Sing Me To Sleep

by Chris Simms

  ‘That’s a relief. It probably looked worse than it was.’

  He undid the clasps of his carry case. ‘I’ll clean it up and see if we can make some Steri-Strips stick. So, you’ve found being alone here somewhat unsettling?’

  She thought: you still haven’t looked properly at me yet. Nought of out ten for bedside manner. ‘Yes, I suppose I have.’

  ‘Obviously, Laura, you became quite unwell a few years ago.’ Finally, he risked a glance in her direction, but it lasted less than a second. He touched a ball of cotton wool to the neck of a small bottle then pressed it against her foot. It felt wonderfully cool. ‘Would you say you’re experiencing similar thoughts and feelings now?’

  ‘No, not really.’ She made sure the denial didn’t sound too vehement. He looked up and studied her closely as she spoke. Now, she thought, I have to be very careful. ‘I can see why Owen might have thought that was the case. The kitten escaping – that was, is, distressing for me. The little thing’s too small to be outside. I’d had an accident with the mirror upstairs, cut myself, dripped blood all over the place. Owen, bless him,’ she sent him an affectionate smile, ‘was alarmed. And no wonder, too.’

  Dr Ford nodded, now tearing open a pack of Steri-Strips. ‘You mentioned, when you came to see me, that you’ve been hearing things.’

  ‘Oh, the birdsong?’ That’s an easy one, she thought. ‘Yes, but that’s a result of the viral infection you diagnosed, isn’t it?’ She sat back. Game, set and match to me.

  She watched calmly as he tried to detach a strip from the backing paper. ‘I received a call earlier on about a patient of mine.’ He fixed her with that stare of his. ‘He resides out at the Skylark Trust. William Hall?’

  Oh shit. Thank God Owen was putting the milk back in the fridge, she thought. He won’t have seen the look on my face. I should have realised there was a chance Dr Ford would be William’s GP. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  ‘You travelled out there earlier today?’ the doctor asked innocently.

  Owen was looking round. He was frowning. Laura knew she was trapped.

  ‘Laura?’ Dr Ford repeated gently.

  She showed a palm to Owen. ‘I was going to mention it – when I got the chance.’

  He looked aghast. ‘The youth who broke in here last night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who lived here? You went to see him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  She shrugged, mind racing for an acceptable explanation. ‘I felt so concerned for him. The poor lad, he looked so lost and confused.’ Owen took her comment in. It seemed her answer might suffice. But then Dr Ford spoke again.

  ‘William was left quite disturbed by your visit, Laura. You were asking him about birds. About a bird singing.’

  Owen’s face sagged. He looked seasick. She sighed, half-closing her eyes. ‘I know this looks odd. When I mentioned it to William, he seemed aware of it. I think he’s heard it, too.’

  ‘William, you understand, has some quite complex issues –’

  ‘I know that,’ she couldn’t help snapping. ‘But deafness isn’t one of them.’

  ‘No...but his mental age is very immature.’

  ‘He mentioned a bird singing to me.’

  ‘The birdsong you think you can hear?’ Owen whispered.

  The way he said ‘think’ angered her. ‘Yes, darling, the song that I think I can hear. The one that belongs to a canary.’ She let her eyes move to the back door.

  Dr Ford was still fumbling about with the packet. She almost asked him to pass it over, but then he managed to detach one. ‘The staff felt you had gained access to William under a false pretext.’

  ‘That’s not true! I am interested in setting up a dance therapy class. Or I was. They won’t want me now.’

  He applied a strip to her foot. ‘I must say, Laura, I’m concerned.’

  ‘You really needn’t be.’

  ‘Laura, you’re doing a very good job hiding it, but it’s plain to me that you’re agitated. Seeing you here today – you’re not the same person who came to see me at the practice. Your appearance would strongly reinforce that impression.’

  ‘My appearance? How do you mean?’ I know what he’s doing, she thought. He’s STAR testing me according to some scale of mental health. Not sure which one, but that doesn’t matter. They’re all roughly the same.

  ‘Your ability to...OK, when did you last wash your hair?’

  ‘I’ve been doing DIY! If my hair is untidy or there’s dust in it, I do apologise. I was planning to have a bath later on, if that helps.’

