Missing (12 page)

S
he rarely granted herself the luxury of shopping in a 7-Eleven store, where the prices were always way above average. This time though, her usual rules had to go overboard. She needed enough food to keep going for a few days and she needed to buy it early, before the doors opened to Sofia High School. The idea was to get in as soon as possible, before the corridors filled with pupils and their observant teachers.

Minutes after seven o'clock, she had stocked up on baked beans, bananas, yoghurt and crisp-bread. She was ready to go, the moment the school porter or whoever unlocked the doors to paradise. She would be left in peace there.

By twenty past the school's ‘responsible person', whoever he was, had done his duty. When he was gone, she crossed the street, went in through the main door and simply walked up all the stairs to the corridor at the top of the building, meeting no one on the way. It was an old building and her footfalls echoed between
its stone walls. Up there, the door to the attic was just as she remembered it.

 STAFF ONLY
NO ACCESS

Underneath the sign, the responsible person had placed a handwritten note, warning that the floor was in bad repair and in danger of collapse.

It couldn't be better.

The door was locked by an ordinary padlock. She sighed, missing her Victorinox pen-knife. Presumably it was part of the evidence in the case and stored in a police station somewhere. The loop in the wall was held by four screws. She rooted around in her rucksack for some kind of implement and found her nail-file. It had to work.

It did, in fact she had barely prodded at the upper screw before it came out. She felt a small, chilly shiver of suspicion. Did somebody else know about the quiet seclusion of this attic? Still, she had no time to reconsider. The rumble of voices from the floors below was growing and she went in, closing the door behind her.

Down a few steps. There was a handrail to hold on to. It was looking different now. She had been there six, seven years ago and since then the school had been renovated, that had been obvious from just walking up the stairs.
Last time, the attic had been full of rubbish and old junk, but the dodgy floor presumably meant that they had cleared away as much as possible. All that was left were a few piles of old textbooks.

She recalled that it had been summer back then and the heat under the poorly insulated roof had been suffocating. Maybe that was why the attic space was unused. Anyway, this time heat would not be a problem – on the contrary.

The clock was still where she remembered it. Seen close-up, the Sofia School clock was enormous. They had rigged up two lamps to light the clock-face. The clock had been broken then, but now she could see the minute hand moving. This worried her a little. How often did they need to fix the clock?

She forced herself to stop worrying. If she just kept her things along the far wall, she would have time to hide if some busybody suddenly turned up.

It didn't take long to roll out her mat and put the sleeping bag on top. She hung her panties and towel to dry on an electric cable. Tonight she had to find the staff-room shower and wash her smalls again, because if left to go sour they'd smell bad forever. She still felt dirty. Thomas's hands were far away by now, but somehow they had left her coated in a sticky film. Had
he woken up yet and found that she'd gone? What would he do then?

So, here she was. Hidden in an attic. Humiliated, hounded and abandoned.

Over the years, she'd had so many reasons for giving in but something inside her had made her fight on. Maybe the moment had come, for was all this not reason enough? It might be a relief to finally admit that she was nothing but a mistake, from beginning to end.

She listened out for the noise of the pupils filling the school.

Silly-billy Sibylla. Sibylla's a banger, grill her. Sylla Bylla, kill 'er.

Maybe they had been right? They had found her out, smelled her otherness when she was just a child. All the time, people had just been following their instincts about her, sensing that she wasn't meant to join their groups. She hadn't understood at first and had to learn the hard way. Her stubborn fighting back had gained her a little extra time, which had not been hers by right. She and Heino, and all the rest of the outcasts, were a kind of undergrowth in society. They seemed destined to make the standard citizen feel more satisfied with his existence, by giving him a chance to rank his success relative to their failure.

Well, there are worse fates than always pitching your demands in life as low as possible, in
the name of social balance. Sheep and goats are sorted from the outset, anyway.

She lay down. The bell rang and the whole building fell silent.

It would be so easy to give up. Accept that you were a lost soul, fit for nothing. She would never go to the police willingly, never ever, but there were other ways of giving in.

