Missing

within easy reach and she lifted it in a toast to her mother.
    ‘Cheers, Mummy. I just thought of something. Why don’t you get up on a chair and sing a Christmas song for everyone? It would be so nice.’
    She emptied the glass. By now the entire room had fallen silent. She took the opportunity to stand up and address them all.
    ‘Hey, what do you think? Wouldn’t it be great if dear Beatrice here sang a little song for us? Full of Christmas joy!’
    Every single eye in the room was riveted on her.
    ‘You don’t want to? Why, don’t be shy, darling Mummy. You mustn’t worry. Why not simply go for that rather foul little ditty you hum in the kitchen most nights?’
    Finally, her father broke free from his state of paralysis and spoke, his powerful voice echoing through the room.
    ‘Girl, SIT DOWN!’
    She turned to him.
    ‘You talking to me, Daddy? For you are my Dad, aren’t you? I remember seeing you around at home, like at suppertime. How are you? My name is Sibylla.’
    He was staring at her, slack-jawed.
    ‘This is getting really boring. I think I’ll be off. Have a lovely evening, everyone!’
    Seventy-six pairs of eyes followed her as she walked through the silent room, all the way from the podium past the tables to the door that led to freedom. When she closed the door behind her, she breathed in deeply and felt truly fresh air filling her lungs for the first time in her life.

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