Missing

by Karin Alvtegen

  Henry Forsenström came closer.

  'How do you feel now? Shouldn't I call Dr Wallgren?'

  Sibylla shook her head. Her father nodded to show that he had registered her answer and left the room. Sibylla looked at her mother.

  'I meant that I'm so sorry I fainted like that.'

  Beatrice removed the wet handkerchief that had cooled her forehead.

  'You can't help fainting, Sibylla. No need to apologise for that. But about the other thing we were talking about, you must do as you're told. Your father and I agree, you must never go to that place again.'

  Sibylla was close to tears.

  'Please, Mummy.'

  'Your weeping and wailing is simply pointless. We're just thinking of what's best for you, you know that.'

  'But the people there are my only friends.'

  Her mother pulled herself up straight. She was losing her patience. As far as she was concerned, the discussion was finished.

  Yes, it was finished, like everything else.

  A long, relaxing shower was usually a sure-fire way to cheer her up, but it didn't work this time. If anything she felt even more miserable when she was drying herself afterwards, as if hope had gone down the drain with the water.

  She took her wet towel and washed panties through to the laundry room on the other side of the corridor. The key worked its magic and she started the tumble-drier.

  Back in the shower room, she locked herself in again to get on with her new hairdo. First she cut her shoulder-length hair. It fell in large strands to the floor. Doing the back was difficult and the more she trimmed away, the clearer it became that in future her chances of flirting her way to free nights in hotels would be minimal. Still, that option had been pretty effectively taken from her anyway.

  Following the instructions carefully, she dyed the remaining tufts black. She ended up looking like an aged punk rocker. Not even fucking Uno Hjelm would recognise her now.

  She tidied up meticulously, honouring the understanding among the initiated in the secret 'clean-living' society. The slightest trace of any outsiders coming and going might make the regular tenants hide the key in a new place.

  When everything was in order, she settled down on the lavatory seat to wait for her things to dry. The newspaper was lying just inside the door. She hadn't found the courage to read it yet, but knew she mustn't put it off any longer. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed it.

  Pages 6, 7, 8 and the centre fold.

  32-year old Sibylla Forsenström, charged in her absence with the murder of 51-year-old Jorgen Grundberg in the Grand Hotel, yesterday carried out another brutal murder. At about 3 p.m. on Sunday, a 63-year-old man was found murdered in his summer cottage just north of Vastervik. The woman seems to have struck when the man was asleep and temporarily on his own in the cottage. The general method employed was identical to the murder of the Grand Hotel, but at present the police refuse to comment further on how the man was killed. They do however speak of both deaths as 'executions'. Both victims were grossly mutilated and had organs removed from the body. The police have not given any further details. Allegedly, the woman is suspected of being guilty of desecration as well as murder. The police statement emphasises that there is no discernible motive and that the victims seem to be picked at random.

  Sibylla couldn't bear reading any more of this and turned the page. The first thing she saw was a drawing of a face alarmingly like her own. The waiter in the Grand Hotel dining room must have an excellent memory for faces or maybe it was Hjelm, who had seen her with her hair down. Not that it would do much for him now.

  Oh, God – she was so fucking deep in all this shit. What had she done to deserve it?

  The police still have no definitive clues as to the whereabouts of 32-year-old Sibylla Forsenström and are looking for assistance from the so-called 'underworld' in Stockholm. Various informants claim to have seen the woman, for instance in Central Station and in an allotment area on Sodermalm.

  A national search warrant has gone out after the murder in Vastervik. According to an unconfirmed report the woman had left a message with religious overtones, also admitting guilt, near the scene of the murder. So far there is no hint of a motive for either crime.

  She got up hurriedly and vomited into the basin.

  The entire Swedish police force was out chasing her now, because she was known to be an insane ritual killer. How could one bottle of fucking hair-dye help? Her body was still convulsing, but having got rid of the banana her stomach had nothing more to offer. She drank some water and tried to calm down.

