alone had actually spoken to her.
‘Why are you angry with me?’
Silence.
By now the lump in her stomach was so big it made her feel sick. Who had told her mother about this afternoon? Had someone seen her? She swallowed.
‘What have I done?’
Still no reaction from Beatrice, who just turned a page in her book. Sibylla stared at the carpet. Its twisting oriental pattern began blurring in front of her eyes and she bent forward to make the tears fall straight down without leaving any traces on her cheeks.
Her ears were ringing. The shame of it all.
She went upstairs, knowing full well what to expect. Hours of anxious waiting for the explosion, hours more of guilt, shame, regret, longing to be forgiven. Please, please, dear God, let the time pass quickly. Please let her tell me soon what’s up so I can say sorry – forgive me. But whatever You do, don’t let her have found out everything.
God, don’t take today away from me.
But sometimes God is hard. When the downstairs dinner-bell rang, Mrs Forsenström still had not deigned to appear in Sibylla’s room. Sibylla was feeling really sick now and the smell of fried potatoes made her want to vomit. She knew what would come next. She would be made to beg and plead to be told what she had done wrong. Beatrice would speak only when sated with her daughter’s self-abasement.
S he arrived at Stockholm Central at 12.35. The Grand Hotel murder was definitely not in the news that day. The posters ran an animal welfare story, which had raised a storm of public indignation. After a few years in Sweden, a chimpanzee had been sold to a zoo in Thailand, where he had been confined in an unsuitable cage that was apparently far too small.
Leaving the station, she walked on past the Culture Centre at Sergel Square, where she usually spent many hours going through the newspapers in the reading room. She didn’t feel like reading the papers. Never cared much for monkeys. She could do with a no-news day and above all no Grand Hotel murder stories.
Even so, she suddenly found herself sitting on a bench on the Ström Quay, her back to the water and her eyes fixed on the façade of the Grand Hotel just opposite. The cordons had gone. A limousine had drawn up in front of the main entrance and the chauffeur was chatting with the door porter. It was looking exactly as it had three days ago when she had innocently stepped inside.
‘Hey, what’s this? Sitting here contemplating your sins?’
She jumped, as if struck. It was just Heino, who had crept up behind her. He had brought all his worldly goods along, mostly plastic carrier bags full of empty cans. She knew that somewhere underneath the load was a rust-coloured hooded pram, because she had been around when he nicked it. Now only the wheels were showing.
‘Christ, you really scared me!’
He grinned and sat down next to her. The odour of ingrained dirt immediately overwhelmed every other smell. She backed off as little as possible, in case he would notice.
Heino was looking at the Grand Hotel.
‘Did you do it?’
Sibylla glanced at him, surprised at how fast the rumour had done the rounds. Heino wasn’t the newspaper-reading type.
‘No, I didn’t.’
Heino nodded. He clearly felt that the subject had been exhausted.
‘Got anything then?’
She shook her head.
‘Nothing to drink. Fancy a fresh roll?’
He rubbed his filthy palms together, smiling happily.
‘Now you’re talking. A nice, fresh roll is a thing of beauty.’
She rooted around in her rucksack for her cache of breakfast rolls and gave him one. He ate greedily. The few teeth left in his mouth were struggling bravely with the roll.
‘Great stuff. A chaser would be something else, though.’
She smiled, wishing she had any kind of drink for him. Preferably alcoholic.
Two smartly dressed ladies were approaching, leading a small dog kitted out in a tartan coat. It looked like a large pampered rat. Catching sight of Heino, one of them started
‘Why are you angry with me?’
Silence.
By now the lump in her stomach was so big it made her feel sick. Who had told her mother about this afternoon? Had someone seen her? She swallowed.
‘What have I done?’
Still no reaction from Beatrice, who just turned a page in her book. Sibylla stared at the carpet. Its twisting oriental pattern began blurring in front of her eyes and she bent forward to make the tears fall straight down without leaving any traces on her cheeks.
Her ears were ringing. The shame of it all.
She went upstairs, knowing full well what to expect. Hours of anxious waiting for the explosion, hours more of guilt, shame, regret, longing to be forgiven. Please, please, dear God, let the time pass quickly. Please let her tell me soon what’s up so I can say sorry – forgive me. But whatever You do, don’t let her have found out everything.
God, don’t take today away from me.
But sometimes God is hard. When the downstairs dinner-bell rang, Mrs Forsenström still had not deigned to appear in Sibylla’s room. Sibylla was feeling really sick now and the smell of fried potatoes made her want to vomit. She knew what would come next. She would be made to beg and plead to be told what she had done wrong. Beatrice would speak only when sated with her daughter’s self-abasement.
S he arrived at Stockholm Central at 12.35. The Grand Hotel murder was definitely not in the news that day. The posters ran an animal welfare story, which had raised a storm of public indignation. After a few years in Sweden, a chimpanzee had been sold to a zoo in Thailand, where he had been confined in an unsuitable cage that was apparently far too small.
Leaving the station, she walked on past the Culture Centre at Sergel Square, where she usually spent many hours going through the newspapers in the reading room. She didn’t feel like reading the papers. Never cared much for monkeys. She could do with a no-news day and above all no Grand Hotel murder stories.
Even so, she suddenly found herself sitting on a bench on the Ström Quay, her back to the water and her eyes fixed on the façade of the Grand Hotel just opposite. The cordons had gone. A limousine had drawn up in front of the main entrance and the chauffeur was chatting with the door porter. It was looking exactly as it had three days ago when she had innocently stepped inside.
‘Hey, what’s this? Sitting here contemplating your sins?’
She jumped, as if struck. It was just Heino, who had crept up behind her. He had brought all his worldly goods along, mostly plastic carrier bags full of empty cans. She knew that somewhere underneath the load was a rust-coloured hooded pram, because she had been around when he nicked it. Now only the wheels were showing.
‘Christ, you really scared me!’
He grinned and sat down next to her. The odour of ingrained dirt immediately overwhelmed every other smell. She backed off as little as possible, in case he would notice.
Heino was looking at the Grand Hotel.
‘Did you do it?’
Sibylla glanced at him, surprised at how fast the rumour had done the rounds. Heino wasn’t the newspaper-reading type.
‘No, I didn’t.’
Heino nodded. He clearly felt that the subject had been exhausted.
‘Got anything then?’
She shook her head.
‘Nothing to drink. Fancy a fresh roll?’
He rubbed his filthy palms together, smiling happily.
‘Now you’re talking. A nice, fresh roll is a thing of beauty.’
She rooted around in her rucksack for her cache of breakfast rolls and gave him one. He ate greedily. The few teeth left in his mouth were struggling bravely with the roll.
‘Great stuff. A chaser would be something else, though.’
She smiled, wishing she had any kind of drink for him. Preferably alcoholic.
Two smartly dressed ladies were approaching, leading a small dog kitted out in a tartan coat. It looked like a large pampered rat. Catching sight of Heino, one of them started
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