Missing

made her swallow. Meanwhile, voices were addressing her from inside the radiator and the Devil was hiding under her bed, waiting for her to get up. If her feet so much as touched the floor he would grab her, dragging her down into the big hole down there. Underneath, in the cellar, his black men would be waiting to work her over with their burning hot instruments.
    She didn’t want to sleep, didn’t dare to. The pills they gave her made her lose consciousness all the same. When she was asleep there was no telling what they did to her. That was the reason they put her to sleep.
    One unending nightmare.

    When she refused to get up they stuck a tube into her down there. They wanted to pump in more poison that way too. The stuff was yellow and they kept it in a plastic bag next to her bed. Then the Devil could top it up whenever he wanted to. When she tore the tube out, they tied her hands.

    There was a man dressed in white who came to make her talk. He pretended to be kind but was only after her secrets. He would pass on what she told him to the men in the cellar.

    Darkness and light following each other. Time ceased to be. New hands made her swallow the white poison-pills.

    Then, one day, she suddenly understood what they were saying to her. They sounded kind, concerned to make her feel comfortable. They were protective and listened to her. One of them wheeled her bed across the room to let her see that there was no hole underneath it. Afterwards she agreed to be taken to the toilet and they removed the tube from her private parts and the yellow poison-bag from beside her bed.
    The next day, everyone who came to see her had a face and smiled. They fixed her bed, plumping her pillows and chatting to her all the time. They still wanted her to take poison, though. She was ill and in hospital, they told her. She had to stay until she got better.
    Then where would she go? She tried not to think of the ‘afterwards’.

    More days and nights passed. The voices from the radiator stopped speaking so much and finally left her in peace.
    Sometimes she would go outside her room. There was a TV set at one end of the corridor. None of the other patients spoke to her, because they were all enclosed in their own worlds. Often she simply stood at the window in her room, leaning her forehead against the cold bars and observing the traffic outside. Everyone was getting on with life without her.
    They took her for walks in the hospital park sometimes, but never let her out alone. The winter snow was melting by then and there were snowdrops growing in the borders.

    Beatrice Forsenström came to visit her. The man who wanted to make Sibylla talk came as well. Beatrice was immaculately groomed, but there were dark shadows under her eyes. She kept her handbag in her lap when she and the man settled down next to the bed.
    The man looked nice. He smiled at her.
    ‘How are you feeling now?’
    Sibylla was watching her mother.
    ‘I’m much better, thank you.’
    The man seemed pleased.
    ‘Do you know why you’re here?’
    Sibylla swallowed.
    ‘Maybe because I did something silly?’
    The man was looking at her mother, who had lifted her hand to her mouth. Sibylla had made the wrong answer and her mother would be sad. No, disappointed.
    ‘Don’t worry, Sibylla. You’ve been ill. That’s why you’re here,’ the man said.
    She kept looking at her hands. No one said anything for a while. Then the man rose and spoke to her mother.
    ‘I’ll leave you two alone now, but not for long.’
    They were on their own in the room. Sibylla was still looking at her hands.
    ‘Please forgive me.’
    Her mother suddenly got up.
    ‘Stop that at once.’
    Oh no, she had made Mummy angry as well.
    ‘You have been ill, Sibylla. There’s no need to apologise for that.’
    Then she sat down again. For a brief moment their eyes met, but this time her mother looked away first. Not soon enough. Sibylla had a perfectly clear idea of what was going on behind those eyes. Beatrice was furious at her daughter for putting her in this situation, which was beyond her control.
    Sibylla went back to studying her hands. There was a knock on the door. The man who wanted her to speak came back in, carrying a brown folder. He came to the end of her bed and spoke to her.
    ‘Sibylla, there’s one special thing both your mother and I want to talk to you about.’
    He glanced at Beatrice, but her eyes were fixed on the floor and she was clutching her handbag so