'We'll give you an allowance, Sibylla. If you give us your address, we'll send you the money.'
As always when she remembered this, her stomach contracted. If only she hadn't given in! She often thought that phone-call was harder to bear than almost anything else she had been through. It was intolerable when she spoke to her mother for the last time, she had been reduced apologising yet again.
The money started arriving. Because she had an income and a posh accent her mates called her the Queen of Småland.
Her lost years began. She spent all her energy on staying intoxicated for as much of the time as possible. Nothing else mattered. With her brain activity permanently set on Low, most things became endurable. There was even a sense of security to be gained from the degradation that meant nothing was questioned and nothing was unacceptable. Slowly but surely she adjusted to the more or less overt contempt of people she encountered. The recognition that she was a loser only sealed her solidarity with the other outcasts.
For six years, this was her life – six years outside time.
Then, a turning point. It happened when she woke up on a bench near the Slussen walkway, heavy with drink, smeared with vomit and lying in a pool of her excrement. Around her stood an entire class of little primary school kids, watching her with wonder.
'Miss. What's she doing there? Is she sick?' 'Miss. Why does she smell so?'
A wall of children, all round-eyed with astonishment at this, their first insight into the down-side of adulthood. The shocked teacher, who was about her own age, turned up and protectively herded her charges away.
'Come now. Don't look!'
Then a terrible thought struck her. Her own son might have been one of the children and the state she was in was conclusive proof that her mother's decision had been right.
She turned to look at her new-found companion. It seemed that he had managed to sleep in the end. She crawled out of her sleeping bag to put her anorak over the boy. He was lying on his back with his arms crossed over his chest to keep warm. How young he was.
His whole life ahead, unused. Somewhere her son had reached almost the same age.
She crawled back. Much longer in this attic and she'd go off her head.
Formulating this thought immediately led on to the realisation that something had happened to her – a good thing. She glanced towards her visitor again and thought that he had brought something else, much more important than spare-ribs and Coke. His respect for her as a fellow human being granted her a new kind of dignity. For some inscrutable reason he was the one who had found her here. She was made stronger by his unreserved interest and admiration for what he felt she stood for. During the last few days some of her normal instincts had seemed damaged beyond recovery, but now they were reviving. Most of all, her instinct to fight against the odds.
The worst darkness was lifting. Tomorrow she'd pull herself together, do something.
They wouldn't crush her this time either, so there. She wondered if the nation-wide search for her was still on. Better get hold of a paper.
Then I saw a new Heaven and a new Earth; for the first Heaven and the first Earth had passed away and the sea was no more. And I saw the Holy City, a New Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband; and from afar I heard a great voice from the throne saying:
'Behold, the dwelling of God is with men. He will dwell with them and they shall be His people, and God himself will be with them; He will wipe away every tear from their eyes and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain any more, for former things have passed away.'
And He who sat upon the throne said:
'Behold, I make all things new.' Also he said:
'Write this down for these words are trustworthy and true.'
And He said to me:
'It is done. I am the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. To the thirsty I will give water without price from the fountain of the water of life. He who conquers shall have this heritage and I will be his God and he shall be my son. But as for the cowardly, the faithless, the polluted, as for murderers, fornicators, sorcerers and idolaters and all liars, their lot shall be in the lake that burns with fire and brimstone, which is the second death.'
Lord, I have done my duty. Now, all I can do is wait.
She had been surreptitiously watching him for a long time before he woke. The cold must have woken him during the night, because he'd put her anorak on.
During the small hours, she had made up her mind. She needed his help. Her only hope lay in telling him the truth. Then she went over what she must say again and again, trying to find the most gentle way to describe her situation.
When he woke his first move was to reach for his glasses. Then he sat up and looked at her, pulling his sleeping bag tightly around him.
'It's so fucking cold. Thanks for the anorak, it's great. Do you want it back now?'
'You keep it. My sleeping bag is warmer than yours.' The clock behind him showed ten minutes past nine. 'When do you start school?' He smiled at her.
'Knock, knock, anybody in? It's Saturday.'
She smiled too. It was nice to be made fun of like that. His hand emerged from the sleeping bag again, aiming for the grill-bag. He put it in his lap and opened it.
'Urrgh. Spare ribs for breakfast!'
'Do you want some of my crisp-bread? I've got some yoghurt too.'
He liked the idea and shoved the grill-bag back on the floor. Still wrapped in the sleeping bag he hopped across to her. 'Hey, take it easy. The floor could break.' 'Yeah?'
When he reached her, he settled with a thump. She shook her head and he grinned at her, grabbing a slice of crisp-bread.
He must have been really hungry. When he was wolfing his seventh slice she put the packet away.
'Tomorrow's another day.'
'We'll buy some more. No problem.'
She just looked at him and he grimaced, obviously realising how silly he had been.
