She's Never Coming Back

expectations, as the promise of a page in a publication meant so much more to him now that he had long since passed the peak of his career.

Then the actor would delete the only thing that might be called a real observation on Calle’s part and replace it with some self-glorifying statement, before both parties could agree that they were satisfied.

The actor had been interviewed countless times in the course of his career. The questions were always the same, as were the answers. Calle recognised the words that spewed out of his mouth from articles he had read before the interview. The words were exactly the same and so deeply entrenched that, even if the actor did want to open up and be honest, he couldn’t possibly break free from the image he’d built up of himself.

‘Why?’ Calle blurted suddenly, without warning.

The actor was thrown off track in the middle of an anecdote that he’d told a hundred times before.

‘Excuse me?’

Calle Collin realised that he’d been thinking out loud and didn’t have a clue as to what the actor was actually talking about.

‘How did you become who you became?’ Calle tried, and changed his position.

‘You should be who you are when you’re not who you wanted to be,’ the actor trotted out, well practised.

Calle gave him a friendly smile and nodded.

‘Who were you at school then?’ he asked. ‘The class clown? A shrinking violet?’

The actor was silent for a long time before answering: ‘I was horrible,’ he said, finally. ‘I beat up others so they wouldn’t beat me.’

Mike sat at the kitchen table. It was quiet, not even the fridge was humming. He thought about turning the page of the newspaper just to hear it rustle, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to lift his hand to make the movement.

He had done everything. That’s certainly what he tried to tell himself. He didn’t know whether it was true or not. Maybe he hadn’t done anything. Maybe he’d just sat paralysed by the kitchen table with a newspaper in front of him that he hadn’t read, a paper that he’d collected from the postbox, because he always collected the paper from the postbox. Every morning of his adult life.

Ylva hadn’t come home and that was that. She’d gone to the office, spent the day there and then left work. But she hadn’t come home.

Ylva had disappeared. She hadn’t been in touch and she hadn’t been seen. She was gone.

In five days’ time, their daughter would turn eight. Sanna’s classmates had been invited to the party. Mike didn’t think that Ylva would come back for it.

Mike thought about their relationship, if it had been a relationship at all.

His mobile phone vibrated on the kitchen table and made a surprisingly loud noise in the silence. Mike looked at the display, saw that it was from the office and answered.

His colleague strained to be casual in a sympathetic way.

‘Just wanted to check whether you’d be coming today.’

‘Of course, I’m just on my way. I didn’t sleep very well.’

‘No rush,’ the colleague assured him. ‘The meeting’s not until this afternoon.’

‘Thanks for phoning,’ Mike said.

He hung up and folded the newspaper. It was the tenth day since Ylva had disappeared.

30

People who claimed there was no difference between boys and girls had obviously never organised a children’s party, Mike mused. The boys were boisterous and made a noise; they fought and spilled their popcorn and fizzy drinks, whereas the girls gathered round to watch Sanna open her presents.

How much of the difference was due to genetics or culture was another matter, but Mike was grateful that he had a daughter and not a son. Even though there were obviously exceptions. The kind, philosophical Ivan who, when asked how his mummy and daddy were, answered, Not so good, in fact we’re quite poor now, so we won’t be able to go to Thailand. Or the quiet Tobias who, a couple of years ago, had cried as though he’d never stop when he discovered that the party bags didn’t include any chocolate buttons. Mike had made sure not to repeat the mistake at any birthday party since.

Mike and Kristina had carried an extra table into the kitchen so that there would be room for everyone. The table was set. Two other couples scooped ice-cream on to a serving plate full of meringues, Kristina sliced the bananas and Mike made up some jugs of squash. The noise and chaos in the sitting room was music to his ears, a reminder that life went on regardless, even though he himself was in a vacuum.

Because that’s how it felt. Nothing changed, everything was the same. An ocean of words and stiff phrases uttered to make a point, to add importance, to gloss over and comfort. But they didn’t prevent Holst from driving past in his Volvo estate or Mrs Halonen from waving in the distance as she passed with her Alsatian.

Life carried on. This inconceivable event was but a ripple on the surface, and would never be anything more. The sympathy from those around him had now boiled down to Nothing new? Which Mike answered with a troubled expression: Nothing new.

He looked at the clock. Twenty past two. The meringues were nearly ready. Judging by the noise level, it was like Lord of the Flies in the next room.

‘Shall I go in and get them?’ Mike asked.

‘Yes, do,’ his mother replied.

Mike went out into the sitting room, whistled loudly to shut them up and told them to come and get something to eat in the kitchen.

There were balloons tied to the postbox and the front door. Ylva watched the guests arrive on the screen. Sanna’s classmates were there, all dressed up and ready to hand over the wrapped presents. The children were welcomed into the house. Mike stood in the doorway and chatted with the parents.

Ylva thought they all looked uncomfortable, stiff and uncertain. She guessed that the fact that she was missing was still at the forefront of their minds. It would be strange if it wasn’t.

The sun shone and the balloons danced and bobbed on the wind. Ylva realised that they wouldn’t have been able to set the table with paper plates and plastic glasses outside. Anders and Ulrika stayed to help, and so did Bjorn and Grethe. Mike’s mum had come over the evening before. The other parents were probably doing their own thing in the meantime: going for a walk, heading into town, to the cinema or something like that. If there was time. Parties normally didn’t last more than two to three hours.

When all the guests had arrived and the door had been closed, Ylva couldn’t see what was going on inside, but didn’t find it hard to imagine. The noise from previous children’s parties was still ringing in her ears.

For the next hour or so, nothing much happened other than Mike coming out with the rubbish. Then the terrace door was opened. The children spilled out in an organic mass. Mike and Anders divided them into teams and they did some kind of relay with oranges under their chins. Then they played hide and seek.

Mike and the other adults disappeared into the house. Fifteen minutes later, he stuck his head out of the door and shouted something. The kids stopped in their tracks and then rushed indoors.

Lucky dip, Ylva guessed.

The party would be over soon. The parents would be back any minute now to rescue them from the noise and mess. Some would stay for a glass of wine in the kitchen and keep them company as they wound down and caught their breath after the timed chaos that was a children’s party.

Sanna was buttering a piece of bread. She did this with such care that Mike and Ylva had started to put two