Caroline Eriksson - The Missing

Two men in dark uniforms tried to talk to me. The police, they said. We’re with the police. At first, they stood there, then they crouched down. They asked me questions, but I pretended not to hear. When they kept on talking, saying my name and repeating the questions, I began humming to myself. If I pretended that everything was the same as usual, maybe it would all go back to normal. Maybe I could make the bad thing that happened disappear. All I had to do was not think about it. Finally, the older policeman took me by the arm and spoke firmly. I hit him in the face. Then he yelled and took Mulle away from me. He said I was too old for such nonsense. His partner turned pale and looked grim. He pulled the other policeman out of the room and whispered something about just a kid , and in shock .

Then he came back, the younger one. He sat down next to me and talked to me nicely for a long time, explaining that everything was going to be fine, that the police only wanted the best for me, they wanted to help me. That’s why they were here. I realized that he wanted me to trust him, and I tried, at least a little. But that didn’t make any difference. It was too late for trust. They had taken Mulle away from me, and I would never forgive them for that.

The nearest town is only about a fifteen-minute drive from Marhem. There’s not much to it. A pedestrian street with a grocery store, a few small shops, a library, and a police station. I almost expect the station to be closed, but when I reach for the handle of the door, it opens. Afterward, I think to myself it would have been better if the door had been locked, if I’d been forced to wait. Maybe then I could have calmed down and reconsidered. Maybe I would have come to my senses and avoided the chaos that followed.

I speak to a woman standing behind a high counter. Her dark hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail. She gets out a notepad with a form to fill in. Without thinking, I rattle off my name and phone number. That’s when everything goes haywire. I try to tell her what happened, but I make a mess of it. I can hear how scattered I sound. For a moment, the policewoman’s pen hovers over the paper in front of her. Then she slowly puts it down.

“Malice?” she says. “I haven’t heard of any lake with that name.”

“That’s what it’s called,” I reply. “By the locals.”

“So what’s its real name?”

I can’t answer that, so I simply throw up my hands and look away for a moment. The woman stares at me. Then she asks me for the names of the people I “think are missing.” She also wants to know my relationship to them. I babble and explain, the whole time listening to my own words, hearing how the truth and the lies get tangled up.

“So what do you think is the reason for this… disappearance? What would be the most plausible explanation? In your opinion, that is.”

It could be the words she uses, but it could also be the way she’s looking at me that does it. All of a sudden, my whole body goes cold. A heavy, metallic taste rises in my mouth. It was a mistake to come here. I take a step back. Then another. And another. The female police officer is watching me. But she doesn’t say anything else. Not even when I brusquely turn on my heel, dash for the door, and practically explode out of the station. She lets me go.

On my way back to Marhem, I have a strong feeling that I’m being followed. A green car is driving too close, and I peer nervously in the rearview mirror, trying to make out what the driver looks like. But he or she has pulled down the visor, and the only thing visible is a solitary dark figure. I tap lightly on the brake, challenging the car behind to keep back. In response, the car veers into the passing lane. As it pulls even with me, I turn my head, but the sun glints on the passenger-side window of the other car, and I can’t see who’s sitting inside. I can’t even tell if it’s a man or a woman.

Now I feel my car shuddering underneath me, and the steering wheel seems to leap out of my hands. What is happening? I’m completely bewildered. I’m on the verge of tears. Then I realize that it’s not the car or the steering wheel that’s moving. It’s my body shaking uncontrollably.

I slow down, pull over, and stop. I don’t care that it’s probably illegal to park here. With my pulse racing in my throat, I stare at the green car as it disappears around the curve. I hear a muted ringing coming from my purse. My phone!

I can tell at once. I can feel it in my whole body. This is an important phone call, one that I shouldn’t miss.

I throw myself onto my purse, which I’d tossed on the seat beside me, clawing and rummaging like a woman possessed. The contents spill out onto the passenger seat. A compact, lipstick, and a pair of dangly earrings. My hands are still shaking, but I manage to find my phone and pick it up. Wild eyed, I stare at the display. Unknown number. With trembling fingers, I press the “Answer” button and hold the phone to my ear.

“Yes?”

My voice is barely above a whisper. When the person on the other end starts talking, it takes me a moment to figure out who it is. Because it’s not Alex. It’s not Smilla. It’s not even my mother. It’s the police officer.

“Greta,” she says authoritatively, “I’m the officer you spoke to at the police station. I have… Well, you might say that I’ve looked into the matter. And I found something strange. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

She falls silent. Neither of us speaks. I reach out my right hand and fumble around the passenger seat until I find something to hold on to. I clutch it tightly. Steeling myself.

“I should have checked on the information you gave me while you were here, but… Well, you left rather quickly. But now I’ve done a search in the records, and what I found—or rather, what I didn’t find—surprises me. Let’s just say that. And I need your help to resolve the matter.”

Through a haze of pain, I hear her again asking me about Alex and Smilla. Were those their names? The people who disappeared? Did we have the same last name, or…?

The police officer doesn’t sound unkind, but I can hear in her voice that I don’t need to reply. She already knows.

“Is this information correct?”

Now she’s rattling off my full name and social security number. All the information I gave her at the station, along with my cell phone number. Almost as if… I swallow hard. As if, deep in my heart, I wanted to be found out. From somewhere far away, I’m aware of a stinging, burning sensation. It’s part of me, and yet not. Outside the window, another car rushes past, the horn blaring with annoyance, but I hardly notice.

“Greta?” she says. “Are you still there? Is all of this information correct?”

The pain increases, becoming more blatant. Something is stabbing my body, ripping through my skin.

“Yes,” I tell her. “I’m still here. And it’s correct.”

The pain sends a shudder through my body, and everything swims before my eyes. I force myself to look down at my clenched fist. Blood is seeping through my fingers and over my knuckles. I open my fist and stare at the earring lying in my palm. At the sharp end of the hook, which is right now embedded deep in my hand.

From a distance, I hear the policewoman saying my name again. I murmur something unintelligible. She takes a deep breath. Both of us are preparing for what will come next. For the words that have to be said.

“According to our records, Greta, you are not married. Nor do you have a child. There is no husband or daughter in your life. And never has been.”

I might as well tell it like it is. I’m not like other people, not normal or reliable in the way most people are. But at least I have enough self-awareness to realize this. Every once in a while, at various periods in my life, I have sought psychological help. The pattern is always the same. I wait until the last minute, until I’m just about to fall apart and my life is on the verge of shattering. That’s when I get help. Each time, a different psychologist. I never go back to the same one as before.