug from a large plastic bottle.

‘So what sort of shit are you in?'

She sighed.

‘You tell me. I wish I knew.'

He turned to look at her.

‘Why the hair?'

She didn't answer. He pointed to
Aftonbladet
, sticking up from the rubbish bin.

‘The hairdo in that picture was nicer.'

Then he emptied the old contents of the filter into the bin, absentmindedly slopping some of the grounds on the floor.

‘You probably won't want to know, but I wondered if you'd help me with something.'

‘What's that, then? Me giving you an alibi?'

Suddenly she felt irritated at him, even though it was obvious that he kept joking just because he was nervous. She recognised it, but this time the humour was lost on her.

‘Come off it, I was in the Grand. It's the truth. But you know perfectly well why it's a little hard for me to explain to the police what I was doing there.'

He sat down opposite her.

The coffee-maker started spluttering behind him, the first drops landing somewhere inside the blackened jug. He must have picked up the new note in her voice, because he suddenly became serious.

‘Chasing a night on the house, was that it?'

She nodded. He pointed at the paper in the bin.

‘And that's the guy who paid, every which way?'

She nodded again.

‘Christ. That's rotten luck. What's that Västervik story about?'

She leant back, closing her eyes.

‘Not a clue. I haven't set foot in Västervik in my whole life. I'm lost, honestly.'

She met his eyes. He was shaking his head.

‘Fucking bad break.'

‘You can say that again.'

He started scratching his beard, still shaking his head slowly.

‘Sure, I see – so, what do you need help with?'

‘Getting my mother's money. I don't dare go anywhere near my post box.'

They eyed each other across the table. ‘Sylla's mum's dosh' was a familiar concept to them both. During their years together in the caravan, he had helped her spend it on booze. He rose to get the coffee, picking up a mug in the passing.
The handle was broken and it obviously hadn't been washed since the first time it was used.

‘You eaten today?'

‘No.'

‘There's cheese and bread in the fridge. Help yourself.'

She got up, even though she didn't feel hungry any more. Still, it would be silly to miss out on a chance to eat. When she came back with the loaf and the chunk of cheese, he had poured the mug full of coffee for her. He was scratching his beard again.

‘Thomas, you know I wouldn't ask if I didn't have to. I'd go under without the money.'

‘OK, I'll see what I can do. So … I'll go there and try. For old times' sake.'

Their eyes met again. For as long as he stayed sober his friendship was invaluable to her. He was her only secure contact with the outside world. But if he started drinking he would demand a pay-back.

For old times' sake.

A
s soon as she left the party, she started walking to the YPSMS house. No one tried to stop her. Presumably her mother was working hard to save what was left of the party mood at the annual Christmas do.

The night was cold and she had forgotten to bring a jacket, but nothing mattered now. Light fluffy snowflakes were floating down from the sky like glittering confetti. She tipped her head back to catch them in her mouth. She felt brilliant.

Her life had been freed of fear, nothing worried her any more. She was fine, on her way to Mick. The world was her oyster.

People dressed in white were lining the road, waving at her and calling her name jubilantly, like in the film she had seen on TV last Saturday. Light followed her as she walked, as if a spotlight was moving with her every step. She waved back to the delighted people and swirled around among the snowflakes.

The De Soto was parked outside the workshop. The thought that Mick might not be
there simply hadn't occurred to her. She was in control. Of course he had to be there.

She bowed to her audience, still standing in the road looking after her. Then she opened the door and stepped inside, taking a deep breath to fill her lungs with that longed-for smell of motor oil. She felt joy bubbling inside her.

‘Mick!'

Something moved behind the stack of tyres at the back of the room. The spotlight was still following her as she walked across to see what it was. Before she got there, Mick's head rose from behind the tyres.

‘Hi Sibylla. What are you doing here?'

Some half-conscious part of her brain registered that he didn't sound pleased, in fact almost irritated. She smiled at him.

‘I've come back to you.'

He was looking down at something out of sight as if he was buttoning his fly … or something. But it couldn't be that.

‘Sibylla, this isn't a good time. Why don't you come back tomorrow?'

Tomorrow?

What was going on? She walked closer, saw the brown checked blanket spread out behind the tyre-stacks. On it lay Maria Johansson.

The spotlight was switched of. Darkness surrounded her.