  Someone was knocking on the door.

  'Hi, will you be finished in there soon?'

  She glanced at her face in the mirror. The jet-black tufts on her head were standing straight up and her face was ashen. The overall effect was of a fading junkie.

  'I'm in the shower.'

  Closing her eyes, she prayed to God that whoever it was would go away. Of course, He had no special reason to listen this time either.

  'Please hurry up. The other shower room is occupied.'

  'OK.'

  Silence.

  She opened her make-up bag, rouged her cheeks and put on lipstick. It didn't improve matters much, but at least it was obvious that she had made an effort. Then she wiped away the half-digested banana with toilet paper and cleaned the basin.

  Listening at the door, she heard nothing except the noise of the tumble-drier. She had no choice but to tough it out. It would just seem even more suspicious if she crept out looking ashamed. She stepped outside briskly.

  He was sitting on the floor outside, reading a book.

  'That was quick. I didn't mean to hassle you.'

  When she came out, he rose. Then he saw her rucksack and looked bewildered.

  Sibylla pointed to it and smiled.

  'It's for the laundry.'

  He nodded.

  When she tried to open the door to the laundry room, her hand shook so much it was almost impossible to insert the key with its foot-long board into the keyhole. Finally the door clicked open. 'Have you just moved in?'

  She avoided having to look at him by walking up to the tumble-drier.

  'Yes, that's right.'

  'Cool. Hope you like it here.'

  She thought, if you don't bugger off to your shower I'll kick you where it hurts.

  She took out her panties and towel, quickly pushing the still dampish washing into her rucksack and watching from the corner of her eye as he went inside the shower room. Just as she was getting out of there he came back out, holding the newspaper in his left hand.

  She stiffened suddenly and came to a halt, as if her feet had stuck to the concrete floor.

  For a moment he looked confused again, then he held the paper out towards her.

  'Don't look so worried, it's just that you forgot your paper.'

  The annual Christmas Party, once more. She was seventeen, sitting at the high table.

  She'd asked her mother to be let off but received mock-surprise for an answer.

  'Why, darling? You'd enjoy an evening out, surely? You've been sitting at home for months.'

  Too true. Certainly she'd been sitting at home. It had been sixty-three days and nine hours since she last saw Mick. Every day Gun-Britt had collected her from Vetlanda in the tiny Renault. The afternoon walks had been forbidden, on the grounds that trust had been abused.

  'I don't want to go.'

  Her mother didn't answer. She just went into the dressing-room to find a suitable frock for her daughter's evening out.

  'Don't be silly, darling. Of course you'll join us.'

  Sibylla was sitting on her bed, watching her mother pick and choose in the wardrobe.

  'I'll come if I'm allowed to sit with the other young people.'

  Beatrice was stunned by this unheard-of ultimatum.

  'Now, what's the reason for this, may I ask?'

  'They're my age, that's why.'

  Her mother turned round with an odd
expression on her face. Subjected to her mother's gaze, Sibylla's heart started pounding. She had made up her mind, telling herself that she wasn't alone any more and could always run to Mick. In seven months' time, she would be eighteen years old and free to do what she liked. Until then she was going to fight for every inch. Her voice was quite steady.

  'If I can't sit with the others I'll just stay here.'

  Her mother could not believe her ears, this was of course an incredible statement. It worried Sibylla that she couldn't interpret the look on her mother's face. A sense of unease began tingling under her skin. She felt just the tiniest whiff of fear.

  'You know perfectly well that this is the most important evening of the year for your father and me. Now you want to ruin it. Don't you ever consider anyone except yourself?'

  The pendulum was swinging her mother's way. Beatrice was ready to trigger a major explosion and there was no doubt at all about who would suffer the consequences. Suddenly real fear gripped her. It must have shown, because her mother changed her tone.

