Songström

It started with a phone call I couldn’t remember.

Songström

Freya and I had spoken about Songström before. In the dark of the night I would whisper to her about it, describe how it looked, what lived inside. I’d tell her I hated it, that I never wanted to go back. I told her to keep away.

When the sun rose, however, when the morning came, she’d deny I’d ever said a thing. She’d look at me, unable to speak.

We lived an existence together, but sometimes we were so very much apart. Sometimes, I had to remind myself we were actually a couple at all.

Bobby didn’t want to talk about Freya. Bobby just wanted to talk about whatever it was he’d done that day and that was fine. Bobby was a good friend; my only friend, apart from Freya.

The day the end came for me, for Bobby, for Freya, had been like any other day. I went to work at the supermarket, on the day shift, which I liked because it meant I could meet Freya for coffee at lunchtime.

The morning had dragged. I couldn’t focus on just one job; I had to keep moving around the store to avoid the management. Lately, they’d been arguing with me a lot, and whilst I didn’t like it, I could put up with it. I was about to clock off for lunch, when Bobby called me over. He worked on the floor, talking to the customers.

“Look at this,” he said, and indicated a television. “Looks fucking good, doesn’t it?”

Bobby swears a lot. It’s a shame, but it’s also who he is. Bobby is not like me.

The television was indeed impressive in size. It was currently showing an underwater scene from a movie I didn’t recognise. I nodded to him.

“Looks okay,” I said.

“Doesn’t anything make you fucking happy?” Bobby asked.

“You do,” I told him.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. Bobby wandered off, muttering, towards a woman looking at some new mobile phones.

I looked at the picture again. There was something worrying about the water.

When I got to the café, Freya seemed anxious. I noted she hadn’t ordered anything.

“Everything all right?” I asked her.

“Listen, Sammel,” she said, unusually aggressive. “Just listen. I need to tell you about this, and you need to take it in, got it?” She tapped me gently on the head. “It needs to get in there and stick. It’s really important. Got it?”

“Got it,” I nodded. The tapping didn’t hurt, but it was embarrassing. The café was opposite the supermarket, a place we regularly met. The staff knew me. Served me. Smiled at me. I didn’t want them thinking I was stupid, or forgetful, however stupid or forgetful I was.

“Look at this,” Freya was saying, as she fiddled with her handbag. Freya carried everything in her handbag. I didn’t know how she did it.

“Can’t we talk about this at home?” I asked, but she pretended not to hear.

“It’s in here somewhere,” she said. Her voice was starting to rise, which meant she wasn’t far off tipping the whole bag upside down onto the table.

“What is it? Perhaps I could look for it?” I asked. The waiter brought my coffee over and put it on the table. “Thank you,” I said.

“Here, here it is.”

She removed a spectacle case from her bag. It was battered, the black leather covering coming apart at the edges. She put it on the table.

“This is the box which sits on the shelf in our room. The one you told me never to open,” I said to her.

“That’s correct. Today you can open it.”

I didn’t move. “Why? What’s different about today?”

“Just open it.”

I looked at her face, trying to work out exactly what the contents might be.

“Open it,” she said, slowly and deliberately. Her gaze somehow intensified. I felt under pressure.

Then I smiled. I realised she was excited, and I couldn’t remember the last time she’d been excited. I reached forward and put my hands on the case.

“Is this going to be weird?” I asked.

“Of course.”

I found the seam where the case opened and put my fingernails into it, twisting as I did so. It was unlikely to be anything nasty, but, at the same time, I wasn’t going to take any chances.

I lifted the top a little and peered into the darkness within. Something was shining in there. I pushed the topmost part of the case fully open, revealing a cube of dark stone, about an inch wide on each side. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought it might be Onyx.

I looked at Freya, confused. She looked at me, down to the cube, and then back up at me.

“What is it?” I asked, and even before I’d finished, her hands had darted out and plucked the cube from the case, removing it from the square recess it had been slotted into.

“This is Sikkilite,” she said. “Have you ever seen it before?”

I shook my head.

