Missing

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