It had got dark, and when hope began to run out, she plucked up the courage to send him a text message at the untraceable number. Had she misunderstood—hadn’t they agreed to meet? But she didn’t get an answer, and she didn’t dare be more assertive than that. He would either get in touch or he wouldn’t. He knew she was waiting and that bad news was better than no news at all.

Six o’clock came, then seven, but she still hadn’t given up all hope. It wasn’t possible that he had tricked her into coming here only to fail to show up—he wasn’t like that. But could she be sure of that? They didn’t actually know each other that well . . . Well, now they did. She tried to convince herself. They were connected for life, whether they wanted it or not. Exactly two weeks ago, something had happened that neither of them would forget, and from Peter’s perspective in particular it was best to keep their relationship friendly at least. And why had there been all those tokens of affection in that solitary message if he hadn’t meant anything by them? Why express his love and his longing if they were merely empty words?

She prowled among the uninspiring barracks, stamped her way through industrial sites to stay warm, and let herself get splattered by stressed-out rush hour motorists on the busy roads around the roundabout—all while the clock kept ticking, minute after minute, hour after hour.

Eventually, she realised that the resilience driving her wasn’t motivated by strength and patience, but by desperation and madness. Somehow, she had to get home and pull the wool over her husband’s eyes with some story about how she had spent the evening. Then she would cry in silence in the darkness of the bedroom.

35. Jan

35

Jan

TEN DAYS HAD crawled by, and a further ten had been added to them. Only when he had made it to fourteen days over time did Jan feel like he could relax: the threat wasn’t going to be realised. He celebrated in silence, albeit surrounded by people, perched on a bar stool at G:a Masters on the way home from work. The police still hadn’t come to knock on his door, none of his acquaintances in the force had shot glances at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. That was, without doubt, worth both a beer and a whisky.