Karin Alvtegen - Missing

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 time would be up. 'What's my task?'

The smile had widened to a grin that covered his face. 'You're to serve as my shield and protection.'

The next moment she was on her feet and 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 doorframe 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 was fighting for air.

There was a violent shove against the door, opening 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 well on a church altar. Next to it was an open Bible.

'Sibylla! You must open that door! Immediately!'

She tried to open the window and was struggling to undo the hasp. 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, as large as the burning one and still in their wrappers. There were also four unused grave candles in white plastic containers, burning time about sixty hours.

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

For love is as strong as death

Jealousy is as cruel as the grave.

Its flashes are flashes of fire

A most vehement flame.

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.

Then they stood facing each other, separated by the burning candle.

There was no mistaking the fury in his eyes. He held his damaged hand stretched out 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 still silence, 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 as 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?'