If she didn't have the strength to walk as far as Väst Bridge, something could surely be managed right here in the attic.

T
hey had let her go home two weeks later. The silence in the large house was as solid as concrete. Gun-Britt had been given notice, presumably because Beatrice couldn't bear the shame of a servant observing her daughter's growing belly. As few eyes as possible must see it. Walks were strictly forbidden. After dark, Sibylla was allowed to wander in the garden, but never to stray to the wrong side of the fence.

Her father spent almost all his time at home in his study. Now and then she heard him walk across the tiled floor at the bottom of the stairs.

She ate in her room, her own choice after the first evening meal back home. It had been painful, her parents silent to the point of muteness but somehow still speaking volumes. How could she blame them? Her whole being was in contradiction to their expectations of a daughter. They had looked forward to showing off a model young person, proudly confirming the success and dignity of the Forsenström
family. Instead all she gave them was the shame of a total failure, which must be hidden away from the prying, malicious eyes of the local citizenry.

No problem, she really preferred eating on her own.

She did not think often about Mick. He was a dream she had dreamt. He was somebody she met long ago. Someone who didn't exist any more.

Nothing that had been before stayed the same. Everything was different now.

She had been mentally ill.

She had become a person who had been sick in the head – gone mad, weird. Nothing could change that. What she had experienced she would never be able to share with anyone. No one would understand what it had been like. No one would want to try.

At the same time, a sense of having been unjustly treated was lurking inside her. It grew stronger day by day until it almost consumed her. It was unfair that she should be here, because she didn't want to stay. If she could, she would have left long ago.

She was carrying a load of guilt on her shoulders, made heavier each day as their disappointed eyes followed her around the house. All she wanted was to get away from them, but instead she was their prisoner. While she was
waiting, her stomach was growing steadily bigger. What was she waiting for? What was it?

She was like a tool without a will of its own, helping to build the dream of two unknown adoptive parents-to-be. Her body was working for them.

Of course, everyone was becoming very keen on looking after her. Even her mother tried her best. Her swelling stomach became something she could hide behind now, but what would happen when it had gone?

Then what would they do about her?

The word ‘adoption' had seemed purely descriptive, free of values. It just sounded like any ordinary word – ‘percentage', say, or ‘democracy'. It meant giving her child away.

She had to give away this thing that had turned up inside her body without being asked and made her grow bigger and bigger. Now she could feel it kicking when she was lying still. It was kicking against the tense skin on her stomach, as if wanting her to know it was there.

There was a knock on the door. Sibylla checked the time. It must be her supper.

‘Come in.'

Her mother entered, carrying a tray, which she put down on her desk. Sibylla realised at once that there was something on her mind. Usually the tray
ritual was quick, but now Beatrice was taking her time, apparently engrossed in arranging the place-setting just so.

Sibylla had been lying on her bed reading. She sat up, watching her mother's back.

‘The vegetables, Sibylla. You didn't eat them yesterday. You should be eating lots of greens, it's important just now.'

‘Tell me why.'

Her mother stopped in the middle of a movement. A few seconds passed before she answered.

‘It's important for …'

She cleared her throat.

‘… the child.'

Is that so? The child, now. It had taken time for her to get the words across her lips. The strain had been obvious, just by watching her back. Suddenly, Sibylla lost her temper. ‘Why is it so important to look after the baby?'

Her mother turned slowly to face her.

‘I haven't been getting … pregnant. It's up to you to take responsibility for your actions.'

Sibylla didn't answer, mostly because there was so much to say.

Her mother seemed to be pulling herself together. Obviously it wasn't just the vegetables she had wanted to talk about. The value of
eating your greens had just been an unfortunate sideline. Sibylla watched her as she steeled herself to carry out her real errand.

‘I want you to tell me about your child's father. Who is he?'

Sibylla did not answer.

‘Was it the youth with the car? That Mikael Persson? Was it?'

‘Might have been. Why? What does it matter?'

She could not stop herself. Her mother was trying hard to control her anger, but Sibylla wasn't going to help her. Not any more.

