Sibylla had to smile. It was not the prospect of the YPSMS building being demolished that made her grimly amused, but the likelihood that her mother was not quite normal, mentally. It was the first time she was able to contemplate the possibility. Mum really seemed to believe that she was almighty.
‘I thought you'd better know.'
Beatrice obviously felt everything necessary had been said and was about to leave the room. Her daughter's question hit her halfway across the floor.
'Why did you have a baby?'
Beatrice Forsenström's left foot stuck in the rug. She turned. Sibylla saw something new in her mother's eyes. She had never noticed it before, but now it was unmistakable.
It was fear. Beatrice was afraid of her own daughter.
'Was it because Granny thought it was time for you to produce a child?'
Her mother remained speechless.
'Are you happy to be a mother? At having a daughter?'
They kept staring at each other. Sibylla felt the baby stirring a little inside her.
'What did Granny make of me having a mental illness? Or haven't you told her?'
Suddenly her mother's lower lip started trembling.
'Why do you do this to me?'
Sibylla snorted.
'Why do I do this to YOU? You've got to be fucking insane.'
The swearword tipped Beatrice back into normal mode.
'We don't use words like that in this house.'
‘Is that so? You don't, maybe. But I do! Fuck, FUCK, FUCK.'
He mother was backing away in the direction of the door. Now she was thinking of phoning the hospital. Clearly she had a madwoman in the house.
'Oh, Mummy, why don't you run away and phone. With any luck you'll get rid of me once and for all.' Beatrice had pulled the door open.
'Meanwhile I'll eat all my vegetables. In case that child might be harmed if I didn't.'
Beatrice threw a last terrified glance in her direction and disappeared. When Sibylla heard her hurried steps down the stairs, she ran out on the landing. She watched her mother dash across the hall in the direction of Mr Forsenström's study. Sibylla shouted after her.
'You forgot to answer my question!'
No response from downstairs.
Sibylla went back and faced the food-tray. Boiled carrots and peas. She grabbed then plate in both hands and flung it into the waste-paper basket.
Then she pulled out a suitcase and started packing.
She woke when he opened the door. Before she had time to do anything, he had already got down the few steps and looked around before striding across the floor. He still hadn't seen her.
She was lying very still, watching him.
Slight build, blond. Wire-rimmed spectacles.
He stepped up on the small platform below the clock, bent forward and put his face against the clock-face. He stretched out his arms towards the perimeter and in the light falling in through the glass, he looked like a crucified figure of Jesus.
Or Da Vinci's Man. Though with aerials attached. It was two minutes before twelve.
She scanned the attic, still motionless. There was a chance of reaching the door in time, but she would have to leave her things. He was standing in a dangerous position. If he lost his balance, he might fall out through the clock-face.
The seconds passed. The longer of his head-aerials made one more forward jump. She hardly dared breathe, terrified of being discovered.
Finally he lowered his arms. The next moment he turned and saw her. The sight scared him, she could see that. He was not only scared but also a little ashamed at having been seen. Neither of them said anything, but they kept staring at each other. His face was in the shade.
How in the name of God would she get out of this? He didn't look very strong. On no account must he be allowed to leave the attic before she had talked to him. She sat up slowly, figuring that it might look threatening if she stood up.
'What are you doing?'Her tone had been hesitant. Although he didn't answer at once, he seemed less tense. 'Nothing special.'
'No? It looked quite alarming from over here.'
He shrugged his shoulders.
'What about you. What are you doing here?'
Good question. What am I doing here?
'I was just… having a rest.'
'Are you sleeping rough? Or something?'
She smiled. Well, well – he went straight to the point. Usually people tried to avoid facing the misery.
'It's not so rough here as other places.'
'Is it because you're homeless? Like, with nowhere to live?'
Why should she deny it? Anyway, there was no other reasonable explanation to her presence in the attic.
'You could say that.'
He stepped down from the platform.
'That's cool. I want to do that when I leave school.'
He would like to do WHAT?
'Why?'
'Seems brilliant. No one asks you to do things or cares what you do.'
True enough. At least that was one aspect of 'being of no fixed abode'.
'If that's what you really want, there are better ways of going about getting it.' He grinned. 'Tell me about it.'
She still wasn't sure that he was serious. Maybe he was just kidding her.
'Are you a junkie as well?' 'No, I'm not.'
'I thought all you people were junkies. I mean, isn't that why? That's what my Mum says.' 'Mums don't know everything.' 'Is that right?'
He said that with a sneer. She could see that he was not scared any more. He came over to her and she got up. 'Is this all you own?' 'Yes.'
He eyed the sleeping mat and the rucksack. She watched him examining her things. He actually looked quite impressed. 'Dead cool.'
It was strange to be regarded as a model being, just for once. Still, this was enough talking about her.
'What are you doing here? Don't you know the floor is cracking up?'
'Yeah, live dangerously – help, help.'
He showed how little he cared by jumping up and down a couple of times. She put her hand on his arm.
