Missing

'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.