by Aly Sidgwick
I wake up early with a stabbin’ pain behind my eyes, an’ limp to the bathroom to be sick. For a long time iss hard to think straight. I lie on the floor in the dark, hopin’ the pain will go away, but things jus’ get worse instead. The ceilin’ ripples when I move, an’ there’re patches missin’, like I’m lookin’ through a broken mirror. I close my eyes to the growin’ daylight an’ try not to think about goin’ blind.
A face watches over me. Far off, hidden behind a bright light. I see my hands on that face. His face. A man. I feel my connection to him. Stubble scratchin’ my fingertips. The tickle of his breath as he laughs.
Help me, I say. An’ this time he hears. A smile surges out from the whiteness, an’ as my heart flutters up to meet it an electric-blue eye stabs me to the ground. I jolt on the bathroom floor. Pinned underneath. A name punches into me with so much force that I start to cry. The air is painfully dry an’ bright. Groaning, I rush back to my bedroom. Through the door. Across the carpet. A pencil … Where’s my pencil? There. I grip it hard between my fingers, an’ score six shaky letters on my pillowcase. I wilt forwards. Then pain crushes my eyes, an’ I collapse into blackness.
#
Friday
Rhona sits in the conservat’ry with me, drinkin’ hot chocolate. We sit far back, near the door to the dinin’ room. I ask to go outside, but that’s still not allowed. She gets cross when I ask, an’ rubs her forehead a lot. I look through the window. From here I can jus’ see rain.
‘Why can’t we? Is it dangerous?’ I ask.
‘Kind of.’
‘But you said iss safe here.’
‘It is. It’s just that, well, there’s newspaper people out there.’
‘Is it the smelly men?’ I ask.
Rhona laughs. ‘No, sweets. It’s not the Western Courier. The ones outside are from a bigger paper. They’re the ones who made your fan club.’
‘Why are they dangerous?’
‘Well, they’re not really dangerous. They just want to talk.’
I shiver.
‘Don’t worry, sweets. We told them no.’
‘Are they outside now?’
Rhona nods. ‘Rain and shine.’
‘When will they go away?’
‘Well, they say they’ll go away after we let them talk to you. But that’s something called blackmail, and it’s not going to work.’
‘So … they’re never goin’ to go away?’
‘Don’t worry, hon. We’ve got a lawyer on the case. He’ll make them stop hassling us.’
I look out the window. The weather is bad. Iss hard to believe there’s anyone standin’ out there.
Rhona drums her fingers on her mug. After a while she says, ‘You had nightmares again, didn’t you?’
I whip round to face her. ‘How do you know?’
‘Well, I heard you screaming, for one. Then there’s this …’
She unfolds a piece of white cloth. Doesn’t take her eyes off me.
‘Kathy, who is Magnus?’
I bang my cup down. The thing in her hands is my pillow-case. For a minute, I goggle. Then anger crashes through me, paintin’ my cheeks bright red, an’ iss all I can do not to slap her.
‘Are you … spyin’ on me?’ I gasp, though iss him, not the spyin’ bit, that’s got me mad. That name holds power over me, like a terrible magic spell. If I say it out loud I will make the dream man real again.
‘I’m trying to help you. You know that.’
‘How’d you hear me scream from the staff wing?’
‘Please, Kathy, I’m not the enemy here. You don’t have to deal with these things by your—’
‘Leave me alone!’ I shoot to my feet an’ start backin’ for the door.
‘You know who he is, don’t you?’
‘Get your hands off me!’
I drag myself free an’ run out of the room. Rhona doesn’t come after me, like I thought she might. I lie under my bed till the sun goes down, but no one knocks at my door.
#
Monday.
Rhona isn’t at breakfast, an’ neither is Mrs Laird. I sit alone in the corner of the dinin’ room, scowlin’ at the back of Joyce’s head. Caroline comes over an’ says Rhona had to sort out some stuff for her mother. Mrs Laird drove her to the bank in Invercraig an’ they won’t be back till late. I don’t like it without Rhona here. It doesn’t feel safe. For most of the day I stay in my room, cos no one but Rhona’s allowed to come in here. For a while that’s great. But there’s not much to do, so I sneak downstairs for a book.
