Missing

by Karin Alvtegen

  She smiled and put the money away in her handbag. 'Thanks ever so much.'

  Luckily she had the key to the luggage locker in her jacket pocket, not in the briefcase she had forgotten at the Grand Hotel.

  She collected her rucksack and, after a few minutes in the ladies' toilet, emerged wearing jeans and a padded anorak. She had decided what to do next.

  It had to be a night with the Johanssons.

  On her way to the allotments in Eriksdal she bought one tin of baked beans, a loaf of bread, two apples and one tomato. She felt the first drops of rain just as she was crossing Eriksdal Street. For days now the sky had been covered by low cloud as grey as pewter.

  All the allotment sheds seemed abandoned and she was grateful for the dull March day that did not tempt gardeners outdoors to their plots. Maybe it was just too early in the season anyway. The snow seemed to had gone for good this year, but the ground might still be hard with frost.

  This was the first time she had gone there during the day, which was taking a risk, but she was tired and weary. She was running a temperature and needing peace and quiet.

  As usual, the key was tucked away in the hanging basket. They had removed the geraniums that were flourishing in the basket every summer, but the key had remained in its old hiding place. It had been the obvious place to check when she turned up at the little cottage for the first time, almost five years ago.

  Kurt and Birgit Johansson, the actual owners, had no idea they were sharing their cottage with Sibylla. She was always careful to leave it as she found it and never damage any of their things. She had picked their cottage partly because of finding the key so easily, but also because the cushions on their garden seats were unusually thick. Pushed together on the floor, they made a decent mattress. Besides, the Johanssons had the excellent sense to equip their small leisure hide-away with a paraffin heater and hotplate. With any luck, she would be left alone for a good while since they restricted their visiting for the summer months.

  The cottage, really little more than a shed, was damp and cold.

  Still, the single room with a floor area of about ten square yards made it one of the biggest allotment buildings around. Along one of the walls stood a couple of kitchen cupboards, next to a small sink. She checked the cupboard under the sink for the bucket that should be in place under the cut-off drainpipe.

  There was small table with flaking paint near the window, which was partly covered by fly-shit-spotted flowered curtains. Two odd wooden chairs were placed on either side of the table. She pulled the curtains, took a wrought-iron candlestick down from a shelf and lit the candle. By now she was shivering.

  She pulled up the zip on her anorak. The paraffin can was almost empty, so she'd have to walk to the garage and fill it up later in the afternoon. Once the heater was lit, she took a china bowl from a cupboard, placed her apples and tomato in it and put it on the table. She had learned to appreciate the small, good things in life, like making your environment look as nice as possible. She pulled her sleeping bag from the rucksack and lined up the seat-cushions on the floor. They were damp, so she put her mat down first. Then she crawled into the bag.

  Resting her head on her arms, she studied the ceiling panels and decided to forget all about the Grand Hotel. Nobody knew about her and even if someone had noticed her, they'd never be able to work out who she was. Feeling better now that she'd convinced herself she was safe, she descended more and more deeply into sleep, untroubled by any dark premonitions.

  As soon as she heard the brisk knock on the door, she knew who was on the other side.

  She was in third form at the time. They were having a lesson in Geography. Everyone was staring at the classroom door.

  'Come in.'

  Miss put down her book and sighed when Beatrice Forsenström stepped in.

  Sibylla shut her eyes.

  She knew that Miss disliked these unannounced visits by Mrs Forsenström as much as Sibylla did herself. They were short but always broke the flow of the lesson and always involved some new demand for special treatment of Sibylla.

  The issue this time was a plan to raise money by selling Christmas decorations. A group of parents had been making decorative wreaths and bouquets and the pupils in Sibylla's class were asked to be door-to-door sellers. The proceeds would help to pay for a school-trip in the spring.

  Beatrice Forsenström had not joined the parent group. She had no patience with that kind of collective effort and the prospect of spending several evenings fiddling with folksy handicrafts simply out of question. Quite unsuitable for someone of her standing. Indeed, her reservations applied to her daughter too. The child must not be expected to rush around knocking on doors asking for hand-outs like some little beggar. When Sibylla brought the note from school, Beatrice had crumpled it and thrown it into the wastepaper-basket.

  Now, no one could miss the irritation in Mrs Forsenström's voice.

  'So how much is each child expected to get from selling these things?'

  Miss had gone to stand behind her desk.

  'It depends. I'm not at all sure what the final sum will be.'

  'Please let me know as soon as you have an idea. My daughter will not join in the selling, but naturally I'll make a financial contribution.'

  Miss looked at Sibylla. She was focusing on the geography book in front of her. There are four rivers in Halland County. Then she heard how Miss tried her best.

  'But the children are so looking forward to the selling part. They think it's really exciting.'

  'Quite so, but you mustn't include Sibylla. Just tell me what would be appropriate and I'll give you the money there and then. Don't worry about that.'

  'You must realise that we took this initiative precisely so that parents shouldn't have to pay extra for the school-trip.'

  Suddenly Beatrice Forsenström looked pleased. Sibylla understood that her mother had manipulated Miss into saying exactly what she had hoped to hear. Now Mrs Forsenström took the chance to express her precise views on the whole matter.

