Little Star

been a constant companion during her illness, and by this stage she knew every nuance, every remarkable sound on the tracks on ‘Digital Ash in a Digital Urn’. He still had it.

The train journey was a means of transport, nothing else. She had a distant memory of previous journeys when she had felt anxious or excited or wistful. Not any more. When she had written to Theres that she missed her it was, like so many other things, true and not true. She was sitting on a train. She would be reunited with Theres, and what had been divided would become one again. This was right and proper, but no reason for anxiety or hope. It just was.

But still. When she got off at Svedmyra and reached the shop on the corner where she could look up at Theres’ balcony, it was like colour. As if a little colour had come into her empty space. What colour? She closed her eyes and tried to work it out, because this was a welcome feeling, a real feeling.

Violet.

It was dark violet, tending towards purple. She hoisted her bag up on her shoulder and headed for Theres’ door, dark violet Teresa.

It was Jerry who answered. He seemed irritated, but when he saw Teresa he gave a big smile and even touched her shoulder, almost ushering her into the apartment.

‘Hi Teresa,’ he said. ‘It’s been a while. Theres said you’d been ill-what’s been the matter?’

‘I…’

Teresa went blank whenever she tried to describe what had happened in simple terms. She had never been given a neat diagnosis that she could just trot out. Jerry waited for a while, then asked:

‘Was it something to do with your head?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. But you’re better now?’

‘Yes. I’m better now.’

‘Cool. Theres is in there. There’s been so much going on around here, it’s just crazy. You wouldn’t believe it.’

Teresa assumed he was referring to all the fuss about ‘Fly’. She hadn’t read any newspapers, or listened to the radio or gone on the internet for over two months, and had no idea what had become of the little song they had put together in a different life.

As Teresa approached Theres’ room, she thought there must be a television on somewhere. She could hear the murmur of voices talking quietly. Behind her Jerry said, ‘Squeeze in, as they say.’ Teresa stopped dead in the doorway, and every scrap of colour drained away from her. Regardless of what she had hoped or not hoped would happen when she came to visit Theres, she hadn’t expected this.

The room was full of girls of Teresa’s own age. Theres was sitting in the middle of the bed with a girl on either side of her, and five more were sitting on the floor. They were all looking at Theres, who seemed to be finishing an explanation with the words, ‘You will die. First. Then you will live. Then no one can touch you. Then no one can hurt you. If anyone wants to hurt you, you must make them dead. Then it is yours.’

The girls sat open-mouthed, listening to the words flowing in a rhythmic stream from Theres’ mouth. If Teresa hadn’t been so shocked, she would have been carried along too. She had been there, she had been the one to whom Theres directed her words. The girls in the room were like her, and they had replaced her. She couldn’t see any faces, just a shapeless group of enemies.

Theres caught sight of her and said, ‘Teresa.’

Teresa whispered, ‘Theres’-more of a whimper than a reply-and the chainsaw started up with a furious roar, hacking and cutting to chop off the lead weight that was dropping through her body, trying to drag her down, down. Down on her knees, down on her face, down through the floor, down into the ground.

I am nothing. Not even to you.

One of the girls sitting on the floor got up and came over. She was an emo girl about the same age as Teresa. Black hair with a pink fringe, full-on eye make-up, a piercing in her lower lip and stick-thin legs in skinny jeans. ‘Hi. Miranda.’

A fragile hand was extended towards Teresa. The nails were painted black. Teresa looked at the outstretched hand. It was all about to go wrong. She could feel it. Chainsaw and medication or not: the fire blanket was about to be thrown over her. It was here in the room with her now.

‘Are you Teresa?’ asked Miranda. ‘I really love your lyrics. All of them.’

Teresa couldn’t shake the hand, because her arms were locked around her stomach as she concentrated on trying to breathe.

Your lyrics. All of them.

Theres had played the songs to these girls. Their songs. Their secrets.

She clutched her bag tightly and rushed to the door, ran down the stairs and carried on running until she reached the subway station. The train rumbled in and Teresa sat down on the disabled seat right in the corner, making herself as small as possible.

It was over now. It was really over now, and the only voices that existed were the voices under the earth:

I became the last piece of the jigsaw

The piece that doesn’t fit anywhere, the picture complete without me.

ALL THE GIRLS

What does it take to break a person?

Torturers and interrogators would be able to provide statistics. This many nights without sleep, this many needles, this much water, this voltage of current on this many occasions.

But there is considerable variation in people’s ability to withstand torture. Sometimes one can achieve the desired result simply by showing the instruments and explaining what is to be done with them. Sometimes it takes weeks; one may be forced to restart a heart which has given out from the pain, and even then one may not manage to break the subject down.

However, it is presumably possible to discern some kind of average. This many needles, this many blows to the soles of the feet, before most people are sufficiently destroyed to give up what they once held most dear.

But in everyday life?

After all, even a normal life contains its quota of pain and disappointment. The difference is that these are not mechanically applied, but are mainly to be found on the emotional plane, and are therefore even more unpredictable. Some people seem able to tolerate just about anything, while others fall apart at the least setback. You never know. Something which is devastating to one person can be no more than a shrug of the shoulders to another, who in turn is shattered by something that others perceive as trivial.

On top of all this, the situation can vary from day to day, even for the same person. It must be hell to be a torturer with only the instruments of everyday life as your resources for finding the breaking point.

Teresa did not fall down dead, nor did she do anything to make that happen. She shuffled her clumsy body along, bought a ticket at the central station, rang home and asked to be picked up in Osteryd. Then she sat and stared at the arrival and departure board. She didn’t read anything, she didn’t listen to any music, she didn’t think.

If anyone who didn’t know her had seen her getting on the train, that person would have seen a girl getting on the train. If anyone who knew her had seen her taking her seat, that person would have seen Teresa taking her seat. After all, nothing had really happened from the world’s point of view, except that a girl had given up all hope. Hardly even worth mentioning.

When she arrived in Osteryd, she didn’t do a very good job of playing the role of herself. Goran was worried, and asked if she’d taken her tablets. She had taken her tablets. She would always take her tablets. That was what she would do from now on: she would eat, drink, sleep and take her tablets.

When she sat down at the computer in her room, she didn’t weigh up the pros and cons. She simply did it. She knew Theres’ password, and she hacked into her email account. As she suspected there were hundreds of