Karin Alvtegen - Missing

It did, in fact she had barely prodded at the upper screw before it came out. She felt a small chilly shiver of suspicion. Did somebody else know about the quiet seclusion of this attic? Still, she had no time to reconsider. The rumble of voices from the floors below was growing and she went in, closing the door behind her.

Down a few steps. There was a handrail to hold on to. It was looking different now. She had been there six, seven years ago and since then the school had been renovated, that had been obvious from just walking up the stairs. Last time the attic had been full of rubbish and old junk, but the dicey floor presumably meant that they had cleared away as much as possible. All that was left were a few piles of old textbooks.

She recalled that it had been summer back then and the heat under the poorly insulated roof had been suffocating. Maybe that was why the attic space was unused. Anyway, this time heat would not be a problem – on the contrary.

The clock was still where she remembered it. Seen close-up, the Sofia School clock was enormous. They had rigged up two lamps to light the clock-face. The clock had been broken then, but now she could see the minute hand moving. This worried her a little. How often did they need to fix the clock?

She forced herself to stop worrying. If she just kept her things along the far wall, she would have time to hide if some busybody suddenly turned up.

It didn't take long to roll out her mat and put the sleeping bag on top. She hung her panties and towel to dry from an electric cable. Tonight she had to find the staff-room shower and wash her smalls again, because if left to go sour they'd smell bad for ever. She still felt dirty. Thomas's hands were far away by now, but somehow they had left her coated in a sticky film. Had he woken up yet and found that she'd gone? What would he do then?

So, here she was. Hidden in an attic. Humiliated, hounded and abandoned.

Over the years, she'd had so many reasons for giving in but something inside her had made her fight on. Maybe the moment had come, for was all this not reason enough? It might be a relief to finally admit that she was nothing but a mistake, from beginning to end.

She listened out for the noise of the pupils filling the school.

Silly-billy Sibylla. Sibylla's a banger, grill her. Sylla Bylla, kill 'er.

Maybe they had been right? They had found her out, smelled her otherness when she was just a child. All the time, people had just been following their instincts about her, sensing that she wasn't meant to join their groups. She hadn't understood at first and had to learn the hard way. Her stubborn fighting back had gained her a little extra time, which had not been hers by right. She and Heino and all the rest of the outcasts were a kind of undergrowth in society. They seemed destined to make the standard citizen feel more satisfied with his existence, by giving him a chance to rank his success relative to their failure.

Well, there are worse fates than always pitching your demands on life as low as possible, in the name of social balance. Sheep and goats are sorted from the outset anyway.

She lay down. The bell rang and the whole building fell silent.

It would be so easy to give up. Accept that you were a lost soul, fit for nothing. She would never go to the police willingly, never ever, but there were other ways of giving in.

If she didn't have the strength to walk as far as Vast Bridge, something could surely be managed right here in the attic.

They had let her go home two weeks later. The silence in the large house was as solid as concrete. Gun-Britt had been given notice, presumably because Beatrice couldn't bear the shame of a servant observing her daughter's growing belly. As few eyes as possible must see it. Walks were strictly forbidden. After dark Sibylla was allowed to wander in the garden, but never to stray to the wrong side of the fence.

Her father spent almost all his time at home in his study. Now and then she heard him walk across the tiled floor at the bottom of the stairs.

She ate in her room, her own choice after the first evening meal back home. It had been painful, her parents silent to the point of muteness but somehow still speaking volumes. How could she blame them? Her whole being was in contradiction to their expectations of a daughter. They had looked forward to showing off a model young person, proudly confirming the success and dignity of the Forsenström family. Instead all she gave them was the shame of a total failure, which must be hidden away from the prying, malicious eyes of the local citizenry.

No problem, she really preferred eating on her own.

She did not think often about Mick. He was a dream she had dreamt. He was somebody she met long ago. Someone who didn't exist any more.

Nothing that had been before stayed the same. Everything was different now.

She had been mentally ill.

She had become a person who had been sick in the head -gone mad, weird. Nothing could change that. What she had experienced she would never be able to share with anyone. No one would understand what it had been like. No one would want to try.

At the same time a sense of having being unjustly treated was lurking inside her. It grew stronger day by day until it almost consumed her. It was unfair that she should be here, because she didn't want stay. If only she could, she would have left long ago.

She was carrying a load of guilt on her shoulders, made heavier each day as their disappointed eyes were following her round the house. All she wanted was to get away from them, but instead she was their prisoner. While she was waiting, her stomach was growing steadily bigger. What was she waiting for? What was it?

She was like a tool without a will of its own, helping to build the dream of two unknown adoptive parents-to-be. Her body was working for them.

Of course everyone was becoming very keen on looking after her. Even her mother tried her best. Her swelling stomach became something she could hide behind now, but what would happen when it had gone?

Then what would they do about her?

The word 'adoption' had seemed purely descriptive, free of values. It just sounded like any ordinary word – 'percentage', say, or 'democracy'. It meant giving her child away.

She had to give away this thing that had turned up inside her body without being asked and made her grow bigger and bigger. Now she could feel it kicking when she was lying still. It was kicking against the tense skin on her stomach, as if wanting her to know it was there.

There was a knock on the door. Sibylla checked the time. It must be her supper. 'Come in.'

Her mother entered carrying a tray, which she put down on her desk. Sibylla realised at once that there was something on her mind. Usually the tray ritual was quick, but now Beatrice was taking her time, apparently engrossed in arranging the place-setting just so.

Sibylla had been lying on her bed reading. She sat up, watching her mother's back.

'The vegetables, Sibylla. You didn't eat them yesterday. You should be eating lots of greens, it's important just now.'

'Tell me why.'

Her mother stopped in the middle of a movement. A few seconds passed before she answered. 'It's important for…' She cleared her throat. '… the child.'

Is that so? The child, now. It had taken time for her to get the words across her lips. Even her back had shown what an effort it had been. Suddenly Sibylla lost her temper.

'Why is it so important to look after the baby?'

Her mother turned slowly to face her.

'I haven't been getting… pregnant. It's up to you to take responsibility for your actions.'

Sibylla didn't answer, mostly because there was so much to say.

Her mother seemed to be pulling herself together. Obviously it wasn't just the vegetables she had wanted to talk about. The value of eating your greens had just been an unfortunate sideline. Sibylla watched her as she steeled herself to carry out her real errand.