might get in the way, the capacity to miss what that person once was. Human, detergent-scented, usable.
But it disappears, very gradually. It disappears.
During the afternoon and evening she received a number of suggestive or downright unpleasant text messages which she saved after reading them. The telephone rang twice; the first time it was somebody making slurping noises, the second time somebody whispering, ‘Don’t stop, don’t stop.’
When Teresa went to bed, she was incapable of sleeping. She tried reading some Ekelof, but couldn’t concentrate for more than two lines at a time.
She re-read the disgusting texts:
She couldn’t get enough. It was two o’clock in the morning when she sat down at the computer to see if she had received any emails. She had. More of the same from unfamiliar addresses; the little film had already spread far and wide, and had fired certain people’s imagination and limited ability to articulate their thoughts.
There were several messages from Theres as well, spread over the past few weeks. When she opened one of them she almost expected it to contain some variation on the cock/suck/spew theme.
‘you must come here you have to be here’ one of them said. In another, older message, ‘why did you run away tell me why you didn’t stay’. The oldest, apart from the one she had deleted, said, ‘jerry says you misunderstood i don’t understand how you misunderstood you have to tell me’. The most recent message had arrived on Friday evening while Teresa was at the party, ‘you have to write i don’t like it when you’re gone’.
Teresa copied the phrases from fourteen messages in total and pasted them in chronological order into one single document, which she read over and over again. If she had still had the ability to cry, she would have done so. Instead of tears a couple of phrases by Ekelof welled up and forced their way out.
She clicked on reply, and at the top of the message she wrote, ‘I live in another world, but you live in the same one.’
She looked at the sentence. That was really all she had to say. But still her fingers began to move over the keys. She imitated Theres’ elided style, which made it easier to write. She didn’t make any effort to be anything other than honest.
Theres. I haven’t gone. I exist. But I don’t exist. Everyone wants to hurt me. Everyone hates me. I ran because I love you. I want you to be with me. Not with other people. You don’t know how unhappy I am. All the time. I’m empty. There is nowhere I can be. Forgive me. I live in another world now.
She sent the message. Then she went back to bed. Her own darkness melted into the darkness of the room, and she fell asleep.
When she woke up at nine o’clock, there was a reply from Theres in her inbox.
you must live in this world you must come to me now would be good but next weekend jerry is going to america so you will come then i will show you what to do
For a message from Theres, it was practically a novel. As usual there was a fair amount that needed interpreting, but that didn’t bother Teresa. She had written, and she had received a reply. She would go to Stockholm, and she would go without any particular hopes. It wasn’t an act of will that made her think that way. It was simply a fact.
On Sunday afternoon, when Teresa was taken ill, nothing could have been more welcome. Her temperature shot up above thirty-nine degrees and it felt cool and refreshing. Her body was exhausted, her thoughts pleasantly fuzzy. All of her real pain was absorbed in the inconsequential aching of her muscles, and as her temperature approached forty degrees and the fever made her body levitate from the sheets there was even a hint of pleasure.
She took some ibuprofen and her temperature came down during the night, allowing her to sleep, but it was still so high when Maria checked on Monday morning that there was no question of Teresa going to school. As if she would have anyway. She switched off her mobile and lay in bed, doing nothing but savouring her illness, giving herself up to it. That was what she had.
All the time she was conscientiously taking her pills out of the Fontex bottle and throwing them away. When Maria pressed her to take her tablet, she hid it under her tongue until Maria had left the room.
Her temperature was back to normal on Thursday morning and Maria thought she could go back to school, but Teresa said, ‘No. I’m going to stay at home and rest today and tomorrow. I’m going to Stockholm at the weekend.’
‘You are
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Last time you came home a complete wreck and now you’ve just been ill, so if you think I’m letting you go off there again, you’re wrong.’
‘Mum. There’s nothing you can say or do to stop me. Because it doesn’t matter. If you don’t let me go, I shall just lie here in bed until I die. I won’t eat. I won’t drink. I’m serious.’
It didn’t surprise Teresa that Maria actually listened to what she said, because something had happened to Teresa’s voice. She wasn’t speaking from her mouth any longer, but from her sternum, and she could only say what was true. Maria could obviously hear this too. For a long time she just stood and stared at Teresa. Then she vacated the dangerous plateau on which they found themselves and inclined her head. ‘Right!’ she said. ‘If that’s the way it’s going to be, then you can pay for your own ticket.’
On Saturday morning Goran gave her a lift to the station. They didn’t speak much in the car, and the few words Teresa did say just seemed to make Goran uncomfortable. Teresa understood. It was her voice, she could hear the timbre herself. Perhaps this was how ghosts spoke, or vampires: creatures without a soul.
The train took her to Stockholm and the subway took her to Svedmyra and the lift took her to Theres’ door. She felt nothing. When Theres opened the door she walked past her into the apartment and sat down at the kitchen table. Theres sat opposite her.
Teresa had no desire to say anything, but she had come here, after all. She said, ‘Is Jerry in America?’
‘Yes. With Paris. Why are you unhappy?’
‘Because of what I wrote.’
‘I didn’t understand.’
‘There’s a lot you don’t understand.’
‘Yes. A lot. Do you want some food?’
‘No. Your song is on
‘I know. We’ll listen. To see if it wins.’
‘What does it matter if it wins?’
‘Then more people will want to listen to it.’
‘Why do you want more people to listen?’
‘My singing is good. Your words are good. Why are you unhappy?’
‘Because I’m fat and ugly and lonely and nobody likes me. For a start.’
‘I like you.’
‘Perhaps. But you like so many people.’
‘I like you best.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There are lots of girls. But I like you best.’
‘Is anyone coming today?’
‘Not today. And not tomorrow.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m going to be with you. Why are you unhappy?’
Teresa got up from the table and took a walk around the apartment. It was like revisiting a place you’ve been away from for so long that everything has become unfamiliar. There was the computer they had played on. There was Theres’ bed where they had sat, the sofa where they had watched horror films. Everything was true and not true. They belonged to someone else. Next to the computer lay her own notebook with lyrics in it. She read a couple of them and couldn’t understand why she had written them.