  He drew in breath. ‘I’m worried that – being here, alone – is not beneficial to you.’

  ‘I live here.’

  He applied another two strips and sat back. ‘There. Owen says you’d not be prepared to consider any sort of medication to help address –’

  ‘I won’t take pills.’ The fact he’d already raised the issue with Owen angered her further. ‘Have you even read my medical notes?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘Good. So you’ll know how strongly I feel about chemical coshes. I’ve lost months of my life to those already. Months.’

  ‘Very well. Then how about we discuss a change of scene for you? That would be good. Somewhere you can properly rest and recuperate, where you’ll have professionally trained people to –’

  Her finger jabbed at him. ‘I will not be admitted to a psychiatric ward.’

  ‘Laura, I think it will really help. Just until Owen can be here with you –’

  ‘You mean, until after his performance? Pack me off so he has no unwelcome distractions? So you can sit there in the audience, telling people he’s an old school mate of yours, ever-so-civilised, knowing I’m locked-up in a mental unit somewhere?’ She saw them exchange a glance. ‘Owen?’ Tears were in her eyes. ‘How could you do this to me?’

  ‘Darling.’ Owen looked close to crying, too. ‘We’re trying to help you here.’

  ‘Really? Really?’ She couldn’t believe they’d hatched this plan. Anger surged up. The two of them, she thought, behind my back. The pair of shits.

  ‘Laura,’ Dr Ford crossed his legs, voice slow and even. So calm. So pacifying. ‘Let’s all pause a moment to –’

  ‘No, let’s not fucking pause. Let’s make this very clear, instead. I am not willing to enter into any form of psychiatric care. And if you have me placed in it, I will view that as a breach of my human rights.’

  The two words caused his lips to part slightly. Nothing came out.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Doctor. I’ve read up about this. Things aren’t so easy as they once were, are they? If you put me in care, I will sue you when I get back out. Do you understand?’

  Silence. Like a wire, tightening.

  He sent a look at Owen before addressing her. ‘It’s your decision, yes.’

  She could have slammed a fist down on the table, but knew he’d only make a note of it. Instead, she kept quiet as he closed his case and stood. Only when he got to the door did she speak again. ‘And Dr Ford? If you’re so concerned about personal appearance, why don’t you pluck those ridiculous ear hairs of yours?’

  Owen looked mortified as he followed the doctor out.

  Chapter 29

  Something broke her sleep. She lay still and listened. A wet pattering sound, seeping slyly into the bedroom. She opened her eyes and stared fearfully up at the ceiling. It should have been dark but it wasn’t. She could see the outline of the lampshade, and above that, the shadowy roof beam. Was the security light on again? Was that it? A dull clatter had her reaching out for Owen.

  Her hand came down on cold mattress and her heart beat even faster. He’s not there. I’m alone. She looked to her side to make sure. Light was showing at the edges of the curtains. But it was not the security light. Daylight. She realised the sound she could hear was the shower running. Owen was in the shower.

  Her head sank back against the pillow and she let out a
long sigh. It was the best night’s sleep she had since moving in. For once, she wasn’t the first awake. The clock on Owen’s beside table said seven fifty-one. Amazing. She so rarely slept past seven. She sat up, her sense of disorientation being swept aside by a happy feeling. The miraculous result of a proper night’s rest. She threw the duvet back.

  When Owen appeared in the kitchen all the breakfast things were out. She pressed the plunger down on the cafetière, humming a tune to herself.

  ‘Morning.’ His greeting was more like a question. ‘I thought I’d let you sleep in.’

  ‘When do I ever wake after you?’ she asked brightly. ‘Never.’

  ‘No...it was a bit odd. You were dead to the world when I went for my shower.’ He looked at the kitchen table.

  ‘Sit down, the toast will be getting cold. Coffee?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. Um...this is very nice.’

  She smiled. ‘Amazing what ten hours’ decent sleep can do.’

  ‘How does your foot feel?’

  ‘Much, much better.’

  ‘Any sign of the kitten?’

  ‘No.’ She turned to the window overlooking the back garden. ‘I checked the bowl of food you put out. All of it has gone – maybe it was her.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ He continued to gaze at her. ‘You’re...you’re feeling fine, I take it?’