‘I just wanted to let you know that he's not in Hultaryd any more. All the motor sports people had to go. Your father owned that property and he decided it was convenient to have it knocked down. I gather that Mikael has moved out of town.'

Sibylla had to smile. It was not the prospect of the YPSMS building being demolished that made her grimly amused, but the likelihood that her mother was not quite normal, mentally. It was the first time she was able to contemplate the possibility. Mum really seemed to believe that she was almighty.

‘I thought you'd better know.'

Beatrice obviously felt everything necessary had been said and was about to leave the room. Her daughter's question hit her halfway across the floor.

‘Why did you have a baby?'

Beatrice Forsenström's left foot stuck in the rug. She turned. Sibylla saw something new in her mother's eyes. She had never noticed it before, but now it was unmistakable.

It was fear. Beatrice was afraid of her own daughter.

‘Was it because Granny thought it was time for you to produce a child?'

Her mother remained speechless.

‘Are you happy to be a mother? At having a daughter?'

They kept staring at each other. Sibylla felt the baby stirring a little inside her.

‘What did Granny make of me having a mental illness? Or haven't you told her?'

Suddenly her mother's lower lip started trembling. ‘Why do you do this to me?'

Sibylla snorted.

‘Why do I do this to
you
? You've got to be fucking insane.'

The swearword tipped Beatrice back into normal mode.

‘We don't use words like that in this house.'

‘Is that so? You don't, maybe. But I do! Fuck,
fuck, fuck
!'

He mother was backing away in the direction of the door. Now she was thinking of phoning the hospital. Clearly she had a madwoman in the house.

‘Oh, Mummy, why don't you run away and
phone? With any luck you'll get rid of me once and for all.'

Beatrice had pulled the door open.

‘Meanwhile I'll eat all my vegetables. In case that child might be harmed if I didn't.'

Beatrice threw a last terrified glance in her direction and disappeared. When Sibylla heard her hurried steps down the stairs, she ran out on the landing. She watched her mother dash across the hall in the direction of Mr Forsenström's study. Sibylla shouted after her.

‘You forgot to answer my question!'

No response from downstairs.

Sibylla went back and faced the food-tray. Boiled carrots and peas. She grabbed the plate in both hands and flung it into the waste-paper basket.

Then she pulled out a suitcase and started packing.

S
he woke when he opened the door. Before she had time to do anything, he had already got down the few steps and looked around before striding across the floor. He still hadn't seen her.

She was lying very still, watching him.

Slight build, blond. Wire-rimmed spectacles.

He stepped up on the small platform below the clock, bent forward and put his face against the clock-face. He stretched out his arms towards the perimeter and in the light falling in through the glass, he looked like a crucified figure of Jesus.

Or Da Vinci's Man. Though with aerials attached. It was two minutes before twelve.

She scanned the attic, still motionless. There was a chance of reaching the door in time, but she would have to leave her things. He was standing in a dangerous position. If he lost his balance, he might fall out through the clock-face.

The seconds passed. The longer of his head-aerials made one more forward jump. She
hardly dared breathe, terrified of being discovered.

Finally he lowered his arms. The next moment he turned and saw her. The sight scared him, she could see that. He was not only scared but also a little ashamed at having been seen. Neither of them said anything, but they kept staring at each other. His face was in the shade.

How in the name of God would she get out of this? He didn't look very strong. On no account must he be allowed to leave the attic before she had talked to him. She sat up slowly, figuring that it might look threatening if she stood up.

‘What are you doing?'

Her tone had been hesitant. Although he didn't answer at once, he seemed less tense.

‘Nothing special.'

‘No? It looked quite alarming from over here.'

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘What about you? What are you doing here?'

Good question. What am I doing here?

‘I was just … having a rest.'

‘Are you sleeping rough? Or something?'

She smiled. Well, well – he went straight to the point. Usually people tried to avoid facing the misery.

‘It's not so rough here as other places.'

‘Is it because you're homeless? Like, with nowhere to live?'

Why should she deny it? Anyway, there was
no other reasonable explanation for her pres ence in the attic.

‘You could say that.'

He stepped down from the platform.

