Missing

will had been dismantled, leaving her exposed to this purposeful, unstoppable process that would give her no peace until it was over.
    She was about to make life.
    A white clock faced her on the opposite wall. Its hands jumped forward regularly, her only reminder of a world outside that followed other laws.
    The pause between each little jump seemed so long. Hours passed.
    Now and then a woman would pop in to see her. She could hear another woman’s screams from somewhere nearby. Had it been like this for her mother when she gave birth to Sibylla? Was that why she never really liked her daughter, didn’t even accept her existence? If you caused this much pain, how can you ask to be loved?

    When the minute hand had jumped round the clock-face four times and she was almost unconscious from the effort, a new woman came to see her. Once more the visitor stuck her fingers in there, but this time it was apparently different. Her opening was ten centimetres. It sounded like a mistake, the cleft in there must be vast. Her body couldn’t hold together any more. It had fallen apart, dissolved.
    She was lifted onto a delivery chair. Once seated there, spread-eagled, legs wide apart and her genitals on full show, she was told to push. She was anxious to please them, but it seemed obvious that pushing would finally make her split in half. Her head would split too, right round from her chin to the back of her neck. She was pleading with them to stop the pain, but they were all in the service of the force and wouldn’t let her off.
    Someone said she could see the head. She told Sibylla to relax and stop pushing.
    A head?
    They could see a head. Coming out of her.
    Once more now, Sibylla. Then it’s over.
    Suddenly the room echoed with a baby’s crying. The last tearing pain faded away and was gone, as abruptly as it had come.
    She turned to see a small dark head resting on the shoulder of a nurse, who was swiftly leaving the room.
    The minute hand did another of its little jumps, just as if nothing special had happened. But a person had just emerged from inside her. A tiny human being with a head covered in dark hair. Unbidden, this creature had started growing inside her and then dynamited its way out.
    Sibylla was still sitting in the seat, her head leaning heavily against the backrest and her legs wide apart. She watched as the clock registered the passing of another minute, wondering why no one had ever asked her if she minded.

I n the chilly attic, the large hands rotated round and round the white clock-face and day followed night followed day.
    She had found a shower-room that wasn’t locked and crept down to have a hot shower every night. Standing for a long time under the water helped to thaw her body, but did not shift her depression.

    When her unexpected visitor had left, the first instinct had been to pack up and leave. But then, where would she go? Her helplessness exhausted her so much she stayed where she was.
    She didn’t care. Let what happens happen.
    She took just one additional precaution by hiding her things and rolling out her mat in the corner by the chimney-shaft. It was further from the door, but on the other hand she was less likely to be taken by surprise again.

    He came back on the third day after his first visit. Lying very still, she listened as the door opened and closed.
    ‘Sylla?’
    So it was the boy. But she couldn’t see the door, so there might be someone with him.
    ‘Sylla? It’s Tab. OK, Patrik. Where are you?’
    She peeped round the chimney-shaft. He was alone.
    His face lit up when he saw her.
    ‘Great. I thought maybe you’d moved on.’
    She sighed and got up.
    ‘I thought about it, believe me, but there aren’t that many free pitches.’
    Then she noticed that he was carrying a bulging rucksack and held a rolled-up mat under his arm.
    ‘Off some place?’
    ‘I’m staying here.’
    ‘Here?’
    ‘Sure. I’m shacking up here tonight, if that’s OK by you?’
    She shook her head helplessly.
    ‘Why yes – but why?’
    ‘It’s cool. I want to experience it.’
    She sighed, looking around the attic.
    ‘Patrik, this isn’t a game. I don’t sleep here because it’s a fun thing to do.’
    ‘What’s your reason then?’
    This was irritating.
    ‘The reason is that I’ve got nowhere else to go just now.’
    He must have felt that she needed persuading and got something out from his rucksack. It was a grill-bag.
    ‘Spare-ribs. Would you like some?’
    She had to