“It’s very pretty,” I said, but I was just being nice. In truth, it was no worse nor better than any other polished stone I’d ever seen.

“It doesn’t matter whether it’s pretty or not,” she said, her eyes shining. “That’s not why we’ve got it.”

She was being secretive, but only because she wanted me to ask more questions. I was happy to play along. “Why have we got it?”

“Because,” she started, leaning in closer. “When we die, it keeps our souls intact.”

I waited to see if she’d say any more, to see if she’d elaborate on such a bold claim. She didn’t.

“Well,” I told her. “I really don’t know what to say.”

Freya laughed, a tinkling sound, too young for her years. “Isn’t it exciting?” she asked.

I nodded. “I suppose so. Why haven’t you showed me this before?”

A different smile then. A fleeting, sad smile, alien to a face like Freya’s. It was gone in a moment, and left her with a serious look.

“Do I need a reason?” she asked. “I thought you’d be happy I showed it to you.”

“I am,” I said, trying to soothe her. “I’m very pleased. I was just wondering if I’d done something right, that’s all.”

“No,” she said. “It was just the right time to show you.”

A faraway look stole over her; she was going off the boil now, her excitement spent in those too few minutes. If I wanted to get any more information from her, I’d have to try and make her focus.

“Where did you get it from?”

Freya put the Sikkilite back into the case and shut the lid.

“Oh, I found it,” she said. She stirred her coffee in silence.

“Where did you find it?”

“It doesn’t matter where I found it, or what it looks like, or that you never help me. All that matters is what it’s able to do, Sammel.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant about never helping her. I’m a very helpful person. Very tidy, as well, but she was upset, and I didn’t think asking for an explanation would help remedy the situation.

“May I take another look at it?” I asked. “At the Sikkilite?”

She looked at me then, and a smile turned up the very corners of her mouth. “You remembered its name,” she said, reaching over and touching my cheek.

“You asked me to remember. You said it was important.”

“Remembering is important, Sammel,” she said with a sigh, which sounded very close to a yawn. She pushed the case over to me, and withdrew her hands.

I opened it once more. “May I take it out?” I asked.

Freya nodded with little conviction. Her mood appeared to be changing from moment to moment. I didn’t like it when people did that. I liked knowing how people are going to act. I wanted to ask her to stop doing it. I wanted to tell her to grow up. I didn’t. I don’t say a lot of things I want to say.

I reached in and took the black stone out. There was a hole through the centre that I hadn’t noticed earlier. “What’s this for?” I asked.

Freya reached over to the case, lifted up the piece of crimson velvet lining the inside of the box, and removed a brown leather string. “It’s to put this through,” she said. “You have to wear it like a necklace.”

“I see. And how does it keep your soul intact?”

Freya shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said, another laugh in her voice. “It just does. I don’t question it. When you’ve been round as long as I have, Sammel, you accept that some things just are.”

Some things just are. I thought about that for a moment. In truth, I reasoned, everything just was. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be anything. It would be nothing. I looked around myself, and tried to picture being surrounded by nothing, by four white walls. I thought it might make me feel safe, but it didn’t. It just made me feel alone.

I came back to the café.

“I’m not sure any of this makes sense,” I told her.

If she heard me, she made no effort to reply. “I like this café,” she said. “It’s where we met. I like the windows, so big and they let so much light through. It reminds me of fire. Do you remember the fire, Sammel? I loved you from the moment I saw you, and I saw you before you saw me, so I’ve loved you the longest.”

“I don’t remember a fire,” I told her.

“But I saw you through it and you were so beautiful; alone, and so wise. There’s nothing about you that I couldn’t love. And I never believed it would be possible. But I saw you and I knew it, and I thought, now there’s a man that could save me. And that’s why I came to you and asked for your help. That’s why I showed you the Sikkilite.”

“I’m not sure what you’re saying.”

Freya took the Sikkilite from me and threaded the leather necklace through. She placed it around her neck. “Would you?” she asked, half turning so I could see the two ends in her hands. I stood and stepped next to her.

“There isn’t going to be a lot of room for the knot,” I told her.

