'You probably won't want to know, but I wondered if you'd help me with something.'
'What's that, then? Me giving you an alibi?'
Suddenly she felt irritated at him, even though it was obvious that he kept joking just because he was nervous. She recognised it, but this time humour was lost on her.
'Come off it, I was in the Grand. It's the truth. But you know perfectly well why it's a little hard for me to explain to the police what I was doing there.'
He sat down opposite her.
The coffee-maker started muttering behind him, the first drops landing somewhere inside the blackened jug. He must have picked up the new note in her voice, because he suddenly became serious.
'Chasing a night on the house, was that it?' She nodded. He pointed at the paper in the bin. 'And that's the guy who paid, every which way?' She nodded again.
'Christ. That's rotten luck. What's that Vastervik story about?' She leant back, closing her eyes.
'Not a clue. I haven't set foot in Vastervik in my whole life. I'm lost, honestly.'
She met his eyes. He was shaking his head. 'Fucking bad break.' 'You can say that again.'
He started scratching his beard, still shaking his head slowly. 'Sure, I see – so, what do you need help with?' 'Getting my mother's money. I don't dare get anywhere near my post box.'
They eyed each other across the table. 'Sylla's mum's dosh' was a familiar concept to them both. During their years together in the caravan, he had helped her spend it on booze. He rose to get the coffee, picking up a mug in the passing. The handle was broken and it obviously hadn't been washed since the first time it was used.
'You eaten today?'
'No.'
'There's cheese and bread in the fridge. Help yourself.'
She got up, even though she didn't feel hungry any more. Still, it would be silly to miss out on a chance to eat. When she came back with the loaf and the chunk of cheese, he had poured the mug full of coffee for her. He was scratching his beard again.
'Thomas, you know I wouldn't ask if I didn't have to. I'd go under without the money.'
'OK, I'll se what can do. So… I'll go there and try. For old time's sake.'
Their eyes met again. For as long as he stayed sober his friendship was invaluable to her. He was her only secure contact with the outside world. But if he started drinking he would demand a pay-back.
For old time's sake.
As soon as she left the party, she started walking to the YPSMS house. No one tried to stop her. Presumably her mother was working hard to save what was left of the party mood at the annual Christmas do.
The night was cold and she had forgotten to bring a jacket, but nothing mattered now. Light fluffy snowflakes were floating down from the sky like glittering confetti. She tipped her head back to catch them in her mouth. She felt brilliant.
Her life had been freed of fear, nothing worried her any more. She was fine, on her way to Mick. The world was her oyster.
People dressed in white were lining the road, waving at her and calling her name jubilantly, like in the film she had seen on TV last Saturday. Light followed her as she walked, as if a spotlight was moving with her every step. She waved back to the delighted people and swirled around among the snowflakes.
The De Soto was parked outside the workshop. The thought that Mick might not be there simply hadn't occurred to her. She was in control. Of course he had to be there.
She bowed to her audience, still standing in the road looking after her. Then she opened the door and stepped inside, taking a deep breath to fill her lungs with that longed-for smell of motor oil. She felt joy bubbling inside her.
'Mick!'
Something moved behind the stack of tyres at the back on the room. The spotlight was still following her as she walked across to see what it was. Before she got there, Mick's head rose from behind the tyres.
'Hi Sibylla. What are you doing here?'
Some half-conscious part of her brain registered that he didn't sound pleased, in fact almost irritated. She smiled at him. 'I've come back to you.'
He was looking down at something out of sight as if he was buttoning his fly… or something. For it couldn't be that.
'Sibylla, this isn't a good time. Why don't you come back tomorrow?'
Tomorrow?
What was going on? She walked closer, saw the brown checked blanket spread out behind the tyre-stacks. On it lay Maria Johansson.
The spotlight was switched of. Darkness surrounded her. But she had been chosen to be his, only his. His body had joined hers in ecstasy, wanting her only. Two of them linked together. Together.
Anything for this closeness. Anything at all. She looked at him. His face seemed to have gone blank. She backed away from him. 'Sibylla…'
Her back hit the opposite wall. The door was to her right. Push the door-handle down.
The happy crowd was no longer there for her but the De Soto Firedome was waiting with 305 horsepower under its bonnet.
A few steps, open the door. Ignition key in the lock.
She wanted to be away. Far away.
She had been alone in the boat waiting for almost two hours when he came back. Walking up and down like a haunted spirit, her mind had been lurching between hope and despair, anguish and conviction. What if they were keeping watch at the post boxes? What if Thomas wasn't on his guard? What if they followed him and he led them straight to her only safe hiding-place?
Come on. Look, Thomas has been around. He'd be careful, no question about it.
Why was he taking so long? Had they arrested him?
His footfalls on the tin roof of the cabin alarmed her terribly, even though she had been longing with every cell in her body to hear them. Then the hatch was pulled open.
She hid behind the mounted chainsaw, shut her eyes and waited. Like a cornered rat.
To hell with them all.
He was alone. After climbing down the ladder he stood still, looking around. 'Sylla?'
She came forward. 'What took you so long?'
