Caroline Eriksson - The Missing

“So that was the moment I understood. I knew that no one else would ever put up with me. Since then, he’s done his best to remind me that without him I’m nothing. And I… Well, I’ve done what I can to… cooperate.”

The psychologist turns so the sun streaming in the window lights up her left arm and cheek.

Mama’s face is a mask of grim resolve.

“Until now,” she says, managing to make it sound like a statement and a question at the same time.

The psychologist looks at her. Then her gaze shifts to the edge of the rug and the bulge over the ax handle. She looks at Mama again.

“Exactly,” she says hesitantly. “Until now.”

I sense a certain bewilderment in her. And I wonder what is going to happen next. Where do we go from here? Where can we go? Then I don’t have time to think or feel anymore. Because at that second, there’s a knock on the door.

Someone gasps. Mama and the psychologist exchange quick glances. Nobody moves. Another knock, harder and more demanding this time. Mama is finally the one who gets up. She smooths her hair and, moving stiffly, goes out to the entryway.

When she comes back, two police officers are accompanying her. One is the woman I talked to the other day. She glances around the room, noting the torn-up newspapers and the demolished coffee table. She looks at me lying on the floor, then at Mama and the blond woman in the blue dress, and then back at me.

“What’s going on here?”

When I don’t reply, she turns to her colleague, a man with a receding hairline and a huge paunch. He puts his hands on his hips as he steps forward.

“We had a call from an elderly man. Something about an ax. A woman here in the neighborhood whose behavior seemed confused and threatening. Can you tell us anything about that?”

Something about an ax. I have to make an effort not to look at the bulge in the rug. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the psychologist retreat, taking such small steps that it barely looks like she’s moving. She’s now standing very close to the ax. Is she trying to use her body to hide the ax? Or is she preparing to grab the concealed weapon and take us all by surprise, if necessary? I force myself not to turn in her direction. Instead, I fix my eyes on the female police officer.

“The old man was out walking his dog when he ran into the woman,” she says. “He told us that she was incoherent and seemed extremely upset. And she was carrying an ax, as my colleague just mentioned. So we’re taking a look around the neighborhood. It’s pretty deserted, but we’re knocking on doors to find out if anyone has seen anything suspicious.”

Again, she looks around the room, then at each of us in turn. No one responds. Mama’s eyes keep shifting, narrowing as she thinks. It occurs to me that she doesn’t know I’m the woman the police are talking about, that the ax was originally mine. She’s only seen it in the hands of the blond woman. What’s going through her mind right now? Will she accuse the psychologist? Is she considering telling the police what’s really been going on here?

Part of me is screaming at her to do it, to save us both while she can. Another part of me is still acutely aware that the psychologist is within arm’s reach of the ax. If she wanted, she could split my head in half before the officers reacted. If the situation got desperate enough.

Mama opens her mouth to speak, but then closes it again, shaking her head. The male police officer wipes his forehead and loudly clears his throat.

“Well, you’re certainly a lively and talkative bunch.”

“What exactly happened here?” says his colleague.

She casts another critical glance around the room before her eyes stop on me. She comes a few steps closer, tilts her head to one side, and squints down at me. I fight off an impulse to close my eyes and turn away. Instead, I steel myself and meet her gaze. I’m waiting for her to recognize me, to remember my irrational behavior the last time we met. But maybe because there are other people in the room, or maybe because she really doesn’t recognize me with no makeup and in my current state, the only thing she says is:

“How did you get those cuts on your face? And that bruise?”

Mama steps forward so she’s standing between me and the officers.

“As you can see, my daughter isn’t well. She’s just escaped an abusive relationship. And to make matters worse, she’s running a fever. You can feel her forehead for yourselves, if you like. I’ve been with her all day, and she’s been in no condition to go anywhere since—”

“All day, you say?”

The policewoman straightens her back, fixing her eyes on my mother. The air is thick with tension. Something is clearly hanging in the balance. Mama seems to have recovered from her initial paralysis. With an unwavering gaze, she meets the eye of the female officer, who, after a moment, utters what sounds like a sigh of resignation. Then she turns to her colleague and raises one eyebrow.

“Well, who knows?” he says with a shrug. “Nobody seems to have seen this ax lady other than an elderly man walking his dog.”

He raises his hands to sketch quote marks in the air around the words ax lady . The gesture, combined with the expression on his beefy face, indicates he’s not sure how much credence to give to the claims of a lonely old man.

The dark-haired female officer again turns to me, and this time I can clearly see that she recognizes me. She stares for a long moment. Her lips are pursed into a thin line.

“If someone has been hurting you, you should file a report,” she says at last. “There’s help available.”

She gestures toward the shattered table behind us. Maybe she thinks it’s a result of the violent relationship Mama alluded to.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” she adds.

Without waiting for a reply, she turns to face my mother, who nods emphatically.

“I’ll make sure she gets the best possible care.”

The officer stifles a sigh.

“Abusive relationships seem to be the theme of the day. We had another complaint earlier. A worried mother whose daughter was purportedly threatened with a knife by her boyfriend. I don’t suppose you’ve—?”

Before she can finish her sentence, the male officer takes a step forward.

“It’s a kid we’ve had our eye on for a while. The leader of some sort of gang that seems to specialize in mistreating animals.”

A hint of annoyance in the policewoman’s eyes reveals that she thinks it unnecessary for her colleague to give such a detailed explanation. I feel a hard knot form in my stomach. Mistreating animals? Wielding a knife? The girl, Greta. I want to shout, Is she okay? But the words fail to come out. In spite of the water I drank, my throat again feels parched. Mama puts her hand to her chest and takes a deep breath.

“Oh, my God. How terrible! That poor girl! And mistreating animals? What on earth for?”

Something black-and-white streaks past in my mind. I can almost feel an agile little body curl up next to me. Then the image dissolves, and the feeling of warmth fades, to be replaced by something sharp and cold. Tirith.

“Who knows?” says the policeman with a shrug. “Maybe they’re sadists. Or maybe they’re just bored. Kids these days—”

“Anyway,” says the female officer, cutting him off. “We’re not going to stand here speculating. But if you’ve seen or heard anything that might help us with the case…”

Mama shakes her head. Her face is pale.

“No. Thank God we just happen to be here on a short visit. And considering all the awful things that seem to be happening around here, I don’t think we’ll be back. Malice. What kind of name is that for a lake?”