She took just one additional precaution by hiding her things and spreading out her mat in the corner by the chimney-shaft. It was further from the door, but on the other hand she was less likely to be taken by surprise again.
He came back on the third day after his first visit. Lying very still, she listened as the door opened and closed. 'Sylla?'
So it was the boy. But she couldn't see the door, so there might be someone with him.
'Sylla? It's Tab. OK, Patrik. Where are you?'
She peeped round the chimney-shaft. He was alone.
His face lit up when he saw her.
'Great. I thought maybe you'd moved on.'
She sighed and got up.
'I thought about it, believe me, but there aren't that many free pitches.'
Then she noticed that he was carrying a bulging rucksack and held a rolled-up mat under his arm. 'Off some place?' 'I'm staying here.' 'Here?'
'Sure. I'm shacking up here tonight, if that's OK by you?'
She shook her head helplessly.
'Why yes – but why?'
'It's cool. I want to experience it.'
She sighed, looking around the attic.
'Patrik, this isn't a game. I don't sleep here because it's a fun thing to do.'
'What's your reason then?' This was irritating.
'The reason is that I've got nowhere else to go just now.' He must have felt that she needed persuading and got something out from his rucksack. It was a grill-bag. 'Spare-ribs. Would you like some?'
She had to smile at the way he had brought her a bribe. He asked again, his head a little to the side. 'Please, can I stay here tonight?' She shrugged.
'I can't stop you, I suppose. But what would your parents say to your sleeping rough?' 'Never mind.'
This worried her. Christ, he might have told his parents of his plans.
'Do they know where you are?'
Now he was looking at her with eyes that said how-thick-can-you-be.
'Dad's out driving his taxi all night and Mum's away on some kind of course.'
'Does anybody else know that you're here?' He sighed.
'You're so fucking anxious. No, no one knows where I am.' Anxious? You'd be anxious too, if only you knew where your bit of harmless fun would get you. Boyo, you're about to share a night in an attic with a wanted serial killer, probably a religious maniac.
'Fine. No problem. You're welcome.'
He didn't need to be asked twice, deciding quickly to spread out his sleeping mat on the platform in front of the great clock. She thought it better to be able to keep an eye on him and pulled her own mat to the other side of the chimney-shaft. He examined his handiwork with satisfaction and then sat down, looking at her expectantly.
'Are you hungry? Would you like some of this stuff?'
Couldn't deny that. Baked beans had its limitations.
'Sure, if you've got enough.'
He tore open the bag and spread it out on the floor between them. Then he added ready-made potato salad, two tins of Coke and two bags of crisps.
'Help yourself.'
What a feast! She came and sat next to him. He seemed to be just as hungry as she was and they ate in silence. Each spare-rib was gnawed down to the bone before being put back in the bag next to the uneaten ribs. When the two piles were almost the same height, she was so full it seemed impossible to eat a thing more. She leaned back against the wall.
He sounded surprised.
'Are you done already? I bought double helpings.' 'That's nice of you. We'll keep some for tomorrow.' His mouth was still full.
'Maybe your stomach has shrunk. Seemingly it does if you don't get much food.'
Fascinating. Sounded true, too. He must have been used to eating his fill, because he immediately started on another spare-rib. By now, even his cheeks were smeared with oil.
'Shit. Where do you go to wash?'
Sibylla shrugged. 'If you're homeless you've got to get used to mess. Running water is sheer luxury.'
He stared at his sticky hands. Then he looked at her hands.
She held them up in front of him. Only her thumb and index finger on one hand had touched the food. He quickly licked his fingers and wiped them on the legs of his trousers. Then he looked around.
'Right. Now what?'
'Now what – what?'
I mean, you can't just… like, sit here? What do you usually do?'
Ah, the little person inside that almost fully-grown body is quite clueless.
'What do you usually do? When you don't hole up in attics and play at being homeless?'
