Missing (13 page)

O
f course it didn't work out. She was picked up and sent home within hours of the vegetable incident.

It didn't take long for the hospital to respond. The car crunched along the gravel drive and minutes later someone rang the doorbell.

When Beatrice Forsenström opened the door, Sibylla was already sitting on the stairs, halfway down, with her suitcase next to her. No one took any notice of her.

‘Thank you for coming so soon.'

Her mother opened the door wider to allow them to step inside. The younger of the two was eyeing the handsome hall, obviously impressed. Maybe he was wondering how anyone could go nuts while living in such a grand house.

Her mother went straight to the point.

‘I cannot deal with her any more. She's completely impossible.'

The second man was nodding gravely.

‘Do you have any idea if she has actually become psychotic again?'

‘I can't be sure. Of course, she has these
outbursts, making accusations against me and although I know she mustn't upset herself, it's so difficult …'

Her mother covered her eyes with her hand. Sibylla heard the door to her father's study opening and his indoor shoes pad across the tiled floor. Then she could see him over the handrail. He went up to the men and shook their hands.

‘Henry Forsenström.'

‘Håkan Holmgren. We've come to collect Sibylla.'

He nodded and sighed.

‘Best so, I think.'

Sibylla got up.

‘I'm packed and ready to go.'

Everybody turned to watch her. Her mother took a step closer to her husband, who put a protective arm round her. They seemed worried that their daughter would throw some kind of fit. When she reached the bottom of the stairs the small gathering scattered to let her pass. Once outside, she turned. The male nurses hadn't moved. She addressed them politely.

‘I'm sorry, are you waiting for something?'

HÃ¥kan Holmgren took a few steps towards her.

‘No, we're OK. Let's go. Sure you've packed everything you need?'

Sibylla just turned and walked towards their car, opened a rear door and climbed inside.
The others joined her a little later, presumably after another briefing on her state of mind. She never saw her parents again. Her last glimpse was of them standing on the fucking tiled floor in the hall, slandering her reputation behind her back.

After a couple of days they gave her a room of her own.

The moment she entered the ward one of her fellow patients took it into her head that Sibylla was the Virgin Mary with a new baby Jesus inside her. It wasn't a problem for her, but the staff soon became utterly bored with the woman's pleading for her sins to be forgiven. Getting Sibylla out of the way seemed the most effective solution.

Delighted with the sick woman's helpful delusions, Sibylla gratefully pulled her own door shut. All she wanted was to be left in peace.

Her belly grew bigger and bigger.

Now and then a midwife would turn up, check her blood pressure and listen to the baby through some kind of inverted funnel. The growth was apparently doing all right, because the midwife didn't call often. Instead she gave Sibylla a book about pregnancy and delivery, which went straight into the drawer in her bedside table.

This time she was allowed walks on her
own in the park, because they all agreed that the exercise was good for her. She spent a few hours walking every day. The white stone buildings looked quite beautiful, at least from a distance. If she let her mind go blank, it was possible to imagine that this was the park of a great castle.

The man who wanted her to talk didn't call very often either. Maybe he had sicker patients to look after. Apparently she was no longer crazy, only pregnant. It wasn't his fault that back home it amounted to more or less the same thing.

About two weeks before the baby was due she felt her first true contraction, an intense pain as if from a hammer blow. It passed as suddenly as it had arrived. Alone in her room, she collapsed on the bed, feeling terrified. What was that?

Then the pain struck her again, fierce and relentless.

Something had broken inside her. Fluid flooded down between her legs.

This must be death. It was her punishment. Something had broken inside her and her blood was pouring out of her. Once the pain had faded she looked down at her legs. No blood. Had she peed herself? Lost her mind or something?

The pain came in a wave next time. It hurt so much she was screaming out loud. Seconds later
a female nurse came rushing in and started dealing with the wet sheets. Sibylla felt ashamed.

‘I'm sorry. Please, I need help. I think something's broken inside me.'

The woman just beamed at her.

‘Don't worry, Sibylla. You're about to give birth – that's all. Just wait here. I'll go and phone Transport.'