  Sibylla shut her eyes.

  'Nothing personal, but I must say it's seems extraordinary that the school should make decisions of this nature without consulting ALL the parents. I don't doubt that some of them thought this arrangement might be the best way to deal with their problems, but personally I prefer paying what's due as and when. Just do remember in future that my husband and I wish to be informed of anything involving our daughter. And of course, we expect to be listened to before any venture is agreed.'

  Miss didn't say any more then.

  She had wanted to go selling with Erika. Miss had paired everybody off so that no one would go alone. Sibylla had been looking forward to it for a whole week. She heard her mother turn round and leave.

  The first protests came the moment the door slammed shut.

  'Miss. It isn't fair if Sibbie is excused from selling.'

  'Miss. Can I go round with Susanne and Eva instead now?'

  Erika had sounded hopeful.

  Torbjorn who was sitting just in front of Sibylla turned round to her and said: 'If you've got such a lot of money your mum could pay for the whole class to go on the trip.'

  She felt the tears burn behind her eyelids. There was nothing more hateful than suddenly being the target of everyone's eyes.

  'Listen class, it's time to take a break now.'

  The banging of chairs being pulled back.When Sibylla looked up again she was alone in the classroom. Only Miss was still there, standing behind her desk. She smiled wanly at Sibylla and sighed.

  Sibylla felt something running out of her nose. She had to snivel to stop it from dripping on the desk.

  'I'm really sorry, Sibylla. There's nothing I can do.'

  Sibylla nodded and looked down again. The picture of the harbour fortress in Varberg became bubbly in two places when her eyes overflowed. Miss went over to her, putting her hand on Sibylla's shoulder.

  'You're allowed to stay in this break, if you like.'

/>   She felt quite dopey when she woke up. Must have been a bad dream. Her throat was swollen and it hurt to swallow. The heater had gone out and there was no more paraffin. She reached for her boots. They were freezing. A raw chill was spreading from the boots up through her legs. She was already wearing her anorak.

  Lifting the hem of the curtain, she peered outside. The other allotments looked quiet and empty. She grabbed an apple on her way out and then opened the front door. It wasn't raining any more but the sky was such a dark grey it seemed strange that light could penetrate it at all.

  The small garden had been neatly prepared for the winter months. The Johanssons had been very careful to follow recommendations in their gardening books. All dead plants had been cut back and put on the compost heap just inside the wooden fence. They had put fir branches over the borders, presumably where their most tender specimens were hiding during the winter.

  'Are you looking for somebody?'

  She started, quickly turning to see who had spoken. There was a man standing on the other side of the fence at a point outside the scanning range from her window. He was holding some cut branches.

  'Oops! You really made me jump!'

  He looked at her suspiciously and she couldn't blame him. It was well known that the Eriksdal Park area was frequented by junkies.

  'Kurt and Birgit asked me to look after their cottage for a couple of weeks. They're off to the Canaries.'

  She walked over to him and held out her hand across the fence. Maybe this chatty mention of the Canary Islands was a bit much? It was too late for second thoughts now.

  'My name is Monica. I'm Birgit's niece.'

  He shook her hand and introduced himself.

  'Uno Hjelm. Sorry to bother you, but we operate a kind of Neighbourhood Watch here. There's quite a few weird characters about in this area.'

  'I know. That's why they asked me to turn up once in while to keep an eye on things.'

  He nodded. She sensed that her lies had gone down quite well.

  'Off to the Canaries, eh? That's something else, now. Didn't say a word about that last week.' No surprise there.

  'It was a sudden inspiration. Well, they came across a cheap offer.'

  He looked towards the sky.

  'Well, we can only hope they get better weather down there. Not such a bad idea, getting away to the sun for a bit.' ‘I couldn't agree more.'

  He seemed to be dreaming about travelling, so she took the opportunity to move on.

  'I'll go for a walk now and come back later.'

  'Right you are. Well, we might still be here, though I'm ready to give up pretty soon. I just thought I'd come and look the place over.'

  She nodded and walked down the path towards the small gate. She only hoped that Kurt and Birgit wouldn't turn up while she was off to the Statoil garage.

  Now, that would confuse Mr Hjelm.

  She walked as quickly as she could. The label in the sleeping bag stated that it would protect against temperatures as low as fifteen degrees below zero, but she'd woken up feeling freezing after her brief nap. If only she had a couple of aspirins for her throat. Maybe she could scrounge some at the Salvation Army hostel?

  She had almost reached the Statoil garage when the rain started again. Drying wet clothes was an utterly miserable exercise and she almost ran the last bit to get under the roof. If only she had an umbrella for the way back!

  The news posters for that afternoon were on display outside the garage doors. She looked quickly at them in the passing. One was yellow and the words were printed on two lines.

  VICTIM OF RITUAL MURDER AT THE GRAND

  Mysterious woman wanted by police

  She stopped to look.

  There was a photo below the headline. No question whose face it showed.

  It was Jorgen Grundberg's.

  Beatrice Forsenström sounded disapproving.

  'This is not the moment to discuss it. Just put on your dress and get ready now.'