  'There now, we'll talk about this when we get back home.' Beatrice sailed out of the room, having successfully crushed her daughter's will.

  The Sales Manager sat to her left. Mr Forsenström, the CE, was enthroned in the central seat.

  Sitting at the high table in her party frock, Sibylla felt strange. The whole room was humming, somehow. The noise from the hall came in waves and even her neighbours' talk reached her only intermittently. She had not touched her food yet, but the others had finished. Her mother was smiling and proposing toasts round the table, but every time her eyes met Sibylla's the corners of her moth turned downwards as if pulled by gravity. The anger radiating from Beatrice was transmitted in Sibylla's direction in such forceful pulses she thought the glasses in the way might shatter.

  But it was exactly at this moment, as Sibylla was waiting for whatever elaborate punishment was in store for her, that she felt strongly that enough was enough. Her anger welled up with unexpected violence. That woman had turned her existence into a never-ending imprisonment. In Sibylla's eyes her mother was transformed into an absurd monster.

  Yes, she had been born out of that body. So what? It hadn't been her choice. It was a mystery why God should have allowed this woman to bear a child at all. All her mother had wanted was living proof of the Forsenström family's general excellence. A child confirmed that everything proceeded according to plan.

  In fact nothing worked properly. Sibylla suddenly saw how much her mother enjoyed every step in the obedience-chastisement-punishment routine that had become established in their home. Beatrice manipulated her daughter's fear, relishing her ownership of the child.

  'How are you getting on at school then, Sibylla?'

  The Sales Manager was asking his annual question. He was about as interested in her answer as in some muck on his shoe.

  'So kind of you to ask,' she said loudly. 'Mostly we just hang out, boozing and fucking.'

  He nodded benignly. A second later his tiny mind registered her answer and he looked the other way, plainly at a loss. The high table guests stopped speaking as if on pain of death. Her father was looking straight at her, his expression more confused than upset. Maybe he wasn't quite sure what 'fucking' meant. Her mother's facial colour shifted towards purple.

  The whole social carousel was spinning wildly around her, but Sibylla felt calm and in control. The Sales Manager's glass of brandy was standing within easy reach and she lifted it in a toast to her mother.

  'Cheers, Mummy. I just thought of something. Why don't you get up on chair and sing a Christmas song for everyone? It would be so nice.'

  She emptied the glass. By now the entire room had fallen silent. She took the opportunity to stand up and address them all.

  'Hey, what do you think? Wouldn't it be great if dear Beatrice here sang a little song for us? Full of Christmas joy!'

  Every singly eye in the room was riveted on her.

  'You don't want to? Why, don't be shy, darling Mummy. You mustn't worry. Why not simply go for that rather foul little ditty you hum in the kitchen most nights?'

  Finally, her father broke free from his state of paralysis and spoke, his powerful voice echoing through the room. 'Girl, SIT DOWN.' She turned to him.

  'You talking to me, Daddy? For you are my Dad, aren't you? I remember seeing you around at home, like at suppertime. How are you? My name is Sibylla.'

  He was staring at her, slack-jawed.

  'This is getting really boring. I think I'll be off. Have a lovely evening, everyone!'

  Seventy-six pairs of eyes followed her as she walked through the silent room, all the way from the podium past the tables towards the door that led to freedom. When she closed the door behind her, she breathed in deeply and felt truly fresh air filling her lungs for the first time in her life.

  She dumped the newspaper in a rubbish bin in Ropsten tube station. The ticket had been paid for properly with another twenty-crown note from her treasure trove. She dared not cheat in case she ended up drawing attention to herself. Standing on the platform waiting for the Lidingo train, she thought grimly that Stockholm Transport had now got more money off her in one day than it had over the last fifteen years.

  It was half past twelve and there were relatively few people in the train. She examined her image in the window-pane. How weird she looked! This would surely give her a little more time. Maybe she would be able to work out how to deal with it all. First, she must collect the money from her post box and return the money she had spent to her savings. They mustn't be allowed to take her hope away.