She hurried away. Phone Transport? Where were they going to transport her?

‘Good luck, Sibylla!' That's what they had said after pushing her stretcher into an ambulance. The words were ringing in her ears.

Now she was in another hospital, lying in bed alone in another room.

‘Would you like us to call your husband?'

She had shaken her head. There was an uneasy silence.

‘Is there anyone else you'd like to be with you?'

She had not answered the question, just closed her eyes and concentrated on trying to stop the next wave of pain. She didn't have a hope, of course. Nothing she could do helped against the unbearable pain racking her body. She was reduced to being just a body, possessed by an alien force intent on drilling a hole large enough to let the creature inside it get out. Her mind was out of order, her will had been dismantled, leaving her exposed to this
purposeful, unstoppable process that would give her no peace until it was over.

She was about to make life.

A white clock faced her on the opposite wall. Its hands jumped forward regularly, her only reminder of a world outside that followed other laws.

The pause between each little jump seemed so long. Hours passed.

Now and then a woman would pop in to see her. She could hear another woman's screams from somewhere nearby. Had it been like this for her mother when she gave birth to Sibylla? Was that why she never really liked her daughter, didn't even accept her existence? If you caused this much pain, how can you ask to be loved?

When the minute hand had jumped round the clock-face four times and she was almost unconscious from the effort, a new woman came to see her. Once more the visitor stuck her fingers in there, but this time it was apparently different. Her opening was ten centimetres. It sounded like a mistake, the cleft in there must be vast. Her body couldn't hold together any more. It had fallen apart, dissolved.

She was lifted onto a delivery chair. Once seated there, spread-eagled, legs wide apart and her genitals on full show, she was told to push. She was anxious to please them, but it seemed
obvious that pushing would finally make her split in half. Her head would split too, right round from her chin to the back of her neck. She was pleading with them to stop the pain, but they were all in the service of the force and wouldn't let her off.

Someone said she could see the head. She told Sibylla to relax and stop pushing.

A head?

They could see a head. Coming out of her.

Once more now, Sibylla. Then it's over.

Suddenly the room echoed with a baby's crying. The last tearing pain faded away and was gone, as abruptly as it had come.

She turned to see a small dark head resting on the shoulder of a nurse, who was swiftly leaving the room.

The minute hand did another of its little jumps, just as if nothing special had happened. But a person had just emerged from inside her. A tiny human being with a head covered in dark hair. Unbidden, this creature had started growing inside her and then dynamited its way out.

Sibylla was still sitting in the seat, her head leaning heavily against the backrest and her legs wide apart. She watched as the clock registered the passing of another minute, wondering why no one had ever asked her if she minded.

I
n the chilly attic, the large hands rotated round and round the white clock-face and day followed night followed day.

She had found a shower-room that wasn't locked and crept down to have a hot shower every night. Standing for a long time under the water helped to thaw her body, but did not shift her depression.

When her unexpected visitor had left, the first instinct had been to pack up and leave. But then, where would she go? Her helplessness exhausted her so much she stayed where she was.

She didn't care. Let what happens happen.

She took just one additional precaution by hiding her things and rolling out her mat in the corner by the chimney-shaft. It was further from the door, but on the other hand she was less likely to be taken by surprise again.

He came back on the third day after his first
visit. Lying very still, she listened as the door opened and closed.

‘Sylla?'

So it was the boy. But she couldn't see the door, so there might be someone with him.

‘Sylla? It's Tab. OK, Patrik. Where are you?'

She peeped round the chimney-shaft. He was alone.

His face lit up when he saw her.

‘Great. I thought maybe you'd moved on.'

She sighed and got up.

‘I thought about it, believe me, but there aren't that many free pitches.'

Then she noticed that he was carrying a bulging rucksack and held a rolled-up mat under his arm.

‘Off some place?'

‘I'm staying here.'

‘Here?'

‘Sure. I'm shacking up here tonight, if that's OK by you?'

She shook her head helplessly.

‘Why yes – but why?'

