Sibylla was close to tears.
'Please, Mummy.'
'Your weeping and wailing is simply pointless. We're just thinking of what's best for you, you know that.'
'But the people there are my only friends.'
Her mother pulled herself up straight. She was losing her patience. As far as she was concerned, the discussion was finished.
Yes, it was finished, like everything else.
A long, relaxing shower was usually a sure-fire way to cheer her up, but it didn't work this time. If anything she felt even more miserable when she was drying herself afterwards, as if hope had gone down the drain with the water.
She took her wet towel and washed panties through to the laundry room on the other side of the corridor. The key worked its magic and she started the tumble-drier.
Back in the shower room, she locked herself in again to get on with her new hairdo. First she cut her shoulder-length hair. It fell in large strands to the floor. Doing the back was difficult and the more she trimmed away, the clearer it became that in future her chances of flirting her way to free nights in hotels would be minimal. Still, that option had been pretty effectively taken from her anyway.
Following the instructions carefully, she dyed the remaining tufts black. She ended up looking like an aged punk rocker. Not even fucking Uno Hjelm would recognise her now.
She tidied up meticulously, honouring the understanding among the initiated in the secret 'clean-living' society. The slightest trace of any outsiders coming and going might make the regular tenants hide the key in a new place.
When everything was in order, she settled down on the lavatory seat to wait for her things to dry. The newspaper was lying just inside the door. She hadn't found the courage to read it yet, but knew she mustn't put it off any longer. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed it.
Pages 6, 7, 8 and the centre fold.
32-year old Sibylla Forsenström, charged in her absence with the murder of 51-year-old Jorgen Grundberg in the Grand Hotel, yesterday carried out another brutal murder. At about 3 p.m. on Sunday, a 63-year-old man was found murdered in his summer cottage just north of Vastervik. The woman seems to have struck when the man was asleep and temporarily on his own in the cottage. The general method employed was identical to the murder of the Grand Hotel, but at present the police refuse to comment further on how the man was killed. They do however speak of both deaths as 'executions'. Both victims were grossly mutilated and had organs removed from the body. The police have not given any further details. Allegedly, the woman is suspected of being guilty of desecration as well as murder. The police statement emphasises that there is no discernible motive and that the victims seem to be picked at random.
Sibylla couldn't bear reading any more of this and turned the page. The first thing she saw was a drawing of a face alarmingly like her own. The waiter in the Grand Hotel dining room must have an excellent memory for faces or maybe it was Hjelm, who had seen her with her hair down. Not that it would do much for him now.
Oh, God – she was so fucking deep in all this shit. What had she done to deserve it?
The police still have no definitive clues as to the whereabouts of 32-year-old Sibylla Forsenström and are looking for assistance from the so-called 'underworld' in Stockholm. Various informants claim to have seen the woman, for instance in Central Station and in an allotment area on Sodermalm.
A national search warrant has gone out after the murder in Vastervik. According to an unconfirmed report the woman had left a message with religious overtones, also admitting guilt, near the scene of the murder. So far there is no hint of a motive for either crime.
She got up hurriedly and vomited into the basin.
The entire Swedish police force was out chasing her now, because she was known to be an insane ritual killer. How could one bottle of fucking hair-dye help? Her body was still convulsing, but having got rid of the banana her stomach had nothing more to offer. She drank some water and tried to calm down.
Someone was knocking on the door.
'Hi, will you be finished in there soon?'
She glanced at her face in the mirror. The jet-black tufts on her head were standing straight up and her face was ashen. The overall effect was of a fading junkie.
'I'm in the shower.'
Closing her eyes, she prayed to God that whoever it was would go away. Of course, He had no special reason to listen this time either.
'Please hurry up. The other shower room is occupied.'
'OK.'
Silence.
She opened her make-up bag, rouged her cheeks and put on lipstick. It didn't improve matters much, but at least it was obvious that she had made an effort. Then she wiped away the half-digested banana with toilet paper and cleaned the basin.
Listening at the door, she heard nothing except the noise of the tumble-drier. She had no choice but to tough it out. It would just seem even more suspicious if she crept out looking ashamed. She stepped outside briskly.
He was sitting on the floor outside, reading a book.
'That was quick. I didn't mean to hassle you.'
When she came out, he rose. Then he saw her rucksack and looked bewildered.
Sibylla pointed to it and smiled.
'It's for the laundry.'
He nodded.
When she tried to open the door to the laundry room, her hand shook so much it was almost impossible to insert the key with its foot-long board into the keyhole. Finally the door clicked open. 'Have you just moved in?'
She avoided having to look at him by walking up to the tumble-drier.
'Yes, that's right.'
'Cool. Hope you like it here.'
She thought, if you don't bugger off to your shower I'll kick you where it hurts.
She took out her panties and towel, quickly pushing the still dampish washing into her rucksack and watching from the corner of her eye as he went inside the shower room. Just as she was getting out of there he came back out, holding the newspaper in his left hand.
She stiffened suddenly and came to a halt, as if her feet had stuck to the concrete floor.
For a moment he looked confused again, then he held the paper out towards her.
'Don't look so worried, it's just that you forgot your paper.'
The annual Christmas Party, once more. She was seventeen, sitting at the high table.
She'd asked her mother to be let off but received mock-surprise for an answer.
'Why, darling? You'd enjoy an evening out, surely? You've been sitting at home for months.'
Too true. Certainly she'd been sitting at home. It had been sixty-three days and nine hours since she last saw Mick. Every day Gun-Britt had collected her from Vetlanda in the tiny Renault. The afternoon walks had been forbidden, on the grounds that trust had been abused.
'I don't want to go.'
Her mother didn't answer. She just went into the dressing-room to find a suitable frock for her daughter's evening out.
'Don't be silly, darling. Of course you'll join us.'
Sibylla was sitting on her bed, watching her mother pick and choose in the wardrobe.
'I'll come if I'm allowed to sit with the other young people.'
Beatrice was stunned by this unheard-of ultimatum.
'Now, what's the reason for this, may I ask?'
'They're my age, that's why.'
Her mother turned round with an odd expression on her face. Subjected to her mother's gaze, Sibylla's heart started pounding. She had made up her mind, telling herself that she wasn't alone any more and could always run to Mick. In seven months' time, she would be eighteen years old and free to do what she liked. Until then she was going to fight for every inch. Her voice was quite steady.
'If I can't sit with the others I'll just stay here.'
Her mother could not believe her ears, this was of course an incredible statement. It worried Sibylla that she couldn't interpret the look on her mother's face. A sense of unease began tingling under her skin. She felt just the tiniest whiff of fear.