He went over to the coffee-maker and switched off the heater. More grounds got thrown in the direction of the bin. 'I wanted to make sure no one was trailing me.' 'Did anyone try?'
'No, don't think so. All peaceful on that front.'
In a mute question he pushed the coffee-jug in her direction. She shook her head. He breathed in deeply, so deeply it sounded worryingly like a sigh.
'Listen, Sylla. There wasn't any money.'
She was staring at him while he put the jug back.
'What do you mean?'
He gestured, striking out with one arm.
'Your post box was empty.'
He had to be lying.
For fifteen years now, on the twenty-third of every month, an envelope containing 1500 kronor had arrived in her post box. Every single month. She pulled the paper out the waste-paper basket, spilling coffee grounds all over the floor. The date-line said Monday, 24th March. She looked up, facing him.
'You… Christ. I trusted you, Thomas.'
He met her eyes.
'Is that fucking so?'
His eyes tore into her in a way she remembered from his fits of drunken rage, but she couldn't stop and feel frightened of him now.
'It's mine! I can't live without that money!'
He froze for a moment. Then he threw the mug, still half-full of coffee, into the far wall. Some tools on hooks crashed to the floor. The coffee flowed down the wall, forming a brown pattern. The crash made her stiffen but she didn't take her eyes off him.
He inhaled deeply as if trying to calm down and then went to stand at one of the portholes, staring at the nothingness outside.
'I admit I've done bad stuff. But you mustn't accuse me of nicking your dosh. You're just on the wrong fucking track there.'
He turned towards her.
'Didn't it ever occur to you that it'd turn the old hag off – like, to figure she was putting her hard-earned cash the way of a manic serial-killer?'
His words took some time to sink in, slowly passing via her eardrums into her skull before she realised how right he was. This was the end of charity. Beatrice reckoned she had paid enough, settled her debt.
Sibylla's mind went blank.
She slowly went to the table, pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. Then she put her face in her hands and started crying.
Now she was really lost. All her hopes had turned to ashes.
She wasn't meant to get through, to succeed. Once more, Fate had intervened to kick her down. Once a loser, always a loser. She had been challenging the established, set-order of the universe, trying to haul herself up to a place above her station.
Now, now, little Miss Sibylla Wilhelmina Beatrice Forsenström. You had your life nicely staked out for you, but did you appreciate it? You did not. You need never have gone hungry if only you hadn't decided to up and leave your proper place in the system.
Here today, gone tomorrow. For ever.
'Sibylla, don't cry like that.'
She felt his hand on her shoulder.
'Stay cool, Sylla, please. It'll sort itself out, you'll see.'
She thought, sure it'll sort itself out – I'll just have to serve life in prison first and after that I guess nothing matters much.
‘I know what you need. Get pissed.'
Yes, that's right. Be unconscious, just for a while. Sozzled. That's what she wanted. He had already produced a full bottle of Koskenkorva vodka from a cupboard. She looked at the bottle, then at him. His face looked kind. She nodded.
'You're dead right. Let's drink.'
She had almost reached Vetlanda when the police stopped her. A red light was blinking at her from the middle of the road. She pulled over, two policemen materialised outside her window and she opened it. One on them leant inside, stopped the engine and pulled the key out. He got outside again, looking to check her face.
'Now then… what have you been up to?' She didn't feel scared. She felt nothing at all. 'Step outside for moment, please.'
He opened the door and she stepped out. A car was pulling up behind the De Soto and Mick jumped out, running towards her. Maria Johansson stayed where she was, in the passenger seat.
'You fucking slut! I'll kill you if you've buggered up my car.'
One of the policemen put a hand on Mick's shoulder, telling him to calm down. Mick pulled himself free and climbed into the De Soto. The policeman handed him the keys. After checking what he could, Mick got out, turning to look at her with intense disgust.
'You're one insane cunt.'
She noted that the policemen were leading her over to their car, pushing her into the backseat with a hand on her head. One of them sat next to her and the other drove the car. Neither said a word to her from then on.
'Is your name Sibylla Forsenström?' What was the funny smell in the room? 'Why did you take the car?' What if it was gas?
'Have you got a driving licence?'
How come there were cracks in that wall?
'Can't you speak?'
The man on the other side of the desk sighed and began leafing through some papers. Four men dressed in black stepped through the cracked wall. They fixed their eyes on her.
'We can't find you anywhere in our records. Is it the first time you've done this sort of thing?'
The men in black were coming towards her. One of them held out a red-hot socket-spanner. They were going to unscrew her, take her apart.
'We shall have to contact the social services in due course, but first of all we'll call your parents. They can come and take you home now.'
They were going to keep bits of her as spare parts to fix smarter models. The man with the socket-spanner seemed to speak, his lips were moving but she couldn't hear what he said.
She looked at the man behind the desk instead, but his face had kind of disappeared. There was nothing there, just a hole going straight through his head.
Now she couldn't see anything at all. Hey, what was she doing on the floor?
She heard the sound of a chair being pushed back and a voice shouting.
'Lasse, come here! I need a hand!' Steps came hurrying along.