‘It's cool. I want to experience it.'

She sighed, looking around the attic.

‘Patrik, this isn't a game. I don't sleep here because it's a fun thing to do.'

‘What's your reason then?'

This was irritating.

‘The reason is that I've got nowhere else to go just now.'

He must have felt that she needed persuading and got something out from his rucksack. It was a grill-bag.

‘Spare-ribs. Would you like some?'

She had to smile at the way he had brought her a bribe. He asked again, his head a little to the side.

‘Please, can I stay here tonight?'

She shrugged.

‘I can't stop you, I suppose. But what would your parents say to your sleeping rough?'

‘Never mind.'

This worried her. Christ, he might have told his parents of his plans.

‘Do they know where you are?'

Now he was looking at her with eyes that said how-thick-can-you-be.

‘Dad's out driving his taxi all night and Mum's away on some kind of course.'

‘Does anybody else know that you're here?'

He sighed.

‘You're so fucking anxious. No, no one knows where I am.'

Anxious? You'd be anxious too, if only you knew where your bit of harmless fun would get you. Boyo, you're about to share a night in an attic with a wanted serial killer, probably a religious maniac.

‘Fine. No problem. You're welcome.'

He didn't need to be asked twice, deciding quickly to spread out his sleeping mat on the
platform in front of the great clock. She thought it better to be able to keep an eye on him and pulled her own mat to the other side of the chimney-shaft. He examined his handiwork with satisfaction and then sat down, looking at her expectantly.

‘Are you hungry? Would you like some of this stuff?'

Couldn't deny that. Baked beans had its limitations.

‘Sure, if you've got enough.'

He tore open the bag and spread it out on the floor between them. Then he added ready-made potato salad, two cans of Coke and two bags of crisps.

‘Help yourself.'

What a feast! She came and sat next to him. He seemed to be just as hungry as she was and they ate in silence. Each spare-rib was gnawed down to the bone before being put back in the bag next to the uneaten ribs. When the two piles were almost the same height, she was so full it seemed impossible to eat a thing more. She leaned back against the wall.

He sounded surprised.

‘Are you done already? I bought double helpings.'

‘That's nice of you. We'll keep some for tomorrow.'

His mouth was still full.

‘Maybe your stomach has shrunk. Seemingly it does if you don't get much food.'

Fascinating. Sounded true, too. He must have been used to eating his fill, because he immediately started on another spare-rib. By now, even his cheeks were smeared with oil.

‘Shit. Where do you go to wash?'

Sibylla shrugged. ‘If you're homeless you've got to get used to mess. Running water is sheer luxury.'

He stared at his sticky hands. Then he looked at her hands. She held them up in front of him. Only her thumb and index finger on one hand had touched the food. He quickly licked his fingers and wiped them on the legs of his trousers. Then he looked around.

‘Right. Now what?'

‘Now what – what?'

‘I mean, you can't just … like, sit here? What do you usually do?'

Ah, the little person inside that almost fully-grown body is quite clueless.

‘What do you usually do? When you don't hole up in attics and play at being homeless?'

‘Mess around with my computer, I suppose.'

She nodded and drank some Coke.

‘Not so easy if you've got nowhere to stay.'

He grinned.

‘Maybe ogling the telly's the answer, then.'

She went back to her corner and crawled into her sleeping bag, sticking her hands into her
armpits to keep them warm. Then she turned her head to watch him.

He was obviously bored. Already. Failing other distractions, he had started tidying up after their meal. The clock behind him showed ten minutes past six.

When he had finished clearing up, he rolled out his sleeping bag and followed her example. It was a cheap model, which meant that he would be cold during the night. That was helpful. He might leave her alone after that.

He was lying on his back with his hands under his head.

‘Why did you become homeless? Haven't you ever lived any place?'

She sighed.

‘I did live somewhere once.'

‘Where?'

‘Somewhere in Småland.'

‘Why did you leave?'

‘It's a long story.'

He turned his head and looked at her.

‘Go ahead, I'd like to hear it. It's not as if, like, we're in a hurry.'