'Hey, stop that. It would be a bore if you went straight through.'
'Oh, come off it.'
He pulled his arm away but stopped jumping. For a while she looked at him in silence. His turning up here suddenly was a threat, but it was still not clear how serious it was. She must find that out before he left. She picked up a crumpled copy of some pupils' handout from the floor, just to make her question seem more casual.
'Do you come here a lot?'
He paused before answering.
'Sometimes.'
He was lying, but she couldn't figure out why.
'Which year are you in?'
'Fifth.'
'What about the rest of the class? When are your mates turning up?'
He shook his head. It dawned on her that he was alone. He comes here, but no one else.
'It's you that fixed the screws in the lock, isn't it?' He inhaled at the same time as he spoke. 'Yup.'
She understood now. This was not one of the sheep, but another goat. Yet one more who had already been excluded from the homogenous mass.
'So what kind of person are you? Do you like school?'
He stared at her, apparently fearing for her sanity.
'Yeah, of course. Fantastic'
Not, in other words. Kids did this irony thing at lot nowadays, or at least the few she'd been talking to did it. He kicked at a textbook on the floor. It bounced against her mat and stopped. Hello there, Mathematics for the Fourth Form.
'Do they give lots of social-benefit cash then?'
She shook her head. Was he already checking out his future rights as a homeless person?
'What do you eat and stuff? Do you do rooting in rubbish bins?'
He looked disgusted.
'It has happened.'
'Sick.'
'You'll have to try it if that's the future you're going in for.' 'But you get money hand-outs,
don't you? Like, to buy grub and things.'
She couldn't be bothered answering. The obvious point was that you accepted hand-outs, it followed that some people would still be in a position to tell you what you must and mustn't do. Then the school-bell rang. He seemed not to notice.
'Still, I'm not sure. Maybe I'll go for a job in TV instead.'
'Shouldn't you be off now?'
He shrugged his shudders.
'Suppose so.'
He sighed, turning to walk away.
She still wasn't convinced that he would keep this to himself and the problem was acute. A straightforward question was the simplest solution.
'Are you going to tell?'
'Tell, what?'
'About me being here. Sleeping over for a bit.'
The thought had obviously never occurred to him. 'Why should I tell?' 'No special reason.' 'What's your name?'
He had walked up the few steps up to the door, but turned towards her. 'Tab. You?'
'Sylla. Tab's not your real name, is it? Did you pick it yourself?'
He shrugged.
'Can't remember.'
'What's your real name then?'
'Give over – what's this? Jeopardy or something?'
She had no idea what he was talking about and waved a hand vaguely.
'I just wondered.'
He sighed, letting go of the door-handle. 'Patrik. My real name is Patrik.'
She smiled and after a moment's hesitation he smiled back. He turned to the door again. 'Cheers.'
'Bye, Patrik. See you some time?' Then he was gone.
Of course it didn't work out. She was picked up and sent home within hours of the vegetable incident.
It didn't take long for the hospital to respond. The car crunched along the gravel drive and minutes later someone rang the doorbell.
When Beatrice Forsenström opened the door, Sibylla was already sitting on the stairs, halfway down, with her suitcase next to her. No one took any notice of her.
'Thank you for coming so soon.'
Her mother opened the door wider to allow them to step inside. The younger of the two was eyeing the handsome hall, obviously impressed. Maybe he was wondering how anyone could go nuts while living in such a grand house.
Her mother went straight to the point.
I cannot deal with her any more. She's completely impossible.'
The second man was nodding gravely.
'Do you have any idea if she has actually become psychotic again?'
I can't be sure. Of course, she has these outbursts, making accusations against me and although I know she mustn't upset herself, it's so difficult…'
Her mother covered her eyes with her hand. Sibylla heard the door to her father's study opening and his indoor shoes pad across the tiled floor. Then she could see him over the handrail. He went up to the men and shook their hands.
'Henry Forsenström.'
'Hakan Holmgren. We've come to collect Sibylla.'
He nodded and sighed. 'Best so, I think.' Sibylla got up.
'I'm packed and ready to go.'
Everybody turned to watch her. Her mother took a step closer to her husband, who put a protective arm round her. They seemed worried that their daughter would throw some kind of fit. When she reached the bottom of the stairs the small gathering scattered to let her pass. Once outside, she turned. The male nurses hadn't moved. She addressed them politely.
'I'm sorry, are you waiting for something?'
Hakan Holmgren took a few steps towards her.
'No, we're OK. Let's go. Sure you've packed everything you need?'
Sibylla just turned and walked towards their car, opened a rear door and climbed inside. The others joined her a little later, presumably after another briefing on her state of mind. She never saw her parents again. Her last glimpse was of them standing on the pointless tiled floor in the hall, screwing her reputation behind her back.
After a couple of days they gave her a room of her own.
