How could he have been so stupid not to ask for her phone number? What if she didn't dare ring? What if she thought he wasn't interested since he had fallen asleep without asking for her phone number? Damn it, he didn't even know her last name. What must she think?

It was so strange that they hadn't talked more. But actually he knew why. They had so much to say to each other that they chose to remain silent.

After all, they had all the time in the world.

What if she had been sitting there, hesitating with the receiver in her hand and didn't dare call? The thought made his stomach knot up. What an idiot he was for not asking! The only thing he knew about her was her first name. Her first name and the fact that he would never leave her. If he had to turn all of Stockholm upside down he would find her.

The thought of not knowing where she was was unbearable. If he didn't hear from her soon, it would come over him again, but for the time being he was safe. Her touch was still all over his skin, protecting him.

But for how long?

He had just put the first spoonful of risotto in his mouth when the phone rang. He rushed over to the sink, spat out the food and rinsed his mouth. He then dashed to the phone in the next room. Two rings.

Everything he had practised, everything he had planned to say, was all gone.

Four rings.

'Jonas.'

'Hi Jonas, this is Yvonne Palmgren at Karolinska. I just wanted to hear how things were going for you now.'

He sat in silence and felt the rage growing. There was nothing he wanted to say to this woman. She was ringing from another life that he had left behind. Nobody but Linda had the right to call him, no one had the right to block the line.

That bloody woman at the other end had asked him to let go and move on, and that was precisely what he had done. He had absolutely no obligations to report his feelings to her; he had done precisely what she asked him to do.

He hung up.

Shit. What if Linda had called just now and heard that the line was busy? She may have just gathered up the courage and finally dared ring him and then it was busy.

Fucking bitch!

He straightened the phone, which had been moved out of its right angle to the rug, pulled on a pair of slippers and went back to the kitchen. The risotto swelled up in his mouth, it was impossible to swallow.

What if he disappointed her, what if he couldn't live up to her expectations? What had she actually seen in him? What had made her, without suspicion, with such trust, come back to his flat with him and give herself to him, so utterly and without reservations? It must have been fate. They had found everything they were looking for when they met each other. That must be exactly how it feels to find the right person at last. All this couldn't have happened without a reason, it must have had a meaning. The fact that on that evening, the first one, he had met her and had dared let go. It was the beginning. He knew it!

Why didn't she call?

He got up and went to the phone to make sure he had replaced the receiver properly. He wanted to pick it up to make sure that the conversation with the Monster Psychotherapist had really been broken off, but he didn't dare. What if she tried to call right now?

He sat down on the edge of the bed.

What if he never saw her again? That thought was impossible to bear.

What if she didn't want to call, if that was why she didn't wake him before she left? What if he had disappointed her? What if he had lost her?

It had to be worth something, had to be right. Otherwise Anna would win. Her betrayal would give her the revenge that he didn't deserve.

It had to be worth something! He had been so sure, felt so strong. Suddenly he no longer knew anything.

He couldn't stay in the flat, he had to go out. All these questions would drive him mad, he had to find her. Had to regain control of events.

He went to the wardrobe and took out a pair of beige trousers and a jumper. He ought to buy himself some new clothes, but how could he afford it? He wondered what kind of work she did. He had to find out. He had to find out everything about her. Be with her, share her thoughts, sleep with her. Everything. He wanted it all.

He took the underground to Slussen and walked the last stretch across to Gamla Stan. The clock on the Katarina Lift showed 21.32. He held his mobile in his hand so he'd definitely hear it if it rang; before he left the flat he had forwarded his home number. Halfway across Jarntorget he stopped and looked at the red awnings. That was where she had been sitting. Yesterday he had stood right here on this square, and that was when it had all begun. Only twenty-four hours had passed since then, but everything was changed. Everything was new.

A man in his thirties, dressed in a suit, was sitting on the chair where he had sat, and on both sides of him were more well-dressed men. What if she were inside? What if he were only thirty metres away from her right this minute?

He started towards the door. The possibility that he might soon see her made him quicken his steps.

The bar was full of people. All the seats were taken, and there was a crowd along the bar area. He quickly swept his gaze across all the faces but she wasn't among them. That might be her over there, the one sitting with her back turned, in the black jumper. He forced his way forward through the crowd. In his haste he ran into someone's elbow sticking out, and the glass the person was holding sloshed over. An annoyed look. He didn't care. With heart pounding, he moved over to the opposite wall so he could see her face. And then the disappointment when he met the unfamiliar eyes.

It was unpleasant with so many people. A bustling hubbub in which no words could be heard, only waves of unfamiliar voices arching over the music.

Where was the toilet? Maybe she was in there. He continued past the bar and found two toilet doors in a hallway near the kitchen. The lock on one of them said Vacant, but to be on the safe side he opened the door to make sure she wasn't in there. The second said Occupied, and he took up position to wait, heard someone flushing. He saw her hand before him, felt how it caressed him over his hip and found its way further to his groin. The lust again.

He had to find her.