'Mess around with my computer, I suppose.' She nodded and drank some Coke. 'Not so easy if you've got nowhere to stay.' He grinned.
'Maybe ogling the telly's the answer, then.'
She went back to her corner and crawled into her sleeping bag, sticking her hands into her armpits to keep them warm. Then she turned her head to watch him.
He was obviously bored. Already. Failing other distractions, he had started tidying up after their meal. The clock behind him showed ten minutes past six.
When he had finished clearing up, he rolled out his sleeping bag and followed her example. It was a cheap model, which meant that he would be cold during the night. That was helpful. He might leave her alone after that.
He was lying on his back with his hands under his head.
'Why did you become homeless? Haven't you ever lived any place?'
She sighed.
I did live somewhere once.' 'Where?'
'Somewhere in Småland.' 'Why did you leave?' it's a long story.'
He turned his head and looked at her.
'Go ahead, I'd like to hear it. It's not as if, like, we're in a hurry.'
They had supported her in the shower afterwards and then wheeled her across to the maternity ward. In four of the five beds in the room sat recently delivered mothers with their babies. They all greeted her pleasantly when she was placed in a bed next to the window, but she immediately rolled over on her side. The window had blue-and-white striped curtains. A small border had come off the bottom on one of them. Looking out meant that she didn't have to see them, but she couldn't keep out the sounds.
Initially, no one asked her anything. They were all preoccupied with minding their own new-born babies.
She had been longing to sleep on her front, but it was still impossible. Her belly was still really big, even though it was empty. She could sense it's sudden emptiness. Her breasts were aching.
They came to see after about an hour. First, they got her to sit up, then stand and walk. Walking hurt. She could feel the tense pain from the stitches they'd used to sew her up with. Or at least, that's what they said it was.
Next, she was to speak with the doctor. She decided to stand instead of accepting his offer of a chair. He nodded at her and started leafing through her notes.
'Now Sibylla, this seems to have gone very well.'
She said nothing and he looked up at her quickly, before returning to the brown folder.
'Tell me, how are feeling?'
Empty, hollow. Used up and abandoned.
'What was it?'
He looked up again.
'Was what?'
'The baby, what kind was it?'
This bothered him, maybe because he was the one meant to ask the questions. 'A male.'
He bent over the notes.
A little boy. She had given birth to a little boy with dark hair.
'Please, can't I see him?'
He cleared his throat, apparently displeased with her unexpected line of talk.
'No, I'm afraid not. It's routine here, nothing personal. In cases such as yours, it has proved to be the best policy. For the mother's own sake, you see.'
Ah yes, for her sake. Why didn't it ever occur to anyone that she should be asked about what was best for her? How come they all knew already what was best?
He quickly finished their talk. When she returned to her room, the women were smiling in
welcome. A nurse helped her into bed and she turned her back at all of them.
During the afternoon visiting-hour, fathers and relations and friends poured into the room to admire the babies. The visitors pretended not to see her back.
In the evening, only the mother in the next bed had an unbroken night's sleep. Maternal duties kept the rest of them awake. She heard them chatting quietly about their babies. He cries such a lot, I think it's his slow bowels. She always prefers the left breast – knows what she wants already, little madam. Look, he almost smiled, isn't he lovely!
She slowly got out of bed. If she hauled herself up sideways, it only hurt just before her feet took her weight.
The corridor outside was empty. She walked past the window to the nurses' station without anybody noticing her. The babies slept next door. She looked into the babies' room and it was empty apart from one plastic box on wheels in the middle of the floor. It was a baby-carrier of the kind that was wheeled along to the other mothers in the ward. Her heart was pounding as she cautiously closed the door behind her and tiptoed into the room. A little head.
A tiny head, covered in dark hair. This was her child. Now she was trembling all over. Looking intently into the cot, she saw her baby's ID number on the note behind his head.
Her son.
