When the taxi stops outside Bromma’s only terminal, the anxiety, loneliness and vulnerability are replaced by obstinacy. Who are these arseholes following her and Gabriella? Why can’t they just leave them alone?

She jumps out of the taxi and grabs the little black backpack of clothes she’d originally packed to spend a couple of days at Gabriella’s. She peers past the airport buses, over towards short-term parking. Hesitates a moment. Then she turns her back to the terminal and heads towards the parking lot.

She’s only gone a couple of steps when she sees the Volvo parked just behind the airport buses, its engine running. It’s cold, probably ten below, and she pulls her coat more tightly around her, finds a stocking cap in her pack which she pulls down over her ears. She can feel her heart pounding again, but this time it’s from anger, not a panic attack. What the hell do they want from her?

A short, fit man wearing jeans and a black beanie is standing next to the black Volvo, as if he just jumped out of it. He has a short beard and a blue puffy jacket, brown leather gloves. When he catches sight of Klara, who has started to walk towards the car, he bends down, opens the door, and hops in the passenger seat. The Volvo’s engine revs and the tyres skid in the snow as the car pulls away from the kerb, does a hasty U-turn, and then speeds away from the airport.

Klara runs after it, despite knowing it’s a lost cause. She has no idea what she’d do if she caught up to them.

After a hundred metres she gives up, almost falling on the slippery asphalt. She leans forward, panting as the Volvo disappears. The adrenaline and anxiety rush through her, and she screams out loud in frustration. A man in a coat, pulling a bouncing suitcase behind him as he heads towards the terminal, turns and stares at her. But he makes no effort to approach, and Klara wants to scream at him too: What the hell are you staring at, you arsehole?

But she stops herself and forces herself to regain control over her feelings.

Her head pounds as she straightens up. JNK 314. At least she got the licence plate number.

With her hands still trembling from excitement and physical exertion, she pulls out her phone and looks up the number. The car is registered to a car rental company.

She closes her eyes and squats down. She thinks back to Gabi’s letter – she was right. The man pursuing her didn’t look Swedish, more like Eastern European. A rental car. It wasn’t the police. She’s sure of that now.

14 November

Beirut