  Sibylla was sitting on the edge of her bed in her underwear. She'd been steeling herself, choosing her moment with care. They were dressing for the Christmas party at her father's firm, the one time in the year when her mother might be open to persuasion. The idea of the party always put her in a good mood and she would be full of anticipation, hurrying about trying to get everyone looking their smartest. After all, in little Hultaryd there were few other opportunities for her to enjoy her status in full.

  'Please Mummy, I'd really like to go out selling the Christmas things. Just one day.'

  She'd tilted her head to the side appealingly. Maybe on this happy evening, her mother would indulge her little daughter?

  Beatrice was about to leave the room.

  'Sibylla, don't forget to wear your black shoes.'

  She swallowed. One more try. It couldn't do any harm.

  'Please Mummy…'

  Beatrice stopped. Now there was a vertical crease between her eyebrows.

  'Sibylla, you've heard me speak my mind already. My daughter doesn't have to run around begging to find the money for a school-trip. If you really insist on going, your father and I will pay whatever is required. It's quite wrong of you to make such a fuss and on this night of all times. You might show a little gratitude for what we do for you.'

  She marched out of the room.

  Staring at the floor, Sibylla was thinking that this was it. End of story. Not that she'd ever had a chance. Questioning her mother's decision had been too cheeky in the first place and now she'd only made it worse. Her mother had been jolted out of her party mood and Sibylla would be punished. Rows had to be paid for, over and over.

  The outlook was grim, as if things weren't bad enough already.

  The Christmas Party at Forsenström's Metal Foundry was an inevitable annual event. Sibylla had come to feel the same way about a Christmas do and root canal fillings. Executive Director and Mrs Forsenström were showing off their seasonal benevolence by inviting all Foundry employees, complete with their spouses and children.

  Sibylla's presence was a given, as was seating her at the high table for special guests. It was raised on a small platform and of course no other children were allowed to sit there. The young people had a table of their own, increasing the distance between them and Sibylla.

  The dress spread out on the bed seemed to be laughing at her.

  It hadn't even occurred to her that she might be let off wearing that dress, never mind that she was twelve years old and all her mates would be in jeans and V-necked tops from Fruit of the Loom. That was neither here nor there since Granny taken the trouble to go to one of the best shops in Stockholm and buy this dress for dear Sibylla. She would put it on and sit next to her parents on the podium, looking out over the people.

  She pulled the dress over her head. Looking at herself in the mirror, she saw its little-girl bodice flattening her breasts, which had started growing at last. It felt really tight. It was going to be a dreadful evening.

  Her mother was calling from downstairs.

  'Get the two blue hair-grips. Gun-Britt will help you with them.'

  An hour later, her hairgrips in place, she was seated between the Sales Manger and his smelly wife. She answered their questions about school politely, but kept glancing at the 'young table'. Her mother's eyes had been wandering in her direction several times. Presumably she was brooding over how to punish her daughter for being so difficult. What would she do?

  The answer didn't materialise until the dessert.

  'Sibylla, won't you sing something for us?'

  A black abyss opened up, right under her chair.

  'Mummy, must I really?'

  'Don't fuss, darling. You know so many nice Christmas songs!'

  The Sales Manager was smiling ingratiatingly.

  'A Christmas song would be a treat, just right for the occasion. Do you know Shine Bright Star Above?'

  She was caught now. There was no escape. She glanced round the table, but everyone was beaming at her. S
omeone started to clap and the applause was spreading to all the tables. The young people turned their faces her way, starting to chorus 'Sibylla! Sibylla! Sibylla!' to make her stand up.

  Beatrice sounded frosty.

  'Now, we don't have to woo you any more than this, do we Sibylla? Everyone is waiting.'

  Slowly she rose, pushing the chair back. The noisy room grew silent. She drew a deep breath. Get it over now. Someone at the young table shouted to her.

  'We can't see you, stand on the chair!'

  She stared in mute appeal at her mother, who just waved one hand a little to show she had no objection. Sibylla's legs were shaking so much, she feared she'd fall off the chair. The sneering looks on the faces of the young crowd were unmistakable. This was obviously the thrill of the evening. She inhaled deeply, starting to sing in a quavering voice.

  Even before reaching the end of the first line, she realised that she had pitched the start far too high to manage the notes at the end. Right enough, she didn't and as her voice was faltering, barely suppressed laughter hit her like a whiplash. Blushing furiously, she sat down. After a few seconds, the

  Sales Manager started applauding and hesitantly, others followed suit.

  Meeting her mother's eyes, she saw that she had been punished enough. She'd be left alone for now.

  On the way back, her father was pleased at the very satisfactory evening. Beatrice, leaning on his arm, was nodding in wifely agreement. Sibylla, walking a few paces behind them, had just decided to pick up a really nice stone when her mother turned her head.

  'And your singing went perfectly well after all, didn't it?'

  Neither of them missed the actual meaning of her words, but Beatrice couldn't resist another remark to round off her disciplinary exercise.

  'Such a shame you lost control over your voice at the end.'

  Sibylla didn't bother with the nice stone.

  Of all the bloody awful fucking things to happen. He had seemed so perfect.