Missing

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.’

S he had almost reached Vetlanda when the police stopped her. A red light was blinking at her from the middle of the road. She pulled over, two policemen materialised outside her window and she opened it. One of them leant inside, stopped the engine and pulled the key out. He withdrew, glancing to check her face.
    ‘Now then … what have you been up to?’
    She didn’t feel scared. She felt nothing at all.
    ‘Step outside for a moment, please.’
    He opened the door and she stepped out. A car was pulling up behind the De Soto and Mick jumped out, running towards her. Maria Johansson stayed where she was, in the passenger seat.
    ‘You fucking slut! I’ll kill you if you’ve buggered up my car.’
    One of the policemen put a hand on Mick’s shoulder, telling him to calm down. Mick pulled himself free and climbed into the De Soto. The policeman handed him the keys. After checking what he could, Mick got out, turning to look at her with intense disgust.
    ‘You’re one insane cunt.’
    She noted that the policemen were leading her over to their car, pushing her into the back seat with a hand on her head. One of them sat next to her and the other drove the car. Neither said a word to her from then on.

    ‘Is your name Sibylla Forsenström?’
    What was the funny smell in the room?
    ‘Why did you take the car?’
    What if it was gas?
    ‘Have you got a driving licence?’
    How come there were cracks in that wall?
    ‘Can’t you speak?’
    The man on the other side of the desk sighed and began leafing through some papers. Four men dressed in black stepped through the