God, I too wish to thank You for Your protection. You have not left me alone in my task but sent that woman to shelter me. You are allowing her to atone for her sins by giving her a sacred purpose. For this I thank You, Lord God. Amen.
She had no idea where she was when she woke. It was not an uncommon sensation, but this morning it seemed especially hard to make sense of her whereabouts. The light was seeping through the cracks in the wooden walls, falling on the rubbish that surrounded her. She remembered where she was only when the bells of Sofia Church rang out seven times. She sat up to eat her last banana.
The floor was broken and covered in sawdust. Last night she had put planks across the joists to arrange somewhere to roll out her mat. She ate slowly, watching the dust whirl in the beams of sunlight.
Her sore throat wasn't troubling her any more. She definitely needed a shower after tonight. Central Station was no good, because the police were always about. She didn't dare go to the Klara shelter either.
Keeping track of time had become problematic since she'd left her diary in the Grand Hotel, but she was pretty sure her charity hand-out should be there today. First of all she just must do something about her hair. If she borrowed some money from her savings to buy hair-dye, she could collect the money afterwards.
Having extracted a twenty-kronor note from her savings, she caught the 76 bus to Ropsten. Normally she avoided buses, because it was easier to get through the underground check-ins without paying. This was the first time in six years that she had used saved money. Fourteen kronor for just one journey, what a waste!
Fucking bastards, all of them.
In the beginning she had been alone at the Renstierna Street bus stop. When people started turning up, she looked away. It was the morning rush-hour, but luckily she found two seats right at the back, one for her and one for her rucksack. When they reached Slussen all the seats had been taken and a woman standing close by her was eyeing the rucksack. Usually it wouldn't have bothered her, but just now she didn't want anyone watching at her. She hauled the rucksack into her lap and the woman sat down, taking a morning paper out of her briefcase.
Sibylla was looking steadfastly through the window as the bus was crossing Skepp Bridge and pulled up at the traffic-lights. It was next to a newsagent and the shopkeeper was putting up fresh news posters. When the bus started, he had moved enough for her to see the text. Unasked, her eyes recorded it and sent it straight to her brain.
It couldn't be true!
She sat staring blankly ahead for what seemed like an age, confusion and fear pumping through her body. A noose was tightening round her neck.
A passenger's face turned her way. Instinctively she pulled at the rucksack to make it into a bigger barrier and by shifting her position saw what her neighbour was reading. She didn't want to, but once more her eyes were recording things against her will.
The headline alone made her feel sick.
She didn't want to know any more and forced her eyes to focus on the rucksack for the rest of the journey, not daring to move until the woman got off at her stop.
The paper was left on the seat. She didn't want to. Knew she had to. Fuck them.
She grabbed the paper before getting off the bus.
On her way to Nimrod Street, she popped into the Co-op and bought a packet Rich Black dye, raiding her savings for the second time that morning. She would pay every single kronor back the moment she got her hand-out envelope from the post office box.
The Nimrod Street block of flats was an invaluable asset to her and a few others in the same predicament. Everyone in the know was exceptionally tight-lipped about it. It was information she had paid dearly for. Not in money, though.
The main door was always open and because the flats lacked showers, a couple of well-equipped shower-rooms had been built in the basement. The rooms were spacious and smartly tiled, had a lavatory with plenty of toilet paper and unlimited quantities of hot water.
They were locked, of course. Only the initiated knew where to find the spare key, fastened to a large piece of wood, in its hiding-place inside an old iron wall-cupboard just next to the doors leading to the wondrous washing facilities. Even better, you could lock the shower-rooms from the inside.
That key was worth more than its weight in gold.
As soon as she got in, she put her panties to soak in the basin, using a few drops of shampoo instead of washing liquid. Next, the hot shower. She was in luck, someone had left a bottle of conditioner. She closed her eyes, but the headline seemed fixed in her mind's eye.
Was there no end to this? Would she ever wake from this nightmare?
THE GRAND HOTEL MURDERESS STRIKES AGAIN
New ritual murder in Vastervik
For how long have you been carrying on like this?' It was her father speaking, for once. Sibylla swallowed again. The tabletop still seemed to rise and fall in front of her. 'Like what, Daddy?' Her mother snorted angrily.
'Sibylla, don't pretend. You're not such a fool you don't understand what upsets us.'
True, she did know. Obviously she had been seen in Mick's car. 'We met in the spring.'
Her parents looked at each other across the table, behaving as if they were joined by elastic bands. 'What is the man called?' 'Mikael. Mikael Persson.' 'And do we know his parents?' 'I don't think so, they live in Varnamo.'
No one spoke for a while and Sibylla found some respite in the silence.
'How does he earn his living in Hultaryd? I assume he's in employment.'
'He's an engineer. Car mechanic. He knows everything about cars.'
'Is that so.'
They looked at each other again, more closely bound to each other now. The rubber-band ties that connected them were tightening and loosening, but their faces were blank, empty. Sibylla looked away.
'We do not approve of our daughter being seen in one of those disreputable cars.'
She thought, it's not disreputable, it's a '59 De Soto Firedome. 'In fact, you must not socialise with that kind of person, none of these boys.'
Her head felt like a lump of lead. It tipped over towards one side, too heavy to be straightened up again. 'They're my mates.'
'Sit up straight when we're talking to you!'
Her head shot upwards automatically but her neck could not keep it upright. Instead it tipped backwards, hitting the top of her high-backed chair.
'Now, what's the matter? Sibylla, what's wrong with you?'
Her mother had got up and was advancing. Sibylla's head was stuck to the chair at first, but then it slid sideways and followed her body to the floor.
'Sibylla, how are you?' It was her mother's voice.
She was lying somewhere soft and there was a cold, damp thing on her forehead. She opened her eyes and realised she was in her own bed, with her mother perched on its edge and her father standing in the middle of the room.
'Dear child, you really scared us.'
'I'm sorry. Forgive me.'
'Now, now. We'll talk about it later.'
Henry Forsenström came closer.
'How do you feel now? Shouldn't I call Dr Wallgren?'
Sibylla shook her head. Her father nodded to show that he had registered her answer and left the room. Sibylla looked at her mother.
'I meant that I'm so sorry I fainted like that.'
Beatrice removed the wet handkerchief that had cooled her forehead.
'You can't help fainting, Sibylla. No need to apologise for that. But about the other thing we were talking about, you must do as you're told. Your father and I agree, you must never go to that place again.'