  ‘I know! Isn’t it odd? I feel absolutely amazing. So refreshed.’ He shook his head slightly. ‘What?’

  ‘I was really concerned how you’d be this morning. I admit it. But look at you: right as rain.’

  She poured a couple of coffees. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘You know me.’ He was buttering a piece of toast, glancing in her direction with each stroke of the knife. ‘So am I forgiven?’

  The business with Dr Ford, she thought. ‘Of course you are.’ After the doctor had left, they’d stayed in the kitchen and talked. Her fury had grown steadily fainter as she’d begun to see things from Owen’s perspective. He had been scared, that was all. Afraid she’d had some kind of relapse.

  Once she’d accepted that he’d acted out of concern, it had been easy to divert her anger at Dr Ford. She knew it was a bit naughty to take it all out on him. But the man’s attitude was so awful. Eventually, after much prompting on her part, Owen had conceded the doctor lacked tact. He’d even smiled faintly when she’d mentioned her parting comment about the ear hairs. Ford’s face! It had been such a picture as he’d beaten his hasty retreat.

  But she also knew that, throughout their conciliation of sorts, one area had been skirted around. The canary. Neither of them had told Dr Ford about it, even when the opportunity had presented itself. Neither of them, it seemed, was prepared to raise it after the man had left, either. She knew why Owen had avoided the subject. He had enough to be dealing with.

  Before going up to bed, she’d announced that she was going outside for a last look for Mouse. But Owen had insisted he do it. So she’d watched through the windows as the torch beam probed the garden’s dark corners. She’d even limped down to the front door, stood there and called for a while. There’d been a definite bite in the breeze blowing up the valley. She’d remembered the team leader’s words at the archaeology site. Snow would be arriving soon.

  Up in their room, she remembered lying back, wondering how long it would take to drop off. Would the thought of Scaredy-mouse out there torment her through the night? Would the dream come back or – worse – the sound of canary song? Next thing, it was morning.

  Owen was midway through a bite of toast. ‘So,’ she announced. ‘Feeling confident?’

  ‘Confident?’

  ‘Saturday; last day of rehearsals. Performance tomorrow.’

  His eyelids fluttered. ‘Yes, last day.’

  ‘Has the start of the third movement clicked with those sopranos?’

  ‘Pianissimo possibile,’ he sighed. ‘How many times can I spell it out?’

  Obviously not, then, she thought. ‘Firm but fair, that’s all you can be.’

  He didn’t look convinced and they sat in silence for a few minutes. She couldn’t stop glancing at her laptop. The previous night, when Owen had been searching outside for Scaredy-mouse, she’d quickly checked her messages. Tamsin hadn’t replied, but she would have done so by this morning, Laura felt certain.

  Owen gave a cough. ‘Will you be all right, Laura? I can’t tell you how much it bothers me -’

  ‘Relax. I’m going to put my walking boots on, go out and find that kitten – even if it means roaming the hills all day. I won’t even be in here – I’ll be out there, breathing fresh air and stretching my legs.’

  ‘With your injured foot?’

  ‘It’s no problem. The cut was so fine, you can hardly see it now. I don’t think those stick-on things were even necessary.’

  He nodded uneasily. ‘And when this performance is over, we’ll clear things up. Properly.’ He glanced at the ceiling.

  Did he mean we’ll discuss the canary’s corpse, she wondered, or sweep up the mess I made while discovering it? She waved a hand. ‘Of course. What time do you think you might be home?’

  ‘Well,’ he pushed back from the table. ‘I don’t want to carry on too long. No point at this stage. Early evening, hopefully?’

  If everything goes smoothly, she thought. If all the orchestra and the choir obediently follow your directions. ‘It’ll be brilliant, darling. I know it will.’

  ‘I’ll phone, OK? Lunchtime or just after.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Right.’ He tapped both forefingers on the edge of the table and stood. ‘Once more into the breach.’

  ‘For Queen and Country,’ she smiled.

  ‘For glory,’ he grinned back.

  ‘For England,’ she announced in a dramatic voice.

  ‘And for us!’

