Missing (21 page)

S
he was dumbfounded at first. Her only clear thought was that things had gone badly wrong.

‘How do you know my name?'

‘I read the paper, like everyone else.'

He couldn't have recognised her – or could he? Not with her new hairdo, surely? A car drove past on the road outside and she looked at it over his shoulder through the kitchen window. Then it was gone.

‘You might as well give up your idea of meeting Kerstin. She lives at the other end of town, as it happens. That house is empty. A German family has bought it and they usually don't turn up here until June.'

She wanted to get out of there, to get away from him.

‘Why did you lock the door? What do you want from me?'

He didn't answer.

She glanced at the door again. There was no window in the hall.

‘Don't even think about it, Sibylla. You're
going nowhere without my permission.'

She was a prisoner. She closed her eyes for a couple of seconds, trying to pull herself together. He moved away from the doorway and, because she had no choice, she followed him into the kitchen.

‘I'd appreciate it if you took your shoes off.'

She stared at him. No fucking way.

Instead, she walked over to the table and sat down. A glance at him was enough to make her realise that keeping her shoes on had angered him a great deal. Frowning, he got hold of a brush and pan from a cupboard and started sweeping up invisible muck from the floor. When he had put the things away, he came to sit down at the kitchen table. The smile had gone from his face.

‘From now on, you will do what I tell you.'

From now on? What was this weirdo after? Why was he so bossy?

She tried to speak in a low, calm voice.

‘You have no right to keep me here.'

He grimaced with mock surprise.

‘Oh, don't I? Dearie me. Maybe you'd like to phone the police?'

He burst out laughing when she didn't answer immediately. She told herself that maybe phoning the police was exactly what she should do now. They were both focusing on each other, registering each other's every breath. Another car went past and for a fraction of a second
Sibylla let her eyes wander away from him. He broke the silence.

‘I must say, I was flabbergasted when you turned up in the cemetery out of nowhere. Like a gift from God. Indeed, God does look after his own.'

She stared at him.

‘When I spotted your watch I couldn't believe my eyes at first. Do you know, if it hadn't been for your watch I might never have recognised you.'

They both looked at her watch. Then he smiled briefly before closing his eyes and turning his face upwards.

‘Thank you Lord. You listened to your servant and saved my soul. You sent her to me. Thank you …'

She thought he had finished.

‘What about my watch?'

He turned towards her, silent at first. His eyes were open but had narrowed to slits. Leaning over the table, as if to give his words more weight, he spoke slowly.

‘Never ever interrupt me when I'm talking with the Lord God.'

Suddenly, everything fell into place.

‘Accursed are those who rob the innocents of their rights.'

The truth pierced her like an arrow. Fear struck her speechless, her mouth filling with the taste of blood.

Fool that she was! What made all the difference was the person he had
appeared
to be. She already knew the importance of that for herself. How could she have forgotten? She had allowed prejudice to lead her by the nose – straight into a trap.

His face had changed somehow. Now he knew that she knew.

‘You can guess where I saw that watch the first time, can't you? In the Grand Hotel's French dining-room. You were keeping Jörgen Grundberg company while he ate his last meal.'

A
lert and quivering like tensed bow-strings, they sat watching each other across the kitchen table. Both were expecting something to happen that would release the tension. She lost any sense of time passing.

Trying to link isolated perceptions of the truth into a continuous chain, she began with him. She had been right, as well as catastrophically wrong. Rune Hedlund's secret was and was not what everyone had suspected. He had a lover, but the lover was a man.

Now, that man's strong hands were placed on the kitchen table in front of her. Hands which had carried out all the repulsive mutilations that she had been accused of. Stained with ordinary hobby paints and then covered with plastic gloves, they had searched the hidden cavities of his victims to recover what had been taken from his beloved's body.

She whispered an appeal to him.

‘Tell me why.'

This made him relax and took them into a new phase of their relationship, in which
neither needed to pretend to the other. There was no point in dropping hints or making covert threats. The only thing left between them was the final confrontation. Before that, she wanted to know and he wanted to tell.

Afterwards was another matter.

He seemed calm now, clasping his hands in his lap and poised, it seemed, ready to give a speech.

‘Have you ever been to Malta?'

This question was so unexpected all the air went out of her, making a snorting noise. He might have thought she was laughing, because he started to smile again.

‘I went to Malta. It was about six months after Rune's accident.'

The smile had faded from his face now, his hands were back on the table and he was looking down at them.

‘No one ever grasped how … profoundly I mourned him.'

He inhaled deeply, as if needing more air before he could carry on speaking.