The lock was turned and showed green. He stopped breathing, closed his eyes for a moment. A woman in her fifties came out and he lowered his gaze. Where was she? Why didn't she come? One more time he checked the display on his phone. No missed messages. Maybe he shouldn't have left the flat. He was starting to regret it now, felt the compulsion enveloping him, pressing closer, ready to attack as soon as the slightest crack appeared in the shield she had given him. He looked at the door handle that he had just touched. Damn it. He touched it again to neutralise it, but that didn't help.

Lule to Hudiksvall 612, Lund to Karlskrona 190. Fuck! Where was she?

He looked towards the bar. How many steps could it be? He had to have a beer or something to force these feelings back. There were no seats available and hardly any room either, but a little farther down stood a man in his late fifties who had drunk too much but was still trying to convince the barman to serve him another. He stood up in a rage when he was refused. The metal chair crashed to the floor and the noise effectively silenced all conversation. The music took over.

Everyone was staring.

The barman took the man's empty beer glass.

'You're done drinking for tonight. There won't be any more here.'

'You fucking little shit, give me another beer!'

'I'll have to ask you to leave now.'

The barman went over and put the glass in a rack for dirty dishes.

'For fuck's sake, what a shithole this is!'

The man looked around, searching for support in any of the eyes staring at him. Suddenly everyone was looking elsewhere, ignoring him. He didn't exist. Only Jonas kept looking, felt hatred towards the man standing there, looking so pathetic and letting himself be degraded. In a flash he saw another man at another bar.

People all started talking again as if on command. The noise level increased and the blur of words was back. The man hesitated a few seconds, holding on to the bar in an attempt to look halfway sober. And, finally, with as much dignity as he could muster, he reeled towards the door and vanished into the night.

The chair still lay on the floor, and Jonas went over and righted it. The recollection the man had triggered had for some strange reason made the compulsion abate. He was not like his father.

He sat down on the chair. The barman wiped the counter in front of him and gave him a quick look.

'Fucking riffraff.'

It was the same barman as the night before. The one who had served him and Linda. A tiny opportunity opened up.

'A beer. Not a light one.'

'A lager?'

'Whatever.'

'I'll get you a Harp.'

'OK.'

The barman reached for a glass from the rack above his head, filled it halfway and put it in front of him.

'Forty-two.'

Jonas took out his wallet and put a fifty-krona note on the bar. The barman went off to serve some other customers and Jonas took a few quick gulps before he emptied the rest of the bottle into his glass. The foam ran over the edge and made a little pool on the bar. He dipped his index finger in the liquid and wrote an L on the newly wiped surface.

He had to ask. It was his only chance. He would drink a little more, get a little buzz on so the compulsion wouldn't come at him if everything went to hell.

He was paying attention half an hour later. The barman was standing right in front of him, hanging up some clean glasses. Jonas was on to his third beer and was once again full of resolve.

'Say, I wonder if you could help me with something?'

'Sure.'

Glass after glass was moved from the tray to the overhead rack.

'It's like this: I met a girl here yesterday. I don't know if you remember that I was here last night.'

'Yeah, I remember. You were sitting over there.'

He nodded towards the short end of the bar.

Jonas nodded.

'Well, that girl . . .'

He broke off and looked down at the bar, then glanced up and smiled.

'Well, you know. We went home together and all that. And then I got her phone number and promised to call her, but I lost the piece of paper. This is embarrassing as hell.'

The barman smiled.

'Well, that's not so cool.'

'Do you remember her too?'

It was a really dumb question. Obviously he'd remember. No one who ever saw her would forget.

'You mean the one you bought a cider for?'

Jonas nodded.

'Linda is her name. Does she come here often?'

'Not as far as I know, at least I've never seen her before.'

Jonas felt his hope sink. This man and this place were his only link.

'So you don't know what her last name is?'

The barman shook his head.

'No idea. Sorry.'

Jonas swallowed.

The barman looked at him briefly and hung up his last glass, took the tray and left. Jonas pulled out his phone; the display was still blank. She knew his name and where he lived but she still hadn't called. He looked around at all the unfamiliar mouths talking and laughing, all the eyes gazing at each other, all the hands. Where was she now? Was she sitting in some other bar, a place like this but somewhere else? The thought that she was with other people right now, that someone else's eyes at this moment were allowed to look on her, that her body might be on someone else's retina, inside someone else.

'Listen, maybe I can help you after all.'

He turned back to the bar. The barman stood in front of him with a receipt in his hand.

'She paid for her first glass with a credit card. Before you got here.'

His heart turned a somersault inside his chest. He reached out his hand and took the receipt.

'Take it easy. I need that back.'

He read the white slip of paper.

Handelsbanken.

She had added a tip of ten kronor and then she had signed it.

The barman was watching him.

'But didn't you say her name was Linda?'

He read the signature again. Refused to understand.

'This must be the wrong receipt.'

'No, I remember, it's hers. The pen ran out of ink halfway through, see.'

He nodded at the receipt. The last letters were written in different ink.

'This is definitely the woman you bought the cider for. But it might not be such a good idea to get in touch with her.'

The barman gave him a wry smile.