‘That's cool. I want to do that when I leave school.'

He would like to do
what
?

‘Why?'

‘Seems brilliant. No one asks you to do things or cares what you do.'

True enough. At least that was one aspect of being ‘of no fixed abode'.

‘If that's what you really want, there are better ways of going about getting it.'

He grinned.

‘Tell me about it.'

She still wasn't sure that he was serious. Maybe he was just kidding her.

‘Are you a junkie as well?'

‘No, I'm not.'

‘I thought all you people were junkies. I mean, isn't that why? That's what my Mum says.'

‘Mums don't know everything.'

‘Is that right?'

He said that with a sneer. She could see that he was not scared any more. He came over to her and she got up.

‘Is this all you own?'

‘Yes.'

He eyed the sleeping mat and the rucksack.
She watched him examining her things. He actually looked quite impressed.

‘Dead cool.'

It was strange to be regarded as a model being, just for once. Still, this was enough talking about her.

‘What are you doing here? Don't you know the floor is in really bad shape?'

‘Yeah, live dangerously – help, help.'

He showed how little he cared by jumping up and down a couple of times. She put her hand on his arm.

‘Hey, stop that. It would be a bore if you went straight through.'

‘Oh, come off it.'

He pulled his arm away but stopped jumping. For a while she looked at him in silence. His turning up here suddenly was a threat, but it was still not clear how serious it was. She must find that out before he left. She picked up a crumpled copy of some pupils' handout from the floor, just to make her question seem more casual.

‘Do you come here a lot?'

He paused before answering.

‘Only sometimes.'

He was lying, but she couldn't figure out why.

‘Which year are you in?'

‘Fifth.'

‘What about the rest of the class? When are your mates turning up?'

He shook his head. It dawned on her that he was alone. He comes here, but no one else.

‘It's you who fixed the screws in the lock, isn't it?'

He inhaled at the same time as he spoke.

‘Yup.'

She understood now. This was not one of the sheep, but another goat. Yet one more who had already been excluded from the homogenous mass.

‘So what kind of person are you? Do you like school?'

He stared at her, apparently fearing for her sanity.

‘Yeah, of course. Fantastic.'

No, in other words. Kids did this irony thing a lot nowadays, or at least the few she'd been talking to did. He kicked at a textbook on the floor. It bounced against her mat and stopped. Hello there,
Mathematics for the Fourth Form
.

‘Do they give lots of benefit cash then?'

She shook her head. Was he already checking out his future rights as a homeless person?

‘What do you eat and stuff? Do you root around in rubbish bins?'

He looked disgusted.

‘It has happened.'

‘Sick.'

‘You'll have to try it if that's the future you're going in for.'

‘But you get money hand-outs, don't you? Like, to buy grub and things.'

She couldn't be bothered answering. The obvious point was that if you accepted hand-outs, some people would still be in a position to tell you what you must and mustn't do. Then the school-bell rang. He seemed not to notice.

‘Still, I'm not sure. Maybe I'll go for a job in TV instead.'

‘Shouldn't you be off now?'

He shrugged his shudders.

‘Suppose so.'

He sighed, turning to walk away.

She still wasn't convinced that he would keep this to himself and the problem was acute. A straightforward question was the simplest solution.

‘Are you going to tell?'

‘Tell, what?'

‘About me being here. Sleeping over for a bit.'

The thought had obviously never occurred to him.

‘Why should I tell?'

‘No special reason.'

‘What's your name?'

He had walked up the few steps to the door, but turned towards her.

‘Tab. You?'

‘Sylla. Tab's not your real name, is it? Did you pick it yourself?'

He shrugged.

‘Can't remember.'

‘What's your real name then?'

‘Give over – what's this?
Jeopardy
or something?'

She had no idea what he was talking about and waved a hand vaguely.

‘I just wondered.'

He sighed, letting go of the door handle.

‘Patrik. My real name is Patrik.'

She smiled and after a moment's hesitation he smiled back. He turned to the door again.

‘Cheers.'

‘Bye, Patrik. See you some time?'

Then he was gone.