The moment she entered the ward one of her fellow patients took it into her head that Sibylla was the Virgin Mary with a new baby Jesus inside her. It wasn't a problem for her, but the staff soon became utterly bored with the woman's pleading for her sins to be forgiven. Getting Sibylla out of the way seemed the most effective solution.
Delighted with the sick woman's helpful delusions, Sibylla gratefully pulled her own door shut. All she wanted was to be left in peace.
Her belly grew bigger and bigger.
Now and then a midwife would turn up, check her blood pressure and listen to the baby through some kind of inverted funnel. The growth was apparently doing all right, because the midwife didn't call often. Instead she gave Sibylla a book about pregnancy and delivery, which went straight into the drawer in her bedside table.
This time she was allowed walks on her own in the park, because they all agreed that the exercise was good for her. She spent a few hours walking every day. The white stone buildings looked quite beautiful, at least from a distance. If she let her mind go blank, it was possible to imagine that this was the park of a great castle.
The man who wanted her to talk didn't call very often either. Maybe he had sicker patients to look after. Apparently she was no longer crazy, only pregnant. It wasn't his fault that back home it amounted to more or less the same thing.
About two weeks before the baby was due she felt her first true contraction, an intense pain as if from a hammer blow. It passed as suddenly as it had arrived. Alone in her room, she collapsed on the bed, feeling terrified. What was that?
Then the pain struck her again, fierce and relentless.
Something had broken inside her. Fluid flooded down between her legs.
This must be death. It was her punishment. Something had broken inside her and her blood was pouring out of her. Once the pain had faded she looked down at her legs. No blood. Had she peed herself? Lost her mind or something?
The pain came in a wave next time. It hurt so much she was screaming out loud. Seconds later a female nurse came rushing in and started dealing with the wet sheets. Sibylla felt ashamed.
I'm sorry. Please, I need help. I think something's broken inside me.'
The woman just beamed at her.
'Don't worry, Sibylla. You're about to give birth – that's all. Just wait here. I'll go and phone Transport.'
She hurried away. Phone Transport? Where were they going to transport her?
'Good luck, Sibylla!' That's what they had said after pushing her stretcher into an ambulance. The words were ringing in her ears.
Now she was in another hospital, lying in bed alone in another room.
'Would you like us to call your husband?'
She had shaken her head. There was an uneasy silence.
'Is there anyone else you'd like to be with you?'
She had not answered the question, just closed her eyes and concentrated on trying to stop the next wave of pain. She didn't have a hope, of course. Nothing she could do helped against the unbearable pain racking her body. She was reduced to being just a body, possessed by an alien force intent on drilling a hole large enough to let the creature inside it get out. Her mind was out of order, her will had been dismantled, leaving her exposed to this purposeful, unstoppable process that would give her no peace until it had run to its completion.
She was about to make life.
A white clock faced her on the opposite wall. Its hands jumped forward regularly, her only reminder of a world outside that followed other laws.
The pause between each little jump seemed so long. Hours passed.
Now and then some woman would pop in to see her. She could hear another woman's screams from somewhere nearby. Had it been like this for her mother when she gave birth to Sibylla? Was that why she never really liked her daughter, didn't even accept her existence? If you caused this much pain, how can you ask to be loved?
When the minute hand had jumped round the clock-face four times and she was almost unconscious fro
m the effort, another woman came to see her. Once more the visitor stuck her fingers in there, but this time it was apparently different. Her opening was ten centimetres. It sounded like a mistake, the cleft in there must be vast. Her body couldn't hold together any more. It had fallen apart, dissolved.
She was lifted onto a delivery chair. Once seated there spread-eagled, legs wide apart and her genitals on full show, she was told to push. She was anxious to please them, but it seemed obvious that pushing would finally make her split in half. Her head would split too, right round from her chin to the back of her neck. She was pleading with them to stop the pain, but they were all in the service of the force and wouldn't let her off.
Someone said she could see the head. She told Sibylla to relax and stop pushing.
A head?
They could see a head. Coming out of her.
Once more now, Sibylla. Then it's over.
Suddenly the room echoed of a baby's crying. The last tearing pain faded away and was gone, as abruptly as it had come.
She turned to see a small dark head resting on the shoulder of a nurse, who was swiftly leaving the room.
The minute hand did another of its little jumps, just as if nothing special had happened. But a person had just emerged from inside her. A tiny human being with a head covered in dark hair. Unasked, this creature had started growing inside her and then dynamited its way out.
Sibylla was still sitting in the seat, her head leaning heavily against the backrest and her legs wide apart. She watched as the clock registered the passing of another minute, wondering why no one ever asked her if she minded.
In the chilly attic, the large hands rotated round and round the white clock-face and day followed night followed day.
She had found a shower-room that wasn't locked and crept down to have a hot shower every night. Standing for a long time under the water helped to thaw her body, but did not shift her depression.
When her unexpected visitor had left, the first instinct had been to pack up and leave. But then, where would she go? Her helplessness exhausted her so much she stayed where she was.
She didn't care. Let what happens happen.
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