Gun-Britt was the maid. She took over when Mrs Forsenström didn’t have time to cook or clean or help Sibylla with her homework. Goodness gracious, she had to think of her charity work, after all. Without Mrs Forsenström, how would the little children in Biafra fare?
Sibylla remembered envying these far-away children, who were so scared and upset that nice ladies from the other side of the Earth spent their time worrying about them. When she was six years old, she felt she’d better do something to make herself more interesting: becoming just as scared as these other children seemed a good idea so she decided to sleep one night in the large, dark and spooky attic in their house. She took her pillow, tiptoed up the stairs and went to sleep on a pile of old rugs. Gun-Britt found her there in the morning and had to tell on her to Beatrice, of course. The recriminations took more than an hour and the scene got on Beatrice’s nerves so badly that she had a migraine attack that lasted for several days afterwards. This was Sibylla’s fault, of course.
There was at least one thing she could thank her mother for. After almost eighteen years in the Forsenström home, she had developed an almost uncanny ability to analyse the mental states of people around her. Sheer instinct for self-preservation had attuned her to respond to the slightest shifts like a living seismograph, always alert to her mother’s every whim and quick to predict likely causes of bad temper. She remained remarkably sensitive to the body language and verbal signals of people around her. This, as it happened, was of great help in the life she’d ended up leading.
The water in the tub was getting cool. She got out, shaking off drops of water and all these memories too. A beautifully thick, soft dressing-gown was hanging over the heated towel-rail next to the tub, and she wrapped herself in it and went to inspect her room. There was an American soap on the TV. It was accompanied by lots of canned laughter but turned out to be really funny. She settled down to watch it for a while, carefully going through her nail-varnishing routine in the meantime.
Always clean and tidy – Rule Number One.
Sticking to this rule set her apart from most other homeless people she knew. Being aware of it had allowed her to take one step away from the kind of misery that crushes all hope.
What mattered was what you looked like. As simple as that.
Respect was the preserve of people who appeared to live by the social norms – the citizens who didn’t differ too much from the rest. If you didn’t manage to fit in, you were treated accordingly. Weakness is a provocation in itself. People are scared silly when confronted with others without pride. Shameless behaviour is an affront. Surely no one would behave like that unless they deserved to be what they were? Everyone has a choice, so what’s your problem? Do you like wallowing in your own shit? Fine, but don’t expect other people to care.
Not to care, maybe, but if you’re good you might get a cut from the taxes we pay, beggar’s alms so that you don’t actually starve to death. We’re not monsters, you know. Month after month, we keep shelling out to help types like you. But don’t imagine it means that you can hang around our underground stations and shove your filthy hands under our noses to demand still more cash handouts. It’s a fucking awkward imposition, you know.
We mind our own business – how about you minding yours? If you’ve got any complaints about what’s done for you, we suggest you sod off and get a job. No place to stay? Get real – do you think a good fairy brought us our homes? Besides, if it’s such a problem, how about us building an institution to house people like you? No drifting about any more.
Not near my place of course. No way. Got the children to think of, you know. The last thing we need are a lot of useless junkies hanging out in our neighbourhoods, stealing and shooting up and losing syringes all over the place. Somewhere else, by all means.
She rubbed herself all over with white skin lotion and looked longingly at the bed. Still, it was wonderful just sitting here, warm and clean, knowing a soft, inviting bed was waiting for her. She would be able to sleep undisturbed the whole night through.
She decided to stay up to enjoy the anticipation of it for a little longer.
My mother knew that I was different from the others. She always feared the times when I might be disappointed. If I wanted something very much, she would try to prepare me for what failure could do to me. She tried to make me lower my expectations in order to save me from pain.
But if all ventures include preparing for failure, then not succeeding will finally become a goal. I cannot live like that any more.
Not now.
Rune was all I ever wanted. I had always been hoping to meet someone like him and then, suddenly, there he was. He came to mean more to me than life itself.
How many times have I asked You to let me know if that was why I had to be punished?
Lord, did our carnal lust cause us to sin so gravely that You could not overlook it and instead take pleasure in our love for each other? You took him away from me, but You never welcomed him into Your realm.
I have asked You, God: what must be done that he should be forgiven?
For when a Will exists, it is first necessary to show that the testator has died. Death alone can validate the Will. And the contrary is true, for as long as the testator lives, his Will is invalid. Hence the previous relationship must be celebrated in blood, for according to the Law, all can be purified by blood and also, until blood has been shed, there can be no forgiveness.
Lord, I give thanks to You for making me understand what I must do.
She woke when someone knocked hard on the door. Instantly awake, she got up and started to look for her clothes.
Shit, how could she have slept in? The clock radio showed quarter to nine. The burning question was: had Grundberg figured out by now that he had been tricked or had he just woken up with a particularly urgent hard-on?
‘One moment!’
She hurried into the toilet and grabbed her clothes.
‘Hallo there. Open the door, please. We’ve got some questions to ask you.’
Damnation. It wasn’t Grundberg, but some woman. Had one of the hotel staff recognised her, in spite of the wig?
Oh, fucking hell.
‘I’m not dressed yet.’
Silence in the corridor. She hurried over to the window and looked out. No get-away route there.
‘This is the police. Please hurry up.’
Police! Now what the fuck?
‘Ready as soon as I can. Just give me a couple of minutes.’
She put her ear to the door and heard steps walking away. There was a laminated chart showing emergency exits right in front of her nose and she studied the options while she fumbled with the safety-pin in the waistband. Checking the number of her room, she found that it was just two doors away from the emergency stairs. She rushed to get her jacket and handbag, and then listened again at the chink in the door. Cautiously, she opened the door a fraction and peeped into the corridor. It was empty.
She stepped briskly into the corridor, shutting the door behind her quietly. Seconds later, she was running down the back stairs. They had to lead to a door opening into the street.
Then she remembered. The briefcase! She had left it behind. It pulled her up short, but it took only a moment of hesitation to realise her briefcase was lost. And so was the wig in the bathroom. Shit, almost 740 kronor down the toilet and such a brilliant investment too, which should have given her many nights of undisturbed sleep. Even the complimentary soaps and the little shampoo bottles had been forgotten.
At