Reaching out with his hands, stretching his long fingers, he wanted to make her feel what he felt. His terrible mental turmoil was almost palpable. He was on the verge of tears, his extended hands were shaking, his lungs struggling to get enough air and his lower lip trembling. His grief seemed mixed with barely restrained anger.
She reflected that this might well be the first time he had been free to put his feelings into words, the first time in the thirteen long months since Rune's death. The words had built up a pulsating pressure inside him, which was finally – maybe just this once – released.
'She went back to work soon enough. That meant she could be the queen of the coffee-room, droning on about how Rune's passing had not been in vain because she had been so generous with parts of his body, allowing four lives to be saved… blah, blah, blah.'
His head was shaking from side to side, his face twisted with disgust.
'Bullshit! It's enough to make you want to puke. Is that love? Is it? Letting them cut up the body you've loved? And then having his remains scattered to the four winds?'
He got up from the table, a movement so sudden that she instinctively tried to back away. The wooden chair behind him tipped backwards and crashed on the floor. He righted it, walked across the kitchen to the sink, picked up the coffee-pot and came back.
'Would you like some more coffee?'
She shook her head, still in a state of confusion. He poured himself a cup and with the same deliberation, took the pot back to the sink. She had calmed down enough to take the chance of looking around. Behind her was a closed door.
'After six months of this I thought I had better get away for a bit. Seeing her pious face every coffee break was becoming unbearable.'
The distance between where she was sitting and that door was about six feet.
'When I turned up there was only one reasonable holiday left at the Travel Centre. I didn't understand it then, but this was the first time the Lord showed what he wanted me to do.'
By now he seemed more relaxed, pausing to drink mouthfuls of coffee and look out through the window. They must be looking quite idyllic – two old friends chatting together over a cuppa.
'The Malta trip was arranged by Leisure Tours, one of these group-travel firms. I didn't feel like being alone just then. Anyway, there's a cathedral city on Malta called Mosta and the Lord was guiding me to that sacred place.'
He had made fists of his hands now.
'You know, that excursion to Mosta changed my life. It was as if someone had pulled filters away from my eyes, allowing me to see the truth clearly for the first time.'
His face was glowing with gratitude.
'On the ninth of April in the year 1942, the cathedral was full of people, ordinary folk who had gone to Mass the way they always did. It was wartime. Suddenly a bomb fell through the dome of the cathedral, shattering the splendid glass roof and burying itself in the floor of the aisle in front of the altar. Do you know, that bomb never exploded? God stopped the detonator functioning and the whole congregation could complete Mass and leave in safety. A true miracle!'
If he were expecting exclamations of wonder, he'd have to wait in vain.
'It was an English plane. Dropping the bomb was a mistake.'
His eyes were drilling into her.
'Don't you see what God was telling them?'
She shook her head.
'Their time hadn't come. God had not chosen to call any one among the people in the church. They weren't meant to die just then. That's why He intervened to put the mistake right.'
He paused, looking at the window for a while.
'Rune was different, the Lord had called him. I still don't know why. I'm waiting and praying for the Lord to tell me His reason. Maybe He will speak to me once my mission is complete.'
His confession was nearing its end and Sibylla felt fear returning to invade every part of her mind.
'She wouldn't let Rune die. She thwarted the will of God. She thought she could interfere with His power on Earth, trading parts of Rune's body and keeping them alive. It was trapping him halfway to Heaven. How could I allow that to happen?'
His face was looking like a tragic mask. He clasped his hands.
‘I will execute great vengeance upon them with wrathful chastisements. Then they will know that I am with the Lord, when I lay my vengeance upon them.'
In the silence that followed Sibylla knew her will to act was still paralysed by fear. She needed more time.
'The people you killed – what about them? Had God called them too?'
He stared at her, his head to one side, apparently amazed by her question.
'What, haven't you understood that yet?'
She just looked back at him, not even daring to shake her head.
'The Lord had called them. They were meant to die. By what right do we hinder the acts of the Lord?'
She had no answer to that, of course. Telling him that he was stark staring mad would not be helpful.
'What about me?'
He smiled.
'You have been chosen.'
He made it sound like a compliment.
'The Lord is using you as one of His tools – like me. Both of us have been called to serve His ends.' Soon time would be up. 'What's my task?'
The smile had widened to a grin that covered his face. 'You're to serve as my shield and protection.'
The next moment she was on her feet and throwing herself unhesitatingly backwards, grabbing the handle of the closed door behind her. Luckily for her it opened inwards and before he could get up and round the table, she was inside the room next door.
She was leaning her whole body against the door with frenzied strength, ready for him, when seconds later he started pushing at the handle from his side. She could feel his weight against the door. There was no key.
Looking around, she saw that the room was a painter's workshop, full of canvases and tubes of paint. There was an easel just behind her with an unfinished picture of the crucified Christ.
On the wall to her right was another door without a key.
Suddenly she sensed that the pressure on the other side was no longer there. A quick glance through the keyhole confirmed it. He was gone.
She stepped back, hitting the corner of a table and knocking over a tin full of brushes. It crashed to the floor. Terror sent electrical currents through her body.
A sudden sound alerted her to his presence in the room to her right. He was going to use the other door. The next moment she saw his hand on the doorframe and knew what she had to do. Taking one leap across the room, she threw her weight against the door, pinning his hand between it and the frame. She heard the crunching sound of something breaking in his squashed hand.
He did not scream, though his fingers extended in a spasm of pain. All she could hear was her own rasping, deep breathing, as if she was fighting for air.
There was a violent shove against the door, opening it just enough to let him withdraw his hand. Then a clock on the wall next to her started striking the hour.
The sound unnerved her. She ran from the room, tore open the kitchen door and stood for a moment in the hall. The front door was locked, she knew. Running upstairs would take her deeper into the trap. A noise from next door meant that she had no more time. After taking a step forward she saw his feet and then the rest of him. He was sitting on the floor with his legs stretched out in front of him.
Quickly, she stepped past the open door and ran upstairs, hearing him get up. When she reached the landing three closed doors were facing her. One of them had a key in the lock. She managed to unlock it in one go.