  They were both chuckling as she got to her feet and held her arms out. She saw how things would soon be. They’d start doing the things they’d dreamed of while down in London. Walking in the Peak District. Day trips to Windermere, Snowdonia, the sand dunes at Formby. A visit to the Tate in Liverpool. The Yorkshire Sculpture Park. Shopping in Chester. It would be good. Life would soon be good.

  Owen stepped round the table and his arms encircled her. She closed her eyes and let her cheek rest on his collarbone. Just to be hugged like this, she thought. It’s so –

  Canary song cut off her thoughts.

  Her eyes snapped open. A torrent of notes rising and falling. At last! At last, it’s happened with Owen close by.

  ‘Laura?’ Confusion was colouring his voice.

  He’s heard it too, she thought. Thank God, he’s finally heard it! It’s not just me. The sense of relief caused her to whimper.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ He drew back and looked into her eyes. ‘You jolted.’

  The singing continued, but absolutely nothing was registering on his face. He’s not hearing a thing, she realised with dismay. How can he not hear it? She wanted to wail. She wanted to drop to the stone-cold floor and wail.

  ‘Laura, what’s the matter?’

  She blinked back tears. ‘My foot. The edge of a flagstone...’

  He stepped away and looked down. ‘The wound hasn’t opened up again?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ A long, high note was hanging in the air as she sat down. ‘I don’t think so.’ She removed her slipper and the note fractured into a chaotic jumble once more. ‘Have...have the stitches held?’

  He leaned forward. She looked over his bowed head, trying to locate the sound. Where are you? It seemed slightly muffled. What had Owen done with the dead canary? Was it still in its cage outside the back door?

  He gently eased her foot back down. ‘Looks fine, but go easy on it, won’t you?’

  ‘Easy. Yes, of course.’

  He straightened up and looked about as the song trickled to a halt. ‘Now, what did I do with those damned car keys?’

  Chapter 30

  Owen’s car was still i
n view, but she didn’t care. She opened the laptop, fingers drumming impatiently against her thighs as it went through its machinations. Bloody thing, bloody thing, why is it so slow?

  The Audi revved and she looked up. A tap turned and the stream of thoughts started to flow. There he goes, the pathetic excuse for a man. Look at his white hair, the way it sticks out. The feel of his arms just now, so thin and feeble. Age is gnawing at his body. Soon, he’ll be–

  ‘Shut up!’ She looked about the room. ‘Just shut up!’

  She remembered that Owen had placed the cage outside the previous evening. Ignoring the voice, she opened the back door and looked left and right. No sign of it. He must have thrown it in the bin. Doesn’t matter, she thought. I found it hidden in the wall and I know I just heard singing.

  Back at the laptop, she saw the screen had settled down. She went to her emails. Tamsin had replied.

  Hi, Laura. Golly, I don’t know where to start. This is odd. Really odd. It’s so upsetting for you – I can tell that from your messages.

  Let’s deal with the first one you sent – where you told me that you only ever hear canary song when you’re in your new home. You guess it’s happened to you over a dozen times now. Laura, I don’t think you’ve got tinnitus. Tinnitus is not specific to one place. OK, people often become aware of it when they’re in bed. But that’s because things are peaceful and quiet and the brain has a chance to register faint noises.

  You’ve been hearing it during the day and at night. Plus, you think the kitten might have heard it, right? It reacted to something in your studio.

  Probably its reflection, Laura said to herself. If the noise was real – if it was outside my head – Owen would have heard it just now. But he didn’t. So it’s been going on in my mind all along. How can she say it isn’t tinnitus?

  Now, your second message. A dead canary in a cage? That’s been bricked up behind a wall? That’s creepy. Laura, I only wish I could actually be there with you. It must be so distressing. What can I say? If it’s not tinnitus, something else is generating that noise in your house. Or someone. I’m worried for you, Laura. The part of your message was a bit muddled where you mentioned being ill before. I’m guessing some kind of breakdown? What’s happening to you now, I think, is destabilizing you. Can you think of anyone who might want to do that? Does your new home have neighbors? Were the last people forced to move out because the bank foreclosed on them? Maybe it’s worth thinking things over to see if someone is behind this.