“That’s okay,” she replied. “It needs to be nice and tight.”

“If that’s what you want,” I said. It took me three attempts to successfully tie the ends together.

“Thank you,” she whispered, as I sat back down.

“Can you breathe okay?” I asked her. The black cube was digging into her neck.

She nodded. “It’s… okay. It has to be okay.”

I looked at my shoes. They were brogues with longer laces. “Let me use one of these,” I said, but Freya was already shaking her head.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “You won’t understand. But you need to understand. And it needs to be you who understands.”

“But…” I started, then looked around the café, and decided not to pursue it. I’d try and convince her when we were at home.

“How long do you have to wear it?”

“For the rest of my life.”

I almost laughed, and would have, if the look on her face hadn’t been so serious. “The rest of your life?”

“It’s okay,” Freya replied. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

She looked at her watch. “Lunch is over. I have to go.” She picked up her bag.

I tried to grab her hand, but missed. “Where do you want to meet tonight?” I called after her.

“I’ll message you,” she said.

“I miss you,” I replied. She stopped.

“I miss you, too,” she said, but it sounded different, like the Sikkilite was making it hard to say the words. Or like she was crying. She didn’t turn around, and she left.

I didn’t go back to the supermarket that afternoon. Instead I walked. I wanted to walk. Wanted to clear my head. The encounter with Freya in the café had been confusing. I had wanted it to be clear, I had wanted an easy exchange of communication, but I hadn’t got it. It had thrown me. I needed to walk.

I chose the hills. I could have chosen the roads, or the beach, but the hills seemed right. It was a good walk, too. I wasn’t worried about distance or time. I just wanted to plant my feet on the ground, wanted to feel that connection.

I knew Freya was odd, like I knew I was odd. Being odd was just being normal in your own way. Freya and I got on well. It was easy to be with her, and she told me she felt the same. I had been committed to her from our first meeting, though exactly when that first meeting had occurred, was lost to me.

When I’d walked enough, when I felt calm again, I found another café and sat with a cup of tea. At times, I was the only person there, which was fine by me. I’m used to that. At four o’clock, I looked at my phone and realised it was off. I hadn’t turned it on since lunch. I thought about turning it on, but it was another hour at least until Freya would leave work, so there wouldn’t be anyone to talk to.

I didn’t have anywhere to be, and I doubted the supermarket had even missed me. I left the phone off. Everyone could wait.

I knew I’d outstayed my meagre custom when the owner of the café began shuffling chairs noisily for no particular reason. I smiled, paid the bill and left. I didn’t like it. I’d been happy there.

Walking back, my legs were stiff, which slowed my pace. It’d been a while since I’d had such a long walk. I guess that’s what happens. Your circles get smaller all the time, until one day you realise you’re hardly moving at all.

I made it back to our flat at five forty-two. I know this because that was when I turned my phone back on. I climbed the stairs, waiting for a message from Freya to pop up, but nothing came through. It wasn’t unusual.

I ran the shower and the water was hot. I might have spent too long in there, but it didn’t matter. I was warm, and the water was a welcome distraction from the thoughts in my head. When I finished, I drew the shower curtain back. The room beyond was mostly mist, swirling patterns that caught my eye.

I didn’t get straight out, which is what I normally did. I waited. Something was different; the darkness of the room seemed bigger.

“Hello?” I asked.

My voice echoed, and I knew it wasn’t the bathroom at all. I was somewhere else, somewhere vast, and damp. I didn’t like it, but not wholly. Part of me was intrigued. A dangerous part of me needed to be here, to be in jeopardy, because everyday life had become too tedious.

I looked to where the ceiling should be, and saw nothing but darkness stretching away. It took my eyes a moment to adjust, but when they had, I could make out a subtle change in colour, further up, a deep blueness that could have been the midnight sky.

“Hello?” I called once more into the mist. It sucked the words in, dampened them, saturated them, until they were little more than vibrations in water. “My name is Sammel. Sammel Ahlberg.”

I imagined the water moving, imagined the speech coming out of my mouth like actual letters and words, spinning through the mist, pushing it aside on their quest for someone to listen to them.

