Caroline Eriksson - The Missing

The water is calm, the surface smooth. It seems wrong to shatter the silence with the sound of the outboard motor, so I decide to row instead. I make sluggish progress. It feels like the water is resisting me, as if it only reluctantly yields to the oars. Dark waves lap against the side of the boat, hissing and whispering. I lean forward, working so hard that sweat trickles down my back. The cut on my hand stings, but I ignore the pain. That’s something I’m good at, after my time with Alex.

Finally, I near the island, planning to pull into the same place as usual. The spot where Alex moored the boat before he and Smilla went off on their adventure. The place where I pulled in when I came back to search for them. How many times is that now? My thoughts whirl; everything blurs together. It feels like so long ago that I was last here, and yet… and yet it seems like just recently.

The first things I see are the boats. Two rowboats are bobbing in the water close to the island, but on the opposite side from where I was planning to go ashore. The next instant, I notice the group that has gathered, their bodies sticking up like dark shadows from the tall grass between the trees. I know at once who they are, and I freeze midstroke. My boat glides forward in one last, slow movement, and then comes to a halt in the bewitched waters. I can make out their hoarse voices as they talk, interspersed with a laugh or a cough. And then, suddenly, a shrill scream.

My heart lurches. I should turn the boat around and go home. Get out of here before they see me. But I don’t. My arms and hands seem to move of their own volition. Cautiously, I begin rowing toward the island again, hunching over the oars. My pulse quickens with every stroke. The words he said, that man in the big brown house, echo in my mind. Some nights, they make a huge racket. Down by the water, sometimes out on the island. I try to keep my distance as best I can. A bright glow tells me that the kids have made a bonfire. I think of the primitive fire pit I discovered when I was searching the island and about the green tarp and the stained mattress. The empty beer cans, the cigarette butts, the used condom. And the eviscerated squirrel.

I’m close now. If any of those kids glance over, they’ll see me. I hear another scream. This time, it’s louder, more piercing. It’s a scream of pain. And panic. It cuts right through me, releasing a flood of images, all of them violent. They pour out, jumbled together, flashing past at furious speed, and I can do nothing to stop them. Images of myself and of Smilla, and of that long-haired girl. Images of hands, alternating between tender and rough. And pictures of objects, relentlessly sharp and treacherously soft. Hands and objects that are used to subdue and to harm.

“Stop!” I cry as loudly as I can. “Please, stop!”

I’m on my feet, standing up in the boat, without knowing how that happened. Someone gives a shout. Several kids pop up from the grass or appear from behind the bushes. Only now do I see how many there are. In the middle looms a figure with his hands on his hips. He doesn’t move, and his face is hidden in shadow, but I know he’s staring at me. I have his full attention.

“Where is she?”

My voice is so hoarse it doesn’t carry properly. The young man with the braided goatee doesn’t reply. Maybe he doesn’t hear my question. Or else he just doesn’t care. Suddenly and unexpectedly, I find myself on the verge of tears.

“Please,” I shout again, fighting to keep my voice from breaking. “Don’t hurt her.”

Goatee Guy turns to one of the kids standing next to him. I hear him speak in a low voice, but I can’t make out the words. Whatever he says prompts hoarse and derisive laughter. An arm waves in the air. The next moment, something whizzes past me and lands with a splash in the water behind the boat. A rock. And then another. This time, it strikes the bow.

My eyes shift from one kid to another, taking them all in. Searching for the face of a girl. I know she’s there somewhere. I have to save her! Soon, more rocks are flying over the boat and raining into the water, and I’m forced to raise my arms to protect myself. I think I see one or more of the dark figures heading toward the two rowboats, and I realize I no longer have any choice. My hands move swiftly, and the motor starts up with a roar. I steer away from the island, heading back across Lake Malice.

“Stay away from here. Otherwise, the same thing will happen to you that happened to…”

I don’t hear the rest of the threat hurled after me, because just at that moment, something hard and sharp strikes my shoulder blade. A burning pain makes me double over. I speed up, feeling my pulse hammering against my eardrums.

It seems to take an eternity, but finally I make it back to the dock. I tie up the boat and rise up on wobbly legs, only to sink down again. I stare at the rock lying in the bottom of the boat. It’s big and sharp edged. If it had hit me in the head… If that was their intent… A shiver ripples across my skin.

What I should do is hurry back to the cabin, lock the door, and hide.

No one seems to have followed me, but if those kids do come and find me here… My misgivings fade into nothingness. I refuse to let fear take hold. So, is it over? That’s what races through my mind instead. Is it finally over?

The next second, another thought intrudes. My hands automatically touch my stomach, protecting the life growing inside. A couple of weeks ago, I left the clinic with the doctor’s words ringing in my ears. I remember my exact thought: This isn’t like it was with Smilla. This is something different, something completely new. Emotions surge inside me. Elation. Guilt. Dread.

I didn’t tell Alex. Not until we got to Lake Malice. We were eating dinner, and I said no to wine, then gave him a meaningful look. Alex stared at me for a long time, his face impassive.

“I understand,” he said at last and took my hand.

His expression was so tender at that moment, so I thought maybe, just maybe it would work out. Maybe if I didn’t—

“Have you made an appointment?”

It was his tone of voice that made me realize at once what he meant. He wasn’t talking about an obstetrician appointment. An abortion. He wanted me to get rid of our child. I bowed my head and swallowed the food in my mouth without chewing.

“Not yet, but I will,” I told him. “As soon as we get back.”

Alex gave me a kiss and quickly changed the subject as he helped himself to more food. After dinner, he gave me his orders, took me into the bedroom, and closed the door behind us.

Later that night, I lay awake, my body hurting too much to sleep. All my nerves and muscles ached. I heard the car rumbling outside and the voice screaming. I heard Alex carry Smilla inside and put her to bed in the room next to ours. Even though I was wide awake, I didn’t get up to go to them. And when Alex crept back into bed, I pretended to be asleep. But by then, I’d already made my decision. It was perfectly clear in my mind.

I stroke my throat, cautiously touching the skin. Then I bury my face in my hands and bend forward. After a while, my fingers fall away on their own, and my gaze is drawn over the gunwale. I peer down into the water lapping against the side of the boat. I stare into the lake’s impenetrable darkness. Even here, so near shore, it’s impossible to see the bottom. Staring into Lake Malice is like being sucked into a black hole, a vortex. I’m whisked through the tunnel until I encounter a circular light at the other end. An opening. And there, in the middle of the light, the contours of a man’s face appear. Alex! A gasp escapes my lips.