The next moment she was on her feet, 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 door frame 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 were fighting for air.

There was a violent shove against the door, which opened 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.

Then she heard him scream in real distress.

‘Not in there!’

She was already inside by then and turning the key in the lock with shaking hands.

The door handle was pushed down.

‘Sibylla, don’t do anything stupid!’

She turned to survey the room. An unmade bed stood in the middle of the room. The bed-linen must have been white once, but now it was greyish and stained. A chest of drawers with a mirror on top was placed against the wall facing her. On it he had put a lit candle in a magnificent silver candlestick. It was almost two feet high and would have looked good on a church altar. Next to it, was an open Bible.

‘Sibylla! You must open this door! Immediately!’

She tried to open the window and was struggling to undo the hook. He heard the noise of metal scraping against metal.

‘Sibylla, don’t open the window! The draught will blow out the flame!’

His shouting had a note of desperation and he was banging on the door.

She turned to look. True, the flame was dancing in the draught from the open window. Leaning out through the window, she realised that the stone steps leading to the front door were right below. If she jumped and managed to avoid hitting the iron railings, she would almost certainly crack her head open on the steps.

He called again, sounding very stern.

‘Sibylla, you must close that window.’

She left the window open and went to inspect the arrangement next to the mirror. Being in a locked room gave her a few precious moments to collect her thoughts.

Why was he so frantic about the candle?

Next to the candlestick lay two fresh candles, each as large as the burning one and still in its wrapper. There were also four unused long-lasting grave candles in white plastic containers.

She opened the Bible. On the inside of the stiff cover, someone had written a quote in careful script.

Now she understood. Suddenly, the power-balance had shifted in her favour. The burning flame was her weapon.

She could hear something scratching in the lock. She called out loudly.

‘If you come in I’ll put the flame out!’

The sounds from the keyhole ceased.

‘It has been burning since he died, hasn’t it? Hasn’t it?’

Not a sound from outside the door. It didn’t matter, because now she knew. He had kept this flame burning, like the Olympic fire, as a living memory of his beloved.

She had gained more time. But for what? She looked around the room again.

It was empty apart from the bed and the chest of drawers. The floor was covered in a wall-to-wall brown carpet, with a couple of small rugs on top. Could she tie the sheets on the bed together to make a long enough rope to reach the ground? And then what? He could easily catch up with her, on foot or in the car.

Lifting the candlestick very gently, because that flickering flame was her shield, she called to him again.

‘You can come in now!’

‘You’ll have to unlock the door.’

‘I will, but you must count to three before entering. If you don’t, I’ll blow it out.’

No response. The carpet silenced her steps as she walked over to the door. She quickly turned the key in the lock and backed away. Three seconds later the handle was pressed down.

They stood facing each other, separated by the burning candle.

There was no mistaking the fury in his eyes. He stretched out his damaged hand and, when he looked down at it, her eyes followed his. A deep score ran across all his fingers and half the little finger seemed torn off. In the stillness, only the flame was moving.

Then he finally spoke.

‘Why are you doing this? What do you hope to gain?’

‘I want you to phone the police.’

He shook his head, not so much in refusal but to show his irritation.

‘Don’t you see we were meant to do what we’ve done? You and I are the elect. There’s nothing we can do about it. The police don’t matter. Put that candle down now.’

She didn’t move, just sighed. Her breath made the flame flicker from side to side. The sight was an unwelcome reminder of how fragile her defence was. Instantly, a wave of paralysing terror rolled over her.

Perhaps he saw it in her face, perhaps he could smell her fear. He smiled slowly.

‘We’re of a kind, you and I. I’ve read about you in the papers.’

How could she get out?

‘They’ve been getting one of your old mates from school to talk about you. Did you read that?’

The flame would die the moment she got outside. It could only protect her inside the house.

‘I used to be a loner too …’

‘Where’s your telephone?’

‘I was different from the start, even in primary school. We are special, both of us, it’s obvious to everyone …’

‘Turn around. Walk downstairs, now. Or else, I’ll blow.’

His smile disappeared, but he didn’t move.

‘I see. And tell me, Sibylla – then what will you do?

She said nothing. An eternity seemed to pass. Just when she thought her pounding heart would burst through her ribcage, he turned and walked downstairs. Slowly, she followed a few feet behind him, unsuccessfully attempting to control her breathing. She was holding her hand up to protect the flame and he was still extending his broken hand. Both moved one step at a time, the woman with the candle following the man, as if in a strange ceremonial procession.

She tried to think ahead. Would she tell him to phone? Should she do it herself? Four steps left. He had stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Walk on.’

He did as he was told and disappeared into the kitchen.

The silver candlestick was becoming heavy in her hand and she had to lower it. Now she too was standing on the floor of the hall.

He was out of sight.

‘Come to the door!’

No movement in the kitchen. She changed hands.

‘I’ll blow it out!’

But by now it was clear to both of them that this was an empty threat. Once the flame was extinguished, she could do nothing. Then she would be completely in his power.

She walked through a door opposite the kitchen door. It led into a sitting room, carpeted with the same material as the upstairs bedroom. There was a sofa with an occasional table in front of it. No telephone anywhere.

On the wall to her left was the door leading into the workshop. It was slightly open. Her arm had become tired and she had to hold the candlestick with both hands now. Not a sound from the kitchen.

‘Come out so I can see you!’

Still no reply.

She walked into the workshop, closing the door behind her. There it was, a grey Cobra set spattered with paint in every colour of the rainbow. The dial was underneath the receiver, which meant she had to use both hands. Watching the door to the kitchen, she carefully put the candlestick down, got hold of the receiver and began dialling with shivering fingers. Fear invaded her body, causing an almost physical pain. So near, yet so far from help.

Then he came at her.

Roaring, he tore open the door to the sitting room and before she could react, beat her to the floor with a kitchen chair. The pain made the world go dark. A moment later he was sitting astride her and she knew that one of her ribs was broken.

He was hissing with rage.

‘Don’t ever do that again!’

Trying to keep the pain away from her mind, she just shook her head.

‘The Lord is with me. You cannot get away.’

She shook her head again. Anything to make him get up. Anything to stop him sitting on her ribcage.

He looked around.

‘Stay on the floor!’

She nodded. At last, he left her alone. His first move was to take a cloth from the table and wind it tightly round his injured hand. She wondered if he was right-handed, because if so he would be really handicapped. Not as handicapped as she was, though. That fucking candle was still alight. She hadn’t even managed to extinguish it.

What a bloody awful, shitty mess. And she had been so close.

She tried to twist a little to find a position where the pain would ease. Her jacket had balled up just where the pain was focused. He saw her move and put his foot on her stomach.

‘Stay still!’

The pain was so intense she couldn’t breathe, and her face contorted. She saw flashing stars under her eyelids before she blacked out. A moment later she opened her eyes again. He had taken his foot away, but was standing close to her, stretching out his damaged hand and raising the other. His face was deathly white. The raised hand was gripping a crucifix, which she had seen before. It was in one of the images among Patrik’s print-outs.

He suddenly let it fall on her stomach.

‘All yours!’

The crucifix wasn’t heavy, but she instinctively tensed her stomach muscles as it fell and a new wave of pain flowed through her.

‘You carry it yourself. It’s your walk to Golgotha.’

If she had been able to speak, she might have asked what he meant.

‘Get up now. We’re going outside.’