Missing

… 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