'Sorry. I'll buy it. I'll give you the money, if you like.' 'Thanks, but no thanks.'
This was the right moment. How should she best open up the subject? She steeled herself, taking a deep breath. 'Do you follow the news, read the papers?' He shrugged.
'Not a lot. Mum wants me to read a proper paper like Dagens Nyheter, but it's way too much. Takes hours getting through it. But I do check out The Express. Dad brings it back after work. Why? Do you? Read a newspaper, I mean.'
'I do when I can. When I find one lying about. Or else I go to the Culture House. The reading room there has all the dailies.'
This was clearly news to him, but he nodded knowingly. She carried on talking.
'Yesterday, did you look at the papers?'
He shook his head at first.
'Wait, I did. The DN Friday supplement.'
How should she handle this? Did she have the right to involve him? It had seemed perfectly reasonable while he was asleep.
'Patrik, have you ever been accused of doing something you didn't do?'
'Suppose so. Have you got some yoghurt, or…?' She sighed and produced her big container. 'Thanks. Can I have it straight from the pack?' 'Sure. Unless you brought a nice plate, of course.' He grinned and she started again. The introductory bit was the hardest.
'I have, you see – been accused of something I didn't do, that is.'
He seemed focused on the yoghurt. Drinking it was hard, it was really too thick. He kept tapping the bottom of the pack. 'Does the name Sibylla mean anything to you?' He nodded, but still seemed more interested in the yoghurt. 'Patrik, you mustn't feel bad about this. Be cool.' She hesitated for one more brief moment. 'I'm Sibylla, you see.'
He didn't react first. Then the penny dropped. He stiffened, put the yoghurt down and turned to look at her. There was real fear in his eyes.
'Please, believe me, I didn't do it. I just happened to be in the Grand Hotel when someone killed that guy. I'm innocent.'
He wa
s clearly unconvinced. His eyes flickered round the attic for a moment, as if seeking an escape route. She must gain time. Somehow this wasn't working out the way she'd hoped. The word came spontaneously now, not in the careful order she had practised.
'Oh, for Christ's sake, Of course I'm not serial killer. You wouldn't have been sitting her now if I had been, after all, I've had all night to chop you up in little pieces.'
This was not a good way of putting it. In fact, it was pretty disastrous. Suddenly he made a move to get away, but the sleeping bag trapped him.
He mustn't go – not yet.
She leapt at him, pinning him down against the mat with her knees on his arms. His quick breathing sounded like sobbing. His tears were not far away.
Oh God no!
'Please. Don't hurt me.'
She closed her eyes. What was she doing?
'You must know that I won't hurt you. Please listen to me. I'm holed up in this freezing attic with every single cop in the country after me. They've made up their minds that I'm IT. I haven't got a chance. Like I said yesterday, people like me have no rights. Oh Patrik, you've got to believe me. I told you all that personal stuff yesterday because I trusted you. I thought you at least would believe in me.' By now the sobs had quietened down.
'I'm telling you this because I need your help. I don't dare go into a shop even.' His wide, frightened eyes were fixed on her. She sighed. 'OK, I'm sorry. Forgive me'
Just imagine what anybody watching them would make of her sitting astride a defenceless fifteen year-old. She stood up, letting him free.
'Go away now.'
He stayed where he was, very still and looking as if he hardly dared to breathe. 'Go!'
He twitched in response to her loud voice. Then he crawled out of his rucksack and started slowly walking towards the door, his back tense as if he feared she would jump on him from behind.
I need my anorak.'
He stopped at once, let the anorak slide to the floor and walked on. When he reached the door he suddenly leapt at it and rushed out. She could hear his running footsteps in the corridor outside.
Slumping down on her mat, she knew staying in the attic was not possible now. She had to leave, at once. She packed his things neatly and then started on her own. A few minutes later everything was tidied away. Just inside the door, she turned to cast a last glance at the clock. Bye, bye.
Into the corridor, down the stairs. On the ground floor she stopped for a moment. The mere thought of opening the door to the world outside made her feel sick. This everlasting fear would destroy her in the end. She chose to walk round to the back door leading into the school-yard. The thought of the street was too frightening.
The door slammed behind her, shutting her off from her refuge for good. Crossing the yard, she walked towards the Vitaberg
Park. She had no idea what to do next. Then she heard someone shouting behind her. The sound alarmed her and she stopped, looking around for somewhere to hide. 'Sylla! Wait!'
Then she saw him come running round the corner and waited until he reached her. At first he didn't speak and she set off walking again.
'I'm sorry I didn't believe you at first, but I was so fucking scared.'
He was a little breathless. She turned to look at him and discovered a new expression in his eyes, a seriousness that she had not seen before. Then he stared at the ground, as if ashamed by his own admission of fear.
'Don't worry about it.'
'No, it's because I know you're speaking the truth, Sylla.' She kept walking, unable to bear the thought of starting to plead with him again. He hurried after her.