“I know who you are,” came a reply. It was a female voice. Sarcastic. Angry. “What are you doing here?”

I picked up my towel and put it around me. “Well, you’re in my bathroom. I didn’t have a choice.”

“There will always be a choice, Sammel,” the woman mocked.

I stepped out of the bath. “Do I know you?”

“Leave me alone,” she replied, a nervousness to her voice. “I’m happy here.”

I took a step closer. “Where is here?”

A pause. She was thinking.

“Here is a space where my brain doesn’t need to lie. Nothing is expected of me, and I expect nothing of anyone else.”

“Do you know where Freya is?” I asked.

She laughed then. “Sammel and Freya sitting in the sea… M. I. S. S. I. N. G.” She sang this with childish hatred.

I took another step. “Where is she?”

“I’m not going to tell you, Sammel Ahlberg. But I will do something.”

“What?”

“Let me leave you a clue.” There was a pause. “There. It’s done.”

I took another step forward, and my foot hit the bathroom door. I blinked and I was back in the flat. I checked the ceiling. The midnight sky had gone. Part of me was happy. Part of me wasn’t.

I towelled myself dry and went into the hallway.

“Freya?” I called, but I could tell by the echo she still wasn’t home. What sort of clue had the woman left?

My phone was on the bed, so I went and checked it. No messages. I rang Freya’s number, but it didn’t connect. It does that. Sometimes the reception isn’t good. I rang again as I dressed in jeans and a shirt. Nothing. I rang five more times as I prepared a snack for myself; tuna on toast, all with the same result.

I ate the food at the table, waiting for a reply. Why couldn’t I reach her? Had I upset her at the café earlier? She usually forgave me, at least that’s what I thought. She usually said that however wrong I’d been, everything was okay again.

I remembered the woman in the bathroom saying she’d left a clue, but I couldn’t see one in the lounge. Sometimes I wanted to do things, really wanted to do them, but I couldn’t be bothered to get up. That was how I felt, now. I thought I wanted to find Freya, but what I actually wanted was for her to turn up, and for everything to be as it was before the Sikkilite episode.

Perhaps Bobby would help me. I looked at my phone, and remembered I didn’t have his number. Even if I did, he’d probably just tell me to get myself straight. He wouldn’t want to talk about Freya. He’d say she was my own ‘shit’ that I needed to sort out.

I made some tea and waited, hoping for the phone to ring. Halfway through my second cup, it did.

“Hello?”

“Is this Sammel Ahlberg?”

“Yes. I’m Sammel.”

“This is Constable Jackson, from the police station. You rang and left a message.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, you reported your girlfriend missing.” I didn’t remember doing this, but sometimes I do things without realising it.

“Oh, right. Do you have some information?”

“There’s been a handbag left at the train station. By the look of the contents, it belongs to a woman named Freya. That’s your girlfriend’s name, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. Right, should I come and collect it?”

“That’s why I’m ringing. I thought you might like it.”

“Yes. Yes I would.”

It was a clue. The clue. The woman in the mist had helped me, after all.

I didn’t have a car, and Bobby never drove, so I took my bicycle. The police station wasn’t far away, and I rode as quickly as I could.

I couldn’t remember going to the police station before. I couldn’t picture the inside of it. That’s how I generally remember places, I take a mental picture when I’m there. Just a snippet, and when later I try to recall what it looked like, I build everything around that snippet. I’d read about fractals on the internet, and that’s what I likened the process to.

I liked this town. It wasn’t my home town. My home town was in another country, but it was my adopted town, and we got on well.

It wasn’t very big, not very crowded, and I found myself riding in that strange time of day, when the work traffic had all but gone, and the evening revellers hadn’t yet ventured out into the cold.

When I arrived, I walked up the steps, locked my bike to the railings outside, and pushed open the heavy front door. I checked my watch; it was eight twenty-two.

“Hello,” I called out to the empty reception area. The room was sparse with a smattering of posters on the magnolia painted walls. “Hello?”

There was a noise of something being knocked over, followed by someone muttering “Shit,” under their breath.

