'Urrgh. Spare ribs for breakfast!'
'Do you want some of my crisp-bread? I've got some yoghurt too.'
He liked the idea and shoved the grill-bag back on the floor. Still wrapped in the sleeping bag he hopped across to her. 'Hey, take it easy. The floor could break.' 'Yeah?'
When he reached her, he settled with a thump. She shook her head and he grinned at her, grabbing a slice of crisp-bread.
He must have been really hungry. When he was wolfing his seventh slice she put the packet away.
'Tomorrow's another day.'
'We'll buy some more. No problem.'
She just looked at him and he grimaced, obviously realising how silly he had been.
'Sorry. I'll buy it. I'll give you the money, if you like.' 'Thanks, but no thanks.'
This was the right moment. How should she best open up the subject? She steeled herself, taking a deep breath. 'Do you follow the news, read the papers?' He shrugged.
'Not a lot. Mum wants me to read a proper paper like Dagens Nyheter, but it's way too much. Takes hours getting through it. But I do check out The Express. Dad brings it back after work. Why? Do you? Read a newspaper, I mean.'
'I do when I can. When I find one lying about. Or else I go to the Culture House. The reading room there has all the dailies.'
This was clearly news to him, but he nodded knowingly. She carried on talking.
'Yesterday, did you look at the papers?'
He shook his head at first.
'Wait, I did. The DN Friday supplement.'
How should she handle this? Did she have the right to involve him? It had seemed perfectly reasonable while he was asleep.
'Patrik, have you ever been accused of doing something you didn't do?'
'Suppose so. Have you got some yoghurt, or…?' She sighed and produced her big container. 'Thanks. Can I have it straight from the pack?' 'Sure. Unless you brought a nice plate, of course.' He grinned and she started again. The introductory bit was the hardest.
'I have, you see – been accused of something I didn't do, that is.'
He seemed focused on the yoghurt. Drinking it was hard, it was really too thick. He kept tapping the bottom of the pack. 'Does the name Sibylla mean anything to you?' He nodded, but still seemed more interested in the yoghurt. 'Patrik, you mustn't feel bad about this. Be cool.' She hesitated for one more brief moment. 'I'm Sibylla, you see.'
He didn't react first. Then the penny dropped. He stiffened, put the yoghurt down and turned to look at her. There was real fear in his eyes.
'Please, believe me, I didn't do it. I just happened to be in the Grand Hotel when someone killed that guy. I'm innocent.'
He was clearly unconvinced. His eyes flickered round the attic for a moment, as if seeking an escape route. She must gain time. Somehow this wasn't working out the way she'd hoped. The word came spontaneously now, not in the careful order she had practised.
'Oh, for Christ's sake, Of course I'm not serial killer. You wouldn't have been sitting her now if I had been, after all, I've had all night to chop you up in little pieces.'
This was not a good way of putting it. In fact, it was pretty disastrous. Suddenly he made a move to get away, but the sleeping bag trapped him.
He mustn't go – not yet.
She leapt at him, pinning him down against the mat with her knees on his arms. His quick breathing sounded like sobbing. His tears were not far away.
Oh God no!
'Please. Don't hurt me.'
She closed her eyes. What was she doing?
'You must know that I won't hurt you. Please listen to me. I'm holed up in this freezing attic with every single cop in the country after me. They've made up their minds that I'm IT. I haven't got a chance. Like I said yesterday, people like me have no rights. Oh Patrik, you've got to believe me. I told you all that personal stuff yesterday because I trusted you. I thought you at least would believe in me.' By now the sobs had quietened down.
'I'm telling you this because I need your help. I don't dare go into a shop even.' His wide, frightened eyes were fixed on her. She sighed. 'OK, I'm sorry. Forgive me'
Just imagine what anybody watching them would make of her sitting astride a defenceless fifteen year-old. She stood up, letting him free.
'Go away now.'
He stayed where he was, very still and looking as if he hardly dared to breathe. 'Go!'
He twitched in response to her loud voice. Then he crawled out of his rucksack and started slowly walking towards the door, his back tense as if he feared she would jump on him from behind.
I need my anorak.'
He stopped at once, let the anorak slide to the floor and walked on. When he reached the door he suddenly leapt at it and rushed out. She could hear his running footsteps in the corridor outside.
Slumping down on her mat, she knew staying in the attic was not possible now. She had to leave, at once. She packed his things neatly and then started on her own. A few minutes later everything was tidied away. Just inside the door, she turned to cast a last glance at the clock. Bye, bye.
Into the corridor, down the stairs. On the ground floor she stopped for a moment. The mere thought of opening the door to the world outside made her feel sick. This everlasting fear would destroy her in the end. She chose to walk round to the back door leading into the school-yard. The thought of the street was too frightening.
The door slammed behind her, shutting her off from her refuge for good. Crossing the yard, she walked towards the Vitaberg
Park. She had no idea what to do next. Then she heard someone shouting behind her. The sound alarmed her and she stopped, looking around for somewhere to hide. 'Sylla! Wait!'
Then she saw him come running round the corner and waited until he reached her. At first he didn't speak and she set off walking again.
'I'm sorry I didn't believe you at first, but I was so fucking scared.'
He was a little breathless. She turned to look at him and discovered a new expression in his eyes, a seriousness that she had not seen before. Then he stared at the ground, as if ashamed by his own admission of fear.
'Don't worry about it.'
'No, it's because I know you're speaking the truth, Sylla.' She kept walking, unable to bear the thought of starting to plead with him again. He hurried after her.
'Sylla, please. You see, I saw the news on the poster in the Co-op window.'
She stopped. He was obviously trying hard to choose the right words.
'The story is that you murdered someone else last night.'
She felt uneasy. 'Are you absolutely sure he's asleep?' Patrick sounded impatient.
'Relax. He's on nightshirts and doesn't usually wake up until the afternoon.'
She was feeling uncomfortable. What would his father do if he found a woman with unnaturally jet-black hair, camping with her rucksack in his son's room? Old enough to be his mother, too.
They were in the block of flats where Patrik lived, whispering together at the bottom of the stairs.
'And your mother, are you sure – really sure, sure – that she isn't coming home?'
'Sure. Not until tomorrow night.'
Maybe he was right but then, maybe he wasn't. Besides, was it really right to involve him?
When she learned the latest news she'd had to go and sit down on the nearest park bench. He had followed her silently, leaving her in peace. Sitting there looking out over the empty school-yard, she felt her courage ebbing away again. Staring at the large clock-face, she thought she should have followed her impulse of a few nights ago and made the school attic her last resting-place.
He tried to say something hopeful to cheer her up.
'Listen. I can tell the police you were with me all the time last night.'
She only snorted at that, but then felt guilty because it had sounded like a put-down.
'They would just have added pederasty to my list of crimes.'
He sounded grumpy.
'I happen to be fifteen years old. Actually.' What's the answer to that?
'Patrik, I've had it. I might as well confess and put an end to the whole saga.' 'Shit, no! Don't!' He was really upset.