She's Never Coming Back

‘Daddy, you’ve been invited to a fancy dress party!’

‘What, have I?’

Sanna came running towards him with the invitation in her hand. Mike lifted his daughter up and hugged her tight. He nodded to his mother, who was standing in the kitchen in her apron, smiling as she looked on.

‘What are you going to wear?’ Sanna squealed.

‘I don’t know. Let’s have a look at the invite.’

He put Sanna down and took the card that she handed him. He hung his jacket up and was reading as he walked into the kitchen.

‘So, she’s turning forty,’ he said, and kissed his mother on the cheek. ‘Mmm, smells good.’

‘It’s just meatballs, nothing special.’

‘Couldn’t be any more special.’

‘What are you going to go as?’ Sanna nagged.

‘I don’t know. Let’s see if I go, first of all.’

‘What? Aren’t you going to go?’

This was beyond Sanna’s comprehension. A fancy dress party, the chance to dress up. The best of the best.

‘Of course Daddy’s going to go,’ Kristina said.

‘We’ll see,’ Mike remarked, and sneaked a meatball straight from the pan.

Sanna looked at her father in disappointment.

‘You never want to do anything fun.’

‘Don’t I?’ Mike asked.

‘No, never,’ Sanna said.

‘But maybe I don’t think fancy dress parties are that great.’

‘Daddy, you don’t think anything’s great.’

Calle Collin gave a loud sigh. The article was nonsense and bore no relation whatsoever to the heading. The quotes were inane, the facts nothing new and the angle about as exciting as a night out in Nassjo.

It was Friday afternoon and the editorial team for Children & Family were sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee. Helen had tried to get Calle to join them, but he refused to leave his desk until the article was set. It was his last day as an editorial temp and he wanted to get it finished, even if he couldn’t for the life of him understand why Helen had bought the story in the first place.

The phones kept ringing all around him, first one, then the other.

‘Could you ring reception and ask them to hold all calls?’ Helen shouted through. ‘Say that we’re in a meeting until four.’

Calle picked up the phone and dialled.

‘I think it might be best if you took this call all the same,’ the switchboard operator said. ‘I actually think Helen should take it herself.’

‘Okay, transfer it then.’

Calle introduced himself to the woman, who was extremely distressed and demanded to talk to the managing editor.

‘What’s it concerning?’ Calle asked, as he didn’t want to disturb the team’s coffee break for yet another subscriber who hadn’t got their magazine on time.

It took about half a minute before Calle realised that this was serious.

‘Just a moment,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and get her.’

He put the receiver down on the desk, swallowed an uncomfortable lump in his throat and went out to the kitchen. The expression on his face obviously reflected what was going on in his head, because everyone fell silent and looked at him in suspense.

‘There’s a woman on the phone,’ Calle said. ‘Something about a report in the last edition. About Africa.’

Helen nodded.

‘Yes. What about it?’

‘The guy’s dead,’ Calle said. ‘He was killed in a road accident four months ago.’

‘Oh dear God.’

Helen got up quickly.

‘Your phone?’ she asked.

Calle nodded.

He stayed in the kitchen and, like the others, listened to Helen’s measured and calm response. Her concern and sincere apologies, her deepest sympathies. And, given the situation, her honest but meaningless explanations for the mishap.

One of the reporters had managed to find a copy of the relevant edition and turned to the article in question. Though it had been written six months ago, it had not been used until now. Calle leaned over the table to get a look at the man who had died in a road accident four months ago. The man was posing proudly with his family, an African wife and two children. A baby girl, judging by the clothes, and a son of about two.

It took a few moments for Calle to recognise him. He felt his heart beat faster as he searched for the man’s name in the text. He was right. It was him.

The man who had been killed in an accident in Africa was Johan Lind, one of the playground tyrants who was part of what Jorgen Petersson had called the Gang of Four.

Mike did go, even though he viewed fancy dress parties as a crime against human dignity, something that only dull, unimaginative and sadistic people would come up with.

He went for Sanna’s sake. To be a good example and not someone who said no to life.

Virginia was the formal type, with pursed lips and an unsympathetic face, cold and distant. Virginia was also, after half a glass, a crazy party animal.

And on those occasions, Mike thought about as much of Virginia as he did of fancy dress parties.

The other guests patted him on the shoulder and said that it was good to see he was getting out again.

It was now ten months since Ylva had disappeared and nearly six months since the newspaper article. Mike’s breathing was shallow, as if he was about to start crying. It had become a habit, the way he breathed.

The dinner was pleasant enough. Virginia was true to form, Dr Jekyll and Mrs Hyde.

It was later, once the table had been cleared and the music was thumping with youthful imprudence and playful erotic thrusts, that Virginia pulled him over and screamed in his ear: ‘I think you know.’

She nodded drunkenly and jabbed her finger at Mike’s chest. He had a horrible premonition, but it was so unthinkable that he couldn’t bear to acknowledge it.

‘Know what?’

‘What?’

She was really drunk.

‘Know what?’ Mike repeated in a loud voice.

Virginia stumbled forward and waved at Mike to bend down so she could shriek in his ear.

‘Ylva,’ she screamed. ‘I think you know what happened.’

Mike stared at her with his mouth open and a quickening pulse. She gave an alcohol-infused shrug and pointed at everyone around.

‘They all do.’

36

Mike sat up half the night with his mother and didn’t manage to sleep for many of the few hours that