Like last time, there’s no one in the library, an’ that suits me fine. I take an atlas off a bottom shelf an’ sit in the corner to look at it. On the fifth page there’s a map of Scandinavia. I look at that one for a long time. Denmark is where they say I came from, so I look at that the most. If I really come from there, then a picture of it should make me feel somethin’. But it doesn’t feel right. No matter how hard I look, all I see is a foreign country. The town names are ones I’ve never seen, an’ I’m thrown by all the islands. If I’d lived there I’d’ve had to cross between those islands once in a while. But I don’t remember that. Not at all.
Iss all very disappointin’, an’ jus’ now I can’t think where to go from here. Why can’t I remember? The lullaby flutters round me, pointin’ its glitt’ry little finger at Denmark. Denmark should be the answer. Ev’ryone wants it to be. An’ I wanna tell ’em, ‘Yes, that’s right.’ But I can’t say that, cos deep down I’m startin’ to think iss not true.
I sit starin’ at the map on my knees. Iss funny. I can’t close the book. Somethin’ on the page is stoppin’ me. Then I realise. The top bit of the map. Over the sea, an’ up. It’s that country my eyes keep driftin’ to. I lean in closer, an’ my skin starts to prickle. The shape of the land. That long, bitty coastline, stretchin’ up into the Arctic Circle. The mountains an’ the water an’ the names … I know them …
Norway …
For a minute, the room swims.
I sway, an’ touch my forehead, an’ when I look up again I could swear the walls have moved. Slowly, I fold my arms to my chest, an’ as I do this a horrible feeling spills through me, this horrible idea that I’m not really sittin’ in this room any more. That those steady wooden surfaces aren’t real at all, an’ if I stretch out to check, my hands’d go right through. I feel the air changin’. Fleshin’ out, like arteries, round my head. Growin’ muscular an’ dark an’ dense with blood. Pressin’ down, all around, into ev’ry scrap of space, till a man-shaped thing stands above me in the darkness, an’ I’m cowerin’ underneath. Lungs punched empty. I clamp my eyes shut. Black hair tanglin’ down … He’s right here. Breathin’ in my face. Close enough to get me if I dare move … a muscle …
I breathe in. Whimper out.
The black-haired man … I’ve seen him before …
Please. No …
The door yanks open. I scramble back an’ kick an’ kick an’ …
……
Oh!
A woman.
My book spills onto the floor.
Joyce! Iss okay. Iss jus’ Joyce …
My God …
I flop onto my back. Wheeze out air. An’ jus’ like that, the spell’s broken. Joyce holds the door frame. Looks at me funny. Has she seen the atlas? I don’t know. I stuff it behind some magazines.
‘Come with me,’ says Joyce, so I get up. She walks me through the house to her office, with her hand wedged in my back all the way. What does she want? Suddenly I’m not so sure I like this. But I daren’t say no. We reach her office door, with the little engraved name plaque on it. No one else has one of those. Jus’ Joyce.
‘Go in, then,’ she says, an’ gives me a little push.
I turn the knob an’ lean on it a bit. The door swings open. I jump. Crammed in the room are four people I’ve never seen before. One holds a black machine on his shoulder. There’s a fuzzy thing on a stick. When I come in they jump forwards. Eight big eyes movin’ all
over me. A squeaky noise comes up my throat, an’ I try to turn round, but Joyce is like a wall.
‘Well hello, Kathy! It’s so lovely to meet you.’
‘Come on,’ grunts Joyce. She shunts me into the room.
‘We’ve come for a little chat.’
‘No …’
Heart’s goin’ crazy. Close my eyes. Somethin’ hard comes up behind my legs. I tumble down.
‘Five minutes, okay?’ says Joyce.
‘Of course. Doug, start rolling.’
Clickin’ noises. Lights. Joyce’s hand stays clamped round my arm. I go as small as possible. Joyce tuts. More hands creep onto me. Try to uncurl me.