‘Our love is buried in Rune's grave. They all pitied her, of course. People were trotting round to commiserate every hour God gave. Feeding her stuff they'd brought. Listening to her endlessly babbling on about how unfair life was. All her fucking garbage. There were times when I was on the brink of going there and shouting the truth out loud, straight into
her fat, ugly face. I could've told her a thing or two! He had been with me that night, just before he collided with the elk. Straight from my bed, where my hands had held him and caressed him.'

Reaching out with his hands, stretching his long fingers, he wanted to make her feel what he felt. His terrible mental turmoil was almost palpable. He was on the verge of tears, his extended hands were shaking, his lungs struggling to get enough air and his lower lip trembling. His grief seemed mixed with barely restrained anger.

She reflected that this might well be the first time he had been free to put his feelings into words, the first time in the thirteen long months since Rune's death. The words had built up a pulsating pressure inside him, which was finally – maybe just this once – released.

‘She went back to work soon enough. That meant she could be the queen of the coffee-room, droning on about how Rune's passing had not been in vain because she had been so generous with parts of his body, allowing four lives to be saved … blah, blah, blah.'

His head was shaking from side to side, his face twisted with disgust.

‘Bullshit! It's enough to make you want to puke. Is that love? Is it? Letting them cut up the body you've loved? And then having his remains scattered to the four winds?'

He got up from the table, a movement so
sudden that she instinctively tried to back away. The wooden chair behind him tipped backwards and crashed on the floor. He righted it, walked across the kitchen to the sink, picked up the coffee-pot and came back.

‘Would you like some more coffee?'

She shook her head, still in a state of confusion. He poured himself a cup and, with the same deliberation, took the pot back to the sink. She had calmed down enough to take the chance of looking around. Behind her was a closed door.

‘After six months of this I thought I had better get away for a bit. Seeing her pious face every coffee break was becoming unbearable.'

The distance between where she was sitting and the door was about two metres.

‘When I turned up there was only one reasonable holiday left at the travel agency. I didn't understand it then, but this was the first time the Lord showed me what he wanted me to do.'

By now he seemed more relaxed, pausing to drink mouthfuls of coffee and look out through the window. They must have looked quite idyllic – two old friends chatting together over a cuppa.

‘The Malta trip was arranged by Leisure Tours, one of these group-travel firms. I didn't feel like being alone just then. Anyway, there's a cathedral city on Malta called Mosta and the Lord was guiding me to that sacred place.'

He had made fists of his hands now.

‘You know, that excursion to Mosta changed my life. It was as if someone had pulled filters away from my eyes, allowing me to see the truth clearly for the first time.'

His face was glowing with gratitude.

‘On the ninth of April in the year 1942, the cathedral was full of people, ordinary folk who had gone to Mass the way they always did. It was wartime. Suddenly, a bomb fell through the dome of the cathedral, shattering the splendid glass roof and burying itself in the floor of the aisle in front of the altar. Do you know, that bomb never exploded? God stopped the detonator functioning and the whole congregation completed Mass and left in safety. A true miracle!'

If he were expecting exclamations of wonder, he'd have to wait in vain.

‘It was an English plane. Dropping the bomb was a mistake.'

His eyes were drilling into her.

‘Don't you see what God was telling them?'

She shook her head.

‘Their time hadn't come. God had not chosen to call anyone among the people in the church. They weren't meant to die just then. That's why He intervened to put the mistake right.'

He paused, looking at the window for a while.

‘Rune was different, the Lord had called him.
I still don't know why. I'm waiting and praying for the Lord to tell me His reason. Maybe He will speak to me once my mission is complete.'

His confession was nearing its end and Sibylla felt fear returning, invading every part of her mind.

‘She wouldn't let Rune die. She thwarted the will of God. She thought she could interfere with His power on Earth, trading parts of Rune's body and keeping them alive. It was trapping him halfway to Heaven. How could I allow that to happen?'

His face looked like a tragic mask. He clasped his hands.

‘I will execute great vengeance upon them with wrathful chastisements. Then they will know that I am with the Lord, when I lay my vengeance upon them.'

In the silence that followed, Sibylla knew her will to act was still paralysed by fear. She needed more time.

‘The people you killed – what about them? Had God called them too?'

He stared at her, his head to one side, apparently amazed by her question.

‘What, haven't you understood that yet?'

She just looked back at him, not even daring to shake her head.

‘The Lord had called them. They were meant to die. By what right do we hinder the acts of the Lord?'

She had no answer to that, of course. Telling him that he was stark staring mad would not be helpful.

‘What about me?'

He smiled.

‘You have been chosen.'

He made it sound like a compliment.