  HER post box.

  Oh fuck.

  The insight sent a high-voltage current through her body. How could she have been so bloody stupid she hadn't figured the police would've got her number by now?

  She was just wandering blithely into a trap. It was highly likely that the police knew of the one fixed point in her existence. Her name was attached to that post box. Of course they would have discovered the only register there was with her name in it.

  Once she saw the full extent of her loss, rage started boiling inside her. So, she'd never be able to collect her money again? She was unconsciously balling her fists, feeling her anguish fade and being replaced by defiance. They were not going to do this to her. If she'd been a respectable person, sticking to the social norms, they would never have treated her like this. She had never demanded anything from society and she didn't intend to start now.

  She could take so much shit being poured over her but no more. Now she would fight.

  Thomas lived in a boat, anchored at the Malar docks on Langholm Island. She got off at Hornstull and crossed the Palsund Bridge.

  Thomas was the only person she trusted enough to ask for help. Ten years ago, before he inherited the houseboat, they'd been living together in a caravan parked in the Lugnet industrial area. Now and then the police would knock on the door with a warrant to move them on and each time they pulled the caravan a few yards away, settling down again to wait for the next attempt to shift them.

  On the whole, they'd been left in peace. There was no question of being in love with each other, but they both needed human warmth and company. That was all they had to offer each other and at the time it had been enough.

  She had not been there for many years and at first couldn't see his boat. Walking back along the quay, she finally discovered it next to a grey-painted Navy vessel. Mooring space must be hard to come by.

  Taking her rucksack off and propping it up on a pile of wooden pallets to keep it out of the wet, she suddenly had last-minute doubts about Thomas. When he got drunk, he ceased being a trusted friend. She still carried several scars proving the point. She breathed in deeply, clenching her fists to rekindle the fighting spirit.

  She looked around, but the quayside was deserted.

  'Thomas!'

  'Thomas, it's me – Sylla!'

  A head popped up above the railing on the Navy boat. He had grown a beard and
was barely recognisable. His expression was baffled at first, but then his face broke into a large grin.

  'Christ, it's you! Haven't they got you locked up yet?' She had to smile back at him. 'Are you alone?' 'Sure thing.'

  She knew him well enough to know he was sober. 'Can I come in?'

  He didn't answer at once, just kept looking at her and smiling.

  'Would I be safe then?'

  'Come off it! You know I didn't do it.'

  The smile widened.

  'No problem then. Open-door policy. Just leave all sharp objects behind on deck.'

  The face vanished again. Thomas was a real friend, maybe her only one. Just now this mattered more than anything else.

  He had left the hatch open and she lowered her rucksack down to him, then started down the ladder. The space that was once the hold was serving both as a home and a joinery workshop, possibly never cleaned this century. Everything was covered in sawdust and pieces of sawed wood, confirming that he wasn't living with anyone now. Good.

  He followed her eyes examining the room.

  'I guess it looks the way it did last time you were here.'

  'No way, it was really neat and tidy then.'

  He smiled and went to start the coffee-maker. What might be loosely called the kitchen corner contained a table, three odd chairs, a fridge and a microwave oven. No empty bottles in sight, which was another good sign.

  'Fancy a cuppa?'

  She nodded, watching as he emptied the old coffee into the wastepaper basket. The inside of the coffee-maker jug was coated with a black film. Settling down on the soundest-looking chair, she watched Thomas filling the jug from a large plastic bottle.

  'So what sort of shit are you in?'

  She sighed.

  'You tell me. I wish I knew.'

  He turned to look at her. 'Why the hair?'

  She didn't answer. He pointed to Aftonbladet, sticking up from the rubbish bin.

  'The hairdo in that picture was nicer.'

  Then he emptied the old contents of the filter into the bin, absentmindedly slopping some of the grounds on the floor.