Everything simply fell away. The crowds of people that had frightened her, the anxiety about getting the wrong train, doing the wrong thing. The cold out on the streets, the brief fear of the man in the shirt. Gone. She had reached the cross on the map, she had reached Theres. She wasn’t surprised that Theres didn’t get up and come to meet her. Instead Teresa walked into the room, dropped her bag by the door and said, ‘I’m here now.’
‘Good,’ said Theres, placing one hand on the bed beside her. ‘Sit here.’
Teresa sat down next to her. In her head she had tried out and rejected a number of opening remarks, tried to visualise what she would say and do if their meeting went like this or that. This particular possibility hadn’t occurred to her. That they would just sit next to each other without saying anything.
A minute or so passed, and Teresa began to warm up and relax. After the chaos of the journey it was really good just to sit still, not thinking. She registered that the room was bare, almost Spartan. No posters on the walls, no little ornaments tastefully or less than tastefully displayed. Only a bookshelf containing children’s books, a CD player and a CD rack. Her own bag, thrown down by the door, looked like an intrusion.
‘I wrote a poem,’ said Teresa. ‘On the train. Do you want to read it?’
‘Yes.’
Teresa pulled her bag over. She opened her notebook and read through the poem one more time. Then she tore it out and gave it to Theres. ‘Here. I think it’s for you.’
Theres sat with the sheet of paper in front of her for a long time. Teresa glanced sideways at her and saw her eyes moving down the lines; when they reached the bottom, they went back to the top and started again. And again. Teresa squirmed, and in the end she couldn’t bear it any longer, ‘Do you like it?’
Theres lowered the paper. Without looking at Teresa, she said, ‘It’s about people being wolves. And birds. I think that’s good. But there are ugly words too. Can you have ugly words in poems?’
‘Yes, I think so. If it feels right.’
Theres read the poem once more. Then she said, ‘It does feel right. Because the person is angry. Because they’re not a wolf. Or a bird.’ For the first time she looked Teresa in the eye. ‘It’s the best poem I’ve ever read.’
Teresa’s cheeks flushed red. It was almost unbearable to meet the gaze of someone who had just said something like that, and the muscles in the back of her neck were shouting at her to turn her head away. But her eyes were steadfast and kept her head in place. In Theres’ big, clear blue eyes there was not a hint of irony or expectation or any other emotion that aimed to provoke a reaction from Teresa. The only thing her eyes said was: You have written the best poem I have ever read. There you are. I am looking at you. That was why Teresa was able to maintain the contact, and after a few seconds it felt completely natural.
Theres pointed at Teresa’s notebook and said, ‘Have you written any more?’
‘No. Just that one.’
‘Can you write more?’
‘Yes, maybe.’
‘When you write I want to read them.’
Teresa nodded. Suddenly she didn’t want to sit here any longer. She wanted to go home to her room and write poems, to fill the whole notebook. Then she would come back and just sit here and look at Theres while she read her poems. That was what she wanted. That was how she wanted things to be.
Jerry appeared in the doorway. ‘So there you are. Everything OK?’ Theres and Teresa nodded in unison and Jerry gave a snort. ‘You look like…I don’t know what you look like.’
‘Laurel and Hardy?’ suggested Teresa.
A grin spread across Jerry’s face and he pointed at Teresa, waggling his finger. Then he stepped into the room and held out his hand. ‘My name’s Jerry. Hi.’
Teresa took his hand. ‘Hi. Teresa. Are you…Theres’ dad?’
Jerry shrugged his shoulders. ‘Kind of.’
‘Kind of?’
‘Yes. Kind of.’
‘He’s my brother,’ said Theres. ‘He hid me when Lennart and Laila got dead.’
Jerry folded his arms and looked at Theres with a somewhat anguished expression. Then he sighed deeply and seemed to give up. He cleared his throat, but his voice was still thick when he said, ‘Would you like some juice? Or something? Biscuits?’
Teresa went to the toilet and used her mobile to ring home and tell them everything was fine. Then she sat in the living room and drank raspberry juice and ate a couple of chocolate brownies that were so old they were leathery. Jerry drank coffee and Theres ate apricot puree with a teaspoon out of a baby food jar. Teresa thought the whole thing was very uncomfortable. It felt as if Jerry was studying her and Theres all the time, as if he was trying to work something out. He was an unusual adult, and she liked him in a way, but she still wanted him to go away.
When they had finished eating and drinking, her prayers were answered. Jerry slapped his thighs and said, ‘Right, girls, I have to go out for a while. And you seem to be getting on fine, so…I don’t know exactly when I’ll be back, but you’ll be OK, won’t you?’
When Jerry was ready to go, he waved Teresa over to him. She went out into the hallway and Jerry lowered his voice. ‘Theres is a little bit special, as I expect you’ve noticed. If you find some of the things she says a bit strange, just…don’t give it too much thought. You’re not a telltale, are you? You’re not the kind of person who runs around telling everybody everything?’
Teresa shook her head and Jerry chewed air in his closed mouth as if he were thinking, trying to reach a decision. ‘It’s like this. If Theres tells you anything…you mustn’t tell anyone, you understand? Not your mum, not your dad, not anyone, OK? I’m relying on you.’
Teresa nodded and said, ‘Yes. I know.’
The look Jerry gave her was so long and so penetrating that Teresa started to feel uncomfortable. He patted her on the shoulder and said, ‘I’m glad she’s met you.’ Then he left.
When Teresa went back to the living room, Theres was sitting at the computer. She asked, ‘Do you want to listen to some music?’
‘Sure,’ said Teresa, and crashed down on the sofa. She stretched out, free of the stiffness produced by having Jerry’s eyes on her. It would be exciting to find out what kind of music Theres liked.
She didn’t recognise the songs coming through the computer’s speakers, but from the thin, synthetic sound she guessed it was something from the early eighties. Then again, what did she know. Maybe music was supposed to sound like that these days, she didn’t really keep up. Anyway, she liked the intro, the melody. It came as a bit of a shock when she heard Theres’ voice.
She couldn’t pick up much of what Theres was singing, it just seemed like disjointed sentences with no connection, mixed with wailing in a lot of places. But it didn’t really matter. The song had her hooked right away. It was catchy, melancholy, beautiful and happy all at the same time, and shivers of pleasure ran up and down Teresa’s spine.
When the song came to an end Teresa sat up and called out, ‘That was fantastic. It was…brilliant. What song was it?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You know…what’s it called?’
‘It’s not called anything.’
Then Teresa got it. The song was so self-evident and so immediately accessible that she had assumed she’d heard it before. But that wasn’t the case. ‘Did you write it?’
‘Jerry wrote it. I’m singing.’
‘Yes, I could tell. What’s it about?’
‘Nothing. I sing words. Your words are better.’
Theres turned and clicked on another track. The song began to play, and Teresa closed her eyes and leaned back on the sofa, ready to enjoy the experience again. When she heard Theres’ voice it took her a couple of seconds to realise two things. One: the voice was no longer coming from the speakers, but from Theres herself. Two: she was now singing the words of the poem Teresa had given her.