‘The Lord is using you as one of His tools – like me. Both of us have been called to serve His ends.'

Soon, her time would be up.

‘What's my task?'

The smile had widened to a grin that spread across his face.

‘You're here to serve as my shield and protection.'

T
he next moment she was on her feet, throwing herself unhesitatingly backwards, grabbing the handle of the closed door behind her. Luckily for her it opened inwards and before he could get up and round the table, she was inside the room next door.

She was leaning her whole body against the door with frenzied strength, ready for him, when seconds later he started pushing at the handle from his side. She could feel his weight against the door. There was no key.

Looking around, she saw that the room was a painter's workshop, full of canvases and tubes of paint. There was an easel just behind her with an unfinished picture of the crucified Christ.

On the wall to her right was another door without a key.

Suddenly, she sensed that the pressure on the other side was no longer there. A quick glance through the keyhole confirmed it. He was gone.

She stepped back, hitting the corner of a table and knocking over a tin full of brushes.
It crashed to the floor. Terror sent electrical currents through her body.

A sudden sound alerted her to his presence in the room to her right. He was going to use the other door. The next moment she saw his hand on the door frame and knew what she had to do. Taking one leap across the room, she threw her weight against the door, pinning his hand between it and the frame. She heard the crunching sound of something breaking in his squashed hand.

He did not scream, though his fingers extended in a spasm of pain. All she could hear was her own rasping, deep breathing, as if she were fighting for air.

There was a violent shove against the door, which opened it just enough to let him withdraw his hand. Then a clock on the wall next to her started striking the hour.

The sound unnerved her. She ran from the room, tore open the kitchen door and stood for a moment in the hall. The front door was locked, she knew. Running upstairs would take her deeper into the trap. A noise from next door meant that she had no more time. After taking a step forward she saw his feet and then the rest of him. He was sitting on the floor with his legs stretched out in front of him.

Quickly, she stepped past the open door and ran upstairs, hearing him get up. When she reached the landing three closed doors were
facing her. One of them had a key in the lock. She managed to unlock it in one go.

Then she heard him scream in real distress.

‘Not in there!'

She was already inside by then and turning the key in the lock with shaking hands.

The door handle was pushed down.

‘Sibylla, don't do anything stupid!'

She turned to survey the room. An unmade bed stood in the middle of the room. The bed-linen must have been white once, but now it was greyish and stained. A chest of drawers with a mirror on top was placed against the wall facing her. On it he had put a lit candle in a magnificent silver candlestick. It was almost two feet high and would have looked good on a church altar. Next to it, was an open Bible.

‘Sibylla! You must open this door! Immediately!'

She tried to open the window and was struggling to undo the hook. He heard the noise of metal scraping against metal.

‘Sibylla, don't open the window! The draught will blow out the flame!'

His shouting had a note of desperation and he was banging on the door.

She turned to look. True, the flame was dancing in the draught from the open window. Leaning out through the window, she realised that the stone steps leading to the front door were right below. If she jumped and managed to
avoid hitting the iron railings, she would almost certainly crack her head open on the steps.

He called again, sounding very stern.

‘Sibylla, you must close that window.'

She left the window open and went to inspect the arrangement next to the mirror. Being in a locked room gave her a few precious moments to collect her thoughts.

Why was he so frantic about the candle?

Next to the candlestick lay two fresh candles, each as large as the burning one and still in its wrapper. There were also four unused long-lasting grave candles in white plastic containers.

She opened the Bible. On the inside of the stiff cover, someone had written a quote in careful script.

Now she understood. Suddenly, the power-balance had shifted in her favour. The burning flame was her weapon.

She could hear something scratching in the lock. She called out loudly.

‘If you come in I'll put the flame out!'

The sounds from the keyhole ceased.

‘It has been burning since he died, hasn't it? Hasn't it?'

Not a sound from outside the door. It didn't matter, because now she knew. He had kept this flame burning, like the Olympic fire, as a living memory of his beloved.

She had gained more time. But for what? She looked around the room again.

It was empty apart from the bed and the chest of drawers. The floor was covered in a wall-to-wall brown carpet, with a couple of small rugs on top. Could she tie the sheets on the bed together to make a long enough rope to reach the ground? And then what? He could easily catch up with her, on foot or in the car.

Lifting the candlestick very gently, because that flickering flame was her shield, she called to him again.

‘You can come in now!'

‘You'll have to unlock the door.'

‘I will, but you must count to three before entering. If you don't, I'll blow it out.'

No response. The carpet silenced her steps as she walked over to the door. She quickly turned the key in the lock and backed away. Three seconds later the handle was pressed down.

They stood facing each other, separated by the burning candle.