She slapped her hands over her mouth to stop herself from moaning aloud. He had been part of her and grown inside her. Now he was lying there, all alone. She had abandoned her baby boy.
He was so very tiny, lying there on his side sleeping. She could have made a pillow for his head with the palm of her hand. Gently, with one finger, she stroked the dark hair. He twitched and drew a deep breath, making a little noise like a sob. She bent over him, putting her nose to his ear.
This was intolerable. The emotion was welling up suddenly inside her.
They shouldn't have been allowed to do this, not for any reason. He was her child. They had to kill her before she let him go. She knew with her whole being that she could never betray him, never abandon him. Never leave him alone in a plastic box crying himself to sleep.
Now she had become more courageous. She slid her hands carefully underneath his small body and lifted him. She held him close, very close, feeling that this was how it should be.
He stayed asleep. She inhaled his baby smell with the tears running down her cheeks. She was cradling her little boy in her arms. Now she was no longer alone.
The door opened.
'What are you doing?'
She stayed where she was. She recognised the nurse, who had helped her into the doctor's room earlier that day.
'Sibylla, you must put the baby down. Come on. Let's go back to the ward now.' 'He's my son.'
The nurse seemed uncertain about what to do, but reached out her arms in order to take the baby away. Sibylla turned her back.
'I'm not letting go of him.'
Now she felt the other woman's hand on her shoulder. She shrugged to get free and the movement woke the child in her arms. He whined a little, but stopped when she gently stroked his head.
'Hush, hush my darling. Mummy's here.'
The nurse was on her way out of the room. Sibylla put her hand behind his head to get a better look at his face. His eyes had opened, small dark blue eyes moving about in order to find something to focus on.
A moment later, they were back. Four of them this time and one of them was a man. He walked straight up to Sibylla and spoke to her authoritatively.
'Put the baby down now.'
'He's my baby.'
The man hesitated for a moment, Then he pulled out a chair for her.
'Why don't you sit down?' 'No thanks. Sitting still hurts.' One of the others came up to her.
'Listen, Sibylla, behaving like this doesn't solve anything. You're just making it worse for yourself.' 'Worse? How?'
They looked at each other in turn. One of them left the room.
'Sibylla, everyone has agreed the child is to be adopted. He'll have the best possible opportunities, so you mustn't worry.'
'I haven't agreed to anything. And I want to keep him.'
'Sibylla, I know it's hard and I'm sorry. There's nothing we can do about it, you know.'
They were crowding her.
Three against one and the fourth presumably on her way back. She might bring reinforcements. Everyone was against her, they were all playing in the opposing team. She was facing them alone, with only her baby on her side.
The two of them against the rest of the world. So what? She wouldn't abandon him.
The man pushed the chair away.
'There are two ways to deal with this situation. Either you put him back in his cot yourself and leave quietly. Or else we'll have to force you.'
Her heart was beating hard. They were going to take him away again.
'Please, can't you see? I'm his mother. You know that. You mustn't take him away, he's all I've got.'
The tears were coming now. Her whole body shook and her head was spinning. She closed her eyes. I shall not fall ill again. Not ill.
When she opened her eyes again, it was too late.
The man was about to leave the room, holding her son in his arms. Two other men in white clothes had arrived. They grabbed her arms.
Her child was crying. She could hear the sound disappearing down the corridor.
She never saw her son again.
That's a fucking crime! Were they allowed to do that?' She didn't reply. She was wondering what had made her tell the story especially since she had never even mentioned it to anyone before. Her loss had been gnawing at her all the time, like a swallowed shard of glass. Its unyielding edge had kept the wound raw, but she had never before expressed her grief in words.
Maybe she had told him because he was about the same age as her son. Or maybe because of everything – the hopelessness of it all. No more point in keeping quiet.
'But what happened afterwards?'
She hesitated. These were memories she had tried hard to forget.
'They had to lock me up. I was kept in a mental hospital for almost half a year. By then I just couldn't hack it any more.'