“One moment,” the voice called.

“No rush,” I said, though it sounded odd. I was in a rush. I wanted to find Freya.

The man appeared in civilian clothes. “Hello,” he said.

“I’m Sammel Ahlberg. You rang me about my girlfriend’s handbag?”

He looked at me, appraising me before speaking. “That’s right. Nice to meet you, Sammel. I’m Constable Jackson.” He offered his hand, and I shook it.

“I’m surprised you’re open so late.”

“Friday is late night opening,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “If there’s any trouble in this town, Friday is the night it’ll start. It’s sad, but then, that’s what I’m here for. I’m supposing you want the bag?” he asked.

“Yes, please.”

“Before I give it to you, I’ll need a form of ID. Did I tell you that on the phone? I don’t believe I did. I’m sorry about that. You definitely need a form of ID.”

“No problem,” I told him. “I thought I might.” I put my hand into my jacket pocket and brought out my passport. Constable Jackson took it and looked at it for a moment, flicking through the pages.

“I’ll need to take a copy of this,” he said, and left before I could reply.

I waited a few moments, and when he didn’t return, decided to look at the posters. I supposed that that was what they were there for. The first told cyclists to lock their bicycles, and that made me smile. Smile, and turn and check my bicycle was still there.

The next informed children about stranger danger. It was a cartoon drawing showing an adult offering a child some sweets. Stranger danger wasn’t a phrase when I was young. I was just told not to talk to any strange people. It struck me that Constable Jackson was a strange person, but I had to talk to him.

The final poster was about the neighbourhood watch scheme. There was a group of people shown, with a policeman smiling at the centre of them. We didn’t have neighbourhood watch at the flats. It was everyone for themselves there.

I’d wanted to use one of the posters to remember the police station, but, in truth, I didn’t think I could. I didn’t like them. None of them made any sense. They didn’t say fear, and fear seemed to be at the centre of all of them.

I walked back to the counter and checked my phone again. Nothing. Without warning, an anxiousness unfolded in my chest, and tried to smother me. Was I being silly about all of this? Perhaps Freya had just had to stay late at work. Or perhaps the car had broken down, or she needed to pick some shopping up.

I looked towards the door, towards my bicycle chained up outside. I wanted to leave. I wanted to run and hide. Freya would come back, of course she would. Freya’s never been away before. She’s just a little late and I’ve over-thought it.

Then a coldness. A smoothness. New questions appeared. What about the Sikkilite? What about the bathroom, which hadn’t been a bathroom, and the woman who’d spoken to me?

There was a noise, and Constable Jackson appeared with my passport and Freya’s bag.

“Thank you,” he said, placing the bag on the table and putting the passport in the bag. “You’re not originally from here?”

“No, I moved here when I was younger,” I said.

“With your parents?” he asked. It seemed like a strange question. I remembered watching police television shows with my father when I was younger. This was the line of questioning they might take. Obscure, confusing, and then, at the last minute, they’d ask the question they’d been wanting to ask all along.

“No,” I said.

Constable Jackson smiled. He seemed to have gotten the answer he’d wanted. “Please contact us tomorrow, Sammel, if you haven’t heard anything, or even if you have. It’d be nice to know where she is.”

“Okay.”

“In the meantime, I suggest you wait at home. She’s probably there, even now.”

“Thank you, Officer,” I said. We shook hands. He smiled, nodded, and watched me leave.

Outside the police station, I checked the time again. It was eight fifty. It had been almost eight hours since I’d last seen Freya. I opened my wallet and looked at the picture of her I kept in there. Yes, she was just how I remembered her. I touched the photo, traced the outline of her jaw with my index finger. She was beautiful. I would like nothing more than to arrive home and see her waiting for me.

I unlocked the chain securing the bicycle, dropped it into my rucksack, and mounted the saddle. I paused, and looked back through the glass door of the police station.

Constable Jackson was just the other side of the door, staring at me, head cocked to one side. There was something hungry about his look, about his stance. I jerked backwards, lost my balance, and fell, the bicycle landing on my leg. The back of my head cracked against the railings, and for a few moments, my vision was filled with flashing lights.