There was no mistaking the fury in his eyes. He stretched out his damaged hand and, when he looked down at it, her eyes followed his. A deep score ran across all his fingers and half the
little finger seemed torn off. In the stillness, only the flame was moving.

Then he finally spoke.

‘Why are you doing this? What do you hope to gain?'

‘I want you to phone the police.'

He shook his head, not so much in refusal but to show his irritation.

‘Don't you see we were meant to do what we've done? You and I are the elect. There's nothing we can do about it. The police don't matter. Put that candle down now.'

She didn't move, just sighed. Her breath made the flame flicker from side to side. The sight was an unwelcome reminder of how fragile her defence was. Instantly, a wave of paralysing terror rolled over her.

Perhaps he saw it in her face, perhaps he could smell her fear. He smiled slowly.

‘We're of a kind, you and I. I've read about you in the papers.'

How could she get out?

‘They've been getting one of your old mates from school to talk about you. Did you read that?'

The flame would die the moment she got outside. It could only protect her inside the house.

‘I used to be a loner too …'

‘Where's your telephone?'

‘I was different from the start, even in primary
school. We are special, both of us, it's obvious to everyone …'

‘Turn around. Walk downstairs, now. Or else, I'll blow.'

His smile disappeared, but he didn't move.

‘I see. And tell me, Sibylla – then what will you do?

She said nothing. An eternity seemed to pass. Just when she thought her pounding heart would burst through her ribcage, he turned and walked downstairs. Slowly, she followed a few feet behind him, unsuccessfully attempting to control her breathing. She was holding her hand up to protect the flame and he was still extending his broken hand. Both moved one step at a time, the woman with the candle following the man, as if in a strange ceremonial procession.

She tried to think ahead. Would she tell him to phone? Should she do it herself? Four steps left. He had stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Walk on.'

He did as he was told and disappeared into the kitchen.

The silver candlestick was becoming heavy in her hand and she had to lower it. Now she too was standing on the floor of the hall.

He was out of sight.

‘Come to the door!'

No movement in the kitchen. She changed hands.

‘I'll blow it out!'

But by now it was clear to both of them that this was an empty threat. Once the flame was extinguished, she could do nothing. Then she would be completely in his power.

She walked through a door opposite the kitchen door. It led into a sitting room, carpeted with the same material as the upstairs bedroom. There was a sofa with an occasional table in front of it. No telephone anywhere.

On the wall to her left was the door leading into the workshop. It was slightly open. Her arm had become tired and she had to hold the candlestick with both hands now. Not a sound from the kitchen.

‘Come out so I can see you!'

Still no reply.

She walked into the workshop, closing the door behind her. There it was, a grey Cobra set spattered with paint in every colour of the rainbow. The dial was underneath the receiver, which meant she had to use both hands. Watching the door to the kitchen, she carefully put the candlestick down, got hold of the receiver and began dialling with shivering fingers. Fear invaded her body, causing an almost physical pain. So near, yet so far from help.

Then he came at her.

Roaring, he tore open the door to the sitting room and before she could react, beat her to the floor with a kitchen chair. The pain made the
world go dark. A moment later he was sitting astride her and she knew that one of her ribs was broken.

He was hissing with rage.

‘Don't ever do that again!'

Trying to keep the pain away from her mind, she just shook her head.

‘The Lord is with me. You cannot get away.'

She shook her head again. Anything to make him get up. Anything to stop him sitting on her ribcage.

He looked around.

‘Stay on the floor!'

She nodded. At last, he left her alone. His first move was to take a cloth from the table and wind it tightly round his injured hand. She wondered if he was right-handed, because if so he would be really handicapped. Not as handicapped as she was, though. That fucking candle was still alight. She hadn't even managed to extinguish it.

What a bloody awful, shitty mess. And she had been so close.

She tried to twist a little to find a position where the pain would ease. Her jacket had balled up just where the pain was focused. He saw her move and put his foot on her stomach.

‘Stay still!'

The pain was so intense she couldn't breathe, and her face contorted. She saw flashing stars
under her eyelids before she blacked out. A moment later she opened her eyes again. He had taken his foot away, but was standing close to her, stretching out his damaged hand and raising the other. His face was deathly white. The raised hand was gripping a crucifix, which she had seen before. It was in one of the images among Patrik's print-outs.

He suddenly let it fall on her stomach.

‘All yours!'

The crucifix wasn't heavy, but she instinctively tensed her stomach muscles as it fell and a new wave of pain flowed through her.

‘You carry it yourself. It's your walk to Golgotha.'

If she had been able to speak, she might have asked what he meant.

‘Get up now. We're going outside.'