'Jesus… were you, you know, like… crazy?'
She couldn't be bothered answering. They sat in silence for while.
'How do you mean, couldn't hack it? Did you go on the run?'
'Yes, I did. Not that I think they chased me that much. I wasn't exactly a danger to the public' Not like now, that is.
'What about your Mum and Dad? What did they say?'
'Good question. Well, they said I couldn't stay with them. I was an adult and had made my own bed and could go lie in it and so on.'
'Fucking sickoes.'
Indeed.
'Then what did you do?'
She looked at him.
'Are you always this curious?'
'I've never talked to a drifter before.'
She sighed, raising her eyes to the ceiling. Well, then. Listen and Learn.
'First I went to the nearest biggish town – it was Vaxsjo. I was scared silly that they'd find me and send me back to the hospital. I was moving about for a couple of months or so, sleeping in basements and eating what I could find.'
'How old were you?'
'It was just after my eighteenth birthday.'
'That's three years older than me.'
'Than I.'
He turned to look at her. 'Than what?'
'You should say "older than I".' He snorted.
'Were you a damn prefect at school or what?' She was smiling into the darkness. No, never a prefect. They didn't pick her.
'No, but I was rather good at Swedish – at writing essays and things.'
'Why didn't you ever get a job?'
'I didn't dare tell people my name. They might recognise it, you see. I thought they were looking for me, that I was wanted by the police.'
The last phrase brought her right back to the present. Where exactly was this chat taking her? Time to cut it short, now. 'Good n
ight.'
He lifted his head, leaning on one elbow. 'Hey, you can't stop now.'
He sounded disappointed, but she turned her face towards the wall.
it's almost eleven o'clock and I'm tired. So, good night.'
'Please, just one more thing. How come you ended up in Stockholm? Can't you tell that bit too?'
She sighed and turned again. The lamps illuminating the clock-face were throwing their white light into the attic, but its corners remained pitch dark.
'Listen, I'll only say this much. If I were you, I'd go for a job in television. You wouldn't sleep too well if I told you about everything I've seen and done and felt on the streets.'
She stopped speaking for a moment, tried to find the right words. How much of herself could she give? Then she sat up.
'Six of these years are blanks, I hardly remember a single thing. Who I was with. Where I slept. I was drunk out of my mind most of the time. I didn't want to be able to think, because if I did I might lose my grip and sink without trace. You see, living on the street gets to you. It's really hard to pull yourself out. The main reason is that you become unable to adjust to living in other conditions. You have to be able to conform to regular society and you don't want to conform. It's a vicious circle. Patrik, you must listen to me. I know what it's like and you're just wrong about the freedom thing. It's a load of shit, all that about sleeping rough. You haven't got a fucking clue about what it's like, not really.'
She lay down again. For once Patrik was quiet, presumably silenced by her vehemence. Would he really stay all night? Maybe he was angry now?
Not another word. She could hear him stirring, testing different positions on the thin sleeping mat. Then the attic became totally quiet.
She felt too restless to sleep. Memory snapshots came and went behind her closed eyelids, in fast-changing sequences. His questions had ripped the lid off stored experiences that she had avoided for years.
The memories of hitchhiking to Stockholm in the hope of merging with the crowds in the capital and so find some way to earn a living. How frightened she had been all the time that they would trace her, catch her and lock her up in hospital again. As if anyone had cared about her absence!
Then came the slow realisation of how difficult it is for someone without money, contacts or even a name to find a safe harbour. She didn't dare use her ID number, which meant that the Job Centres were out of the question. She had taken some illegal jobs as a cleaner or dish-washer, but moved on as soon as anyone at all became curious about her. Safety seemed to be among those who only knew each other by nicknames and never asked any questions except about drink or drugs and only when necessary. In the end, hungry and tired to death, she had faced utter humiliation, swallowed her pride and phoned home to ask for help. Begging for forgiveness, she told them she wanted to come home again.
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