Karin Alvtegen - Missing

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 Malar docks on Langholm Island. She got off at Hornstull and crossed the Palsund 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 yards 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 couldn't see his boat. Walking back along the quay, she finally discovered it next to a grey-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 being a trusted friend. She still carried several scars proving the point. She breathed in deeply, clenching her 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 examining 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 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 muttering 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 Vastervik story about?' She leant back, closing her eyes.

'Not a clue. I haven't set foot in Vastervik 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 get 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 se what can do. So… I'll go there and try. For old time's 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 time's sake.

As 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 on 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. For it couldn't be that.