'Sylla, please. You see, I saw the news on the poster in the Co-op window.'
She stopped. He was obviously trying hard to choose the right words.
'The story is that you murdered someone else last night.'
She felt uneasy. 'Are you absolutely sure he's asleep?' Patrick sounded impatient.
'Relax. He's on nightshirts and doesn't usually wake up until the afternoon.'
She was feeling uncomfortable. What would his father do if he found a woman with unnaturally jet-black hair, camping with her rucksack in his son's room? Old enough to be his mother, too.
They were in the block of flats where Patrik lived, whispering together at the bottom of the stairs.
'And your mother, are you sure – really sure, sure – that she isn't coming home?'
'Sure. Not until tomorrow night.'
Maybe he was right but then, maybe he wasn't. Besides, was it really right to involve him?
When she learned the latest news she'd had to go and sit down on the nearest park bench. He had followed her silently, leaving her in peace. Sitting there looking out over the empty school-yard, she felt her courage ebbing away again. Staring at the large clock-face, she thought she should have followed her impulse of a few nights ago and made the school attic her last resting-place.
He tried to say something hopeful to cheer her up.
'Listen. I can tell the police you were with me all the time last night.'
She only snorted at that, but then felt guilty because it had sounded like a put-down.
'They would just have added pederasty to my list of crimes.'
He sounded grumpy.
'I happen to be fifteen years old. Actually.' What's the answer to that?
'Patrik, I've had it. I might as well confess and put an end to the whole saga.' 'Shit, no! Don't!' He was really upset.
'Listen, you can't confess to something you haven't done!'
'What do you suggest then?'
'Can't you go there and… like, talk to them?'
'Same difference.'
'I don't get it. Why?'
'Surely you can see that? The police have already made up their minds. I am the murderer. They won't believe a thing I say.'
She put her head in her hands, speaking quietly to the ground in front of her.
'Worse, I can't hack being locked up.'
He sounded less convinced now.
'But you're just telling them what really happened.'
Then she told him about Jorgen Grundberg. About how her fingerprints got on to his keycard, about the wig and the Swiss army knife she'd left behind in the hotel room. About everything in her past that had combined to make her the prime suspect. Former patient in a mental hospital, homeless and without any kind of social network, she was so utterly perfect that the police must be rubbing their hands with glee. No question about her guilt.
Anyway, to have a chance of finally persuading them of her innocence, they would have to keep her under lock and key for the duration of the inquiry. That would drive her insane. She had been there before and knew what she was talking about.
'The murderer has got the idea too. I'm a perfect scapegoat for him. He even left a confession in my name after the Vastervik murder.'
He nodded gently.
'He did the same in Bollnas.'
'Was that where he struck last night?'
'The night before. I don't know where he was last night.'
She was slumped against the backrest of the bench. The night before last as well, while she was tucked up in the attic. Now they suspected her of four murders.
He stared at her.
'You didn't know, did you?'
She sighed.
'No. I didn't.'
Silence. He was thinking. The complications must be dawning on him.
‘I know. Let's go to my house and check everything they've written about you.' 'How do you mean?' 'We'll surf the net.'
Ah, the Internet. She had read about it in the papers, a fantastic new world she knew nothing about. She felt as doubtful about it as she did about being invited home by this helpful fifteen-year-old.
'Why would that be any good?'
'Maybe we'll find something that proves it couldn't have been you. I bet you haven't read everything they've written.' 'Right enough.' He got up. 'Let's go.'
What other option was there?
>
They crept through the hall. She felt like a thief and her heart was pounding. 'This way.'
They were outside a door in his flat. A metal sign had been stuck on it. It said: ENTER AT YOU OWN RISK. Fine. She wanted to go away anyway.
They had passed an open doorway to a spacious living room and then the closed door to his parents' bedroom. Patrik had put his finger to his lips as a signal to be quiet. His father was asleep in there. Then Patrik opened the door to his room and waved her on. All this was very awkward, but she followed to please him.
His room looked as if it had been in the path of a storm-force gale. The floor was practically invisible under a tidal wave of clothes, old comics, CD boxes and books. She dumped her rucksack in the middle of it all, looking quizzically at him.
'I know, I promised Mum to keep my room tidy. I just kind of forget.'
'Tell me about it.'
They were speaking in whispers.
He pushed a button on the PC and when it came alive with a little melody, she told him to turn it down. While the computer started up, she looked around the room. Apart from the desk, there was an unmade bed and a bookshelf. She pulled the cover over the bed to make the place look less messy.
When the screen on his desk had filled with symbols, he sat down to work. She wandered across to an apparently empty aquarium by the window, because something moved inside it.
'That's Batman, my Greek land-tortoise.'
Batman had crawled into a corner to munch on a lettuce leaf. He looked quite content, so the world must seem quite agreeable to his tiny mind. She felt momentarily envious.
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