‘No no no …’
‘Stop being silly.’
Voices prod me. Talkin’ an’ pausin’, talkin’ an’ pausin’, talkin’ an’ pausin’. Gettin’ louder ev’ry time, an’ the hands on my arms grab harder.
‘Sit up straight.’
Beyond ev’rythin’, a darkness creeps back. My throat closes up. I honk for air. Lights rush sideways. Then everythin’ goes cold, an’ all I can see is carpet.
#
Tuesday.
Rhona is so angry, her face is white. All day long it stays like that. At my bedside she whispers. Strokes my hand an’ says It’ll never happen again. When she’s not in my room she shouts loud. Joyce shouts back. I hear them both. Backwards an’ forwards. The telephone rings nonstop, an’ no one answers it.
Later, Rhona tells me I’m famous. My fans have doubled since my face was on telly, an’ apparently that’s not a good thing. A blond man broke into the grounds this afternoon, but Caroline saw him an’ called the police. He ran away long before they came, but some men stayed to guard the fence anyway. They said he prob’ly wasn’t dangerous. That the fans jus’ want to see me.
‘Soon those people won’t hound us any more,’ says Rhona. ‘The court order goes through any day now. Then it’ll be illegal.’
‘The lawyer man?’ I ask.
‘Yes, hon. The lawyer is sorting it out.’
‘Will we open the curtains again then?’
Rhona’s face stays pure white, an’ the anger will not leave her eyes. But she nods yes. Makes her mouth into a smile.
4
>Katgrrl has logged on at 20.21.53GMT_17/12/2004
Katgrrl: Tim!
Katgrrl: Hey u ther?
Katgrrl: Tiiiiiiiiim! Come on! I gots da news :) :) :)
Katgrrl: Oi! Timbo!
>Katgrrl has sent a nudge
VinylVultures_666: Hey was jst eatin. Wait brb
Katgrrl: Heeeyyyy!!! Thank God. Yr alive!!
Katgrrl: Tim?
Katgrrl: Whats hapnin?
VinylVultures_666: Back. Sorry. Phone rang.
Katgrrl: Hi. Hey guess what
VinylVultures_666: You are secretly the antichrist :)
Katgrrl: I’m moving to Norway! Movin in w Magnus!
VinylVultures_666: Wow. Srsly? When?
Katgrrl: Aftr Xmas. Quit cafe today.
VinylVultures_666: U only met th guy like 5 minutes ago!
Katgrrl: Christ u sound lik my Dad
VinylVultures_666: Well … wow … When exactly? U booked it?
Katgrrl: Bookin ferry tomoro. All sortd out.
VinylVultures_666: Bloody hell. So I guess yr not movin down here aftr all then
Katgrrl: No. well, ykno. young love. hehe …
Katgrrl: Hello?
>Katgrrl has sent a nudge
VinylVultures_666: Sorry. Just can’t really believe it. U sure about this?
Katgrrl: Yes!
VinylVultures_666: Whatd Mag say?
Katgrrl: He’s happy. We gonna get married
VinylVultures_666: Bloody hell Kathy!!!
Katgrrl: I know! Crazy huh. Cant believe its hapnin …
Katgrrl: Tim?
VinylVultures_666: Sorry. Just thinking.
VinylVultures_666: Why ddnt u tel me before?
Katgrrl: Sorry hon. Just decided it all so quick … Youre 1st I told
VinylVultures_666: Well. Just … remember … if u need to come back I am always here
Katgrrl: Thanks hon. Yr my best friend u kno.
Katgrrl: U ther?
VinylVultures_666: So whatll happen with yr painting now?
Katgrrl: I’ll still paint. Theyv got art stores ther too ykno ;)
VinylVultures_666: Hmm
Katgrrl: We can still do that group show together.
VinylVultures_666: Well actually we cant cos its oxfordshire artists only. That’s whole point of u movin to Oxford.
Katgrrl: Oh hon … I’m sorry.
VinylVultures_666: Well. Not only reason. U need to get out. B with ppl like u. That towns