The police station door opened, and I tried to focus.

“Is everything okay?” Jackson said. “I saw you fall.”

“Er, yes,” I stammered. “Everything’s just fine. I thought… I just got disorientated.”

I felt Jackson’s hand close around my arm and he helped me up.

“I expect you’re feeling stressed about Freya,” he said.

“Yes, it must be. Thank you for coming to help.”

“I’m a policeman. That’s what we do.” He picked up my bike, brushed the saddle, and held it upright. I began to climb on. “Perhaps you should push it home.”

“I’m okay,” I told him.

“I think you need some rest, Sammel. You look tired.”

“Thank you again,” I said, wanting to leave. I checked over the gears and the brakes, everything looked fine. I pushed myself off and started to ride away.

“Good luck,” Jackson said. I waved over my shoulder, but didn’t look around.

It took me longer to cycle home from the police station. I stopped a couple of times, and breathed deeply until I had my nerves back under control. It was difficult to forget the image of Jackson standing so near to the door, looking so strange. There had been something about his face, something that I should remember, but couldn’t. Like my mind was hiding it from me, keeping me safe.

My flat came into view, and my heart sank. It was still in darkness. Freya wasn’t home.

When I was younger, I loved forests. I loved exploring them, finding different ways through them. It was an obsession, of sorts. I don’t know what drove it. Many times, I’d think I was hopelessly lost, and it would scare me so much I’d panic, and run.

This was how I found Songström; how I found the place I would never forget.

I can’t remember exactly how I got there. One minute I was in trees, the next I was in the centre of three huts, each standing on identical concrete cones with wooden steps leading up to their entrances. Two of the huts were run down. One had a hole in the roof, another had a door that was mostly detached. The third one, like the chair in Goldilocks, appeared just right.

They looked both ordinary and extraordinary. Nothing about them frightened me, though there was something wrong in the stillness they inhabited. I could have walked away. I could have walked away and not known Songström. I think my life would have been different if I had. Not normal, just different.

I went to the hut with the broken door first, gingerly testing each step with my foot before trusting it with the rest of my weight. Not that I was overweight back then. In fact, as far as I can remember, I was a very thin child. It was just that the boards seemed rotten at the edges, and I didn’t know how far the rot had set in.

There was a gap between the framework and the tilted door, large enough for me to see through into the hut’s interior. Mostly it was dark, with a smell of damp wood, and perhaps something far more pungent lurking underneath. There was a feeling, too. Regret, maybe. Or guilt.

The next hut, the one with the hole in the roof, was lighter inside. It had a simple layout, with a seating area to the left, and kitchen to the right. Beside the kitchen, a door led off to what I guessed would be the toilet. I couldn’t see any other doors. I briefly wondered if it had a bedroom at all.

The third hut looked sturdier. I went up these steps with more confidence, stopping at the door. There was a plaque by it, weathered, but readable. It read ‘Songström’. I’d never heard of it.

I knocked on the door. This surprised me. I’d convinced myself I’d simply grip the handle, twist, and walk straight in, unannounced. Now that I was here, however, I thought that would be rude. It wasn’t what the hut deserved.

I waited for a moment. When no answer came, I opened the door and stepped inside.

The air smelled fresh, varnished, and polished.

“Hello,” I said.

It was the same layout as the other hut. There was a coffee table that came up to my knees in front of the sofa, and in front of that, an unlit log fire sat shiny and spotless. The kitchen area was similarly clean, the cupboards and drawers empty of any objects.

I went to the sofa and sat on it. It was soft like a bed. At one end was a cushion with an embroidered picture of a steam train passing through trees. I liked the picture. I liked trains. I felt safe in this strange place, safe and tired. I put the cushion flat on the sofa, lifted my legs and lay down.

I twisted onto my back, and faced the roof above me. It had steeple-like wooden sides, which met in the middle, and something about their geometry made me yawn. I felt my eyes starting to close, and knew I could do nothing about it.

Songström

Simon Birks

Songström

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Songström

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