But she had been chosen to be his, only his.
His body had joined hers in ecstasy, wanting her only. Two of them linked together.

Together.

Anything for this closeness. Anything at all.

She looked at him. His face seemed to have gone blank. She backed away from him.

‘Sibylla …'

Her back hit the opposite wall. The door was to her right. Push the door handle down.

The happy crowd was no longer there for her but the De Soto Firedome was waiting with 305 horsepower under its bonnet.

A few steps, open the door. Key in the ignition.

She wanted to be away. Far away.

S
he had been alone in the boat waiting for almost two hours when he came back. Walking up and down like a haunted spirit, her mind had been lurching between hope and despair, anguish and conviction. What if they were keeping watch at the post boxes? What if Thomas wasn't on his guard? What if they followed him and he led them straight to her only safe hiding-place?

Come on. Look, Thomas has been around. He'd be careful, no question about it.

Why was he taking so long? Had they arrested him?

His footfalls on the tin roof of the cabin alarmed her terribly, even though she had been longing with every cell in her body to hear them. Then the hatch was pulled open.

She hid behind the mounted chainsaw, shut her eyes and waited. Like a cornered rat.

To hell with them all.

He was alone. After climbing down the ladder he stood still, looking around.

‘Sylla?'

She came forward.

‘What took you so long?'

He went over to the coffee-maker and switched off the heater. More grounds got thrown in the direction of the bin.

‘I wanted to make sure no one was trailing me.'

‘Did anyone try?'

‘No, don't think so. All peaceful on that front.'

In a mute question he pushed the coffee-jug in her direction. She shook her head. He breathed in deeply, so deeply it sounded worryingly like a sigh.

‘Listen, Sylla. There wasn't any money.'

She was staring at him while he put the jug back.

‘What do you mean?'

He gestured, striking out with one arm.

‘Your post box was empty.'

He had to be lying.

For fifteen years now, on the twenty-third of every month, an envelope containing 1,500 kronor had arrived in her post box. Every single month. She pulled the paper out the waste-paper basket, spilling coffee grounds all over the floor. The date-line said Monday, 24 March. She looked up, facing him.

‘You … Christ. I trusted you, Thomas.'

He met her eyes.

‘Is that fucking so?'

His eyes tore into her in a way she remembered from his fits of drunken rage, but she couldn't stop and feel frightened of him now.

‘It's mine! I can't live without that money!'

He froze for a moment. Then he threw the mug, still half-full of coffee, into the far wall. Some tools on hooks crashed to the floor. The coffee flowed down the wall, forming a brown pattern. The crash made her stiffen but she didn't take her eyes off him.

He inhaled deeply as if trying to calm down and then went to stand at one of the portholes, staring at the nothingness outside.

‘I admit I've done bad stuff. But you mustn't accuse me of nicking your dosh. You're just on the wrong fucking track there.'

He turned towards her.

‘Didn't it ever occur to you that it'd turn the old hag off – like, why would she put her hard-earned cash the way of a manic serial-killer?'

His words took some time to sink in, slowly passing via her eardrums into her skull before she realised how right he was. This was the end of charity. Beatrice reckoned she had paid enough, settled her debt.

Sibylla's mind went blank.

She slowly went to the table, pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. Then she put her face in her hands and started to cry.

Now she was really lost. All her hopes had turned to ashes.

She wasn't meant to get through, to succeed. Once more, Fate had intervened to kick her down. Once a loser, always a loser. She had been challenging the established, set-order of the universe, trying to haul herself up to a place above her station.

Now, now, little Miss Sibylla Wilhelmina Beatrice Forsenström. You had your life nicely staked out for you, but did you appreciate it? You did not. You need never have gone hungry if only you hadn't decided to up and leave your proper place in the system.

Here today, gone tomorrow. Forever.

‘Sibylla, don't cry like that.'

She felt his hand on her shoulder.

‘Stay cool, Sylla, please. It'll sort itself out, you'll see.'

She thought, sure it'll sort itself out – I'll just have to serve life in prison first and after that I guess nothing matters much.

‘I know what you need. To get pissed.'

Yes, that's right. Be unconscious, just for a while. Sozzled. That's what she wanted. He had already produced a full bottle of Koskenkorva vodka from a cupboard. She looked at the bottle, then at him. His face looked kind. She nodded.

‘You're dead right. Let's drink.'