'I've no idea what's wrong with her. Better get the ambulance.'
She came to because someone was kicking her in the ribs, not violently but hard enough to wake her. Thomas was standing next to her, wearing nothing except a pair of underpants. She took in the scene in one second flat. He was drunk and he was holding a wad of notes in his hand, approximately twenty-nine thousand kronor.
Instinctively she put her hand to her neck, but where the money should have been was only her skin. In fact, she was naked. He was grinning menacingly at her, waving the purse in his other hand.
'You'd be looking for this, right?'
Her mouth felt like a sandpit. It was years since she'd drunk hard liquor. She couldn't actually remember drinking a lot, but the bottle on the table was empty.
'You cunt! Sending me off to the post office to get you more dosh! And snivelling because you can't manage, oh dear dear!'
She tried to think. Meanwhile she was too slow reaching out for her bra. A flick with his foot and it flew across the room. She covered herself with the flap of the sleeping-bag.
'Please listen, Thomas…'
He twisted his face into a grimace and spoke in a piping voice.
'Please, Thomas.'
His eyes had narrowed to slits.
'What got into you, fucking around with me like that? I was running a bloody big risk, the police could've got me for aiding-and-abetting or some shit. Meanwhile you've a sodding fortune up your jumper!'
He was scrunching the notes in his hand. 'I've been saving that for years.' 'Oh yeah. And?'
She was almost whispering now. 'For a house.'
At first he just stared at her, then leaned back laughing. The movement almost overbalanced him and he had to reach out for the ladder. This sudden weakness angered him even more.
Before he had time to speak, she folded back the sleeping bag flap. Then she spoke as sweetly as she knew how.
'Thomas. Let's not fight. I was going to show you the money anyway.'
He was still holding onto the ladder. She felt nauseous.
'Thomas, I came here because I've been missing you.'
His eyes were glued to her breasts. She felt his gaze touching her like hands and had to steel herself not to shudder. He dropped her purse on the floor. She tried to keep smiling. Next he scattered her hopes for the future with one careless movement, the notes floating slowly towards the filthy floor.
The next second he had come down on her. She prayed that he would be quick.
Lord, give me strength to survive from hour to hour, from one day to the next. Help me face these empty days, the remainder of the vacant time left to me here.
He will be waiting for me somewhere in the great beyond. I shall go to him, find my treasure again. My heart will always be with him.
Truly, truly I say to you, he who hears my word and believes Him who has sent me, has eternal life; he does not come into judgement, but has passed from death to life.
Do not marvel at this; for the hour is coming when all who are in the graves will hear His voice and come forth, those who have done good, to the resurrection of life, and those who have done evil, to the resurrection of judgement.
I can do nothing on my own authority; as I hear, I judge; and my judgement is just, because I seek not my will, but only the will of He who has sent me.
God failed to hear her yet again. Thomas was taking his time. Finally he had had enough and fell asleep on top of her like a suffocatingly heavy bolster. With infinite care, she managed to ease herself out from under him and stand up.
Still naked, she picked up her scrunched-up notes from the floor. She tried to flatten them against her thigh before putting them back into the purse again.
Thomas was sleeping on his side with his mouth open. A string of saliva was dribbling from his mouth into his
bushy beard and soaking into the mattress. She was grateful that she hadn't used her own roll-up mat, because she would have had to leave it. Her sleeping bag had slipped off them and she retrieved it easily after lifting one of his legs.
She dressed quickly, longing for a shower to wash off the trail left by his eyes crawling over her body. It was unbearable – she must find a tap with running water to wash under. Packing her things, she noticed that her towel and panties smelled sour after being packed too damp. They needed another wash.
Where? Where could she go?
She wanted to get out and away as soon as possible, but was thirsty enough to risk staying a little longer. She drank from the plastic bottle and then let the water run over her face and hands to wash them. The sawdust on the floor was turning into a sodden, slurry, brown with coffee-grounds.
Thomas shifted the leg she had been pulling at and she stood stock-still until she was certain he was deeply sleep. She must hurry up the ladder and out into… into what, exactly? Not 'freedom', that was not an option any more.
Fuck them all.
It was dark outside. Old reflexes made her look at her unhelpful watch.
All the lanes of the South Malarstrand carriageway were empty and the windows in the big blocks of flats almost all dark. Maybe it was still too early for people to be up and about.
Good. The less she was seen, the better.
She tiptoed across the deck and climbed onto the Navy vessel. Once back on the quay, she started walking towards the bridge. Her legs seemed to have a will of their own. Her head was empty. She had no idea where she should be going.
Still, that was quite normal.
In her world, not knowing where you were heading was the rule, not the exception. She sometimes asked herself if her block against planning ahead was connected to the illness of her youth. Perhaps it had damaged some part of her nervous system meant to deal with foresight. In her new life, finding something to eat every day and a sheltered place for her sleeping bag every night were the only things that demanded any thought at all.
Fair enough, you could live without any expectations higher than holding onto the freedom to move. This freedom was the basis for the way she lived. No one could tell her what to do. Her will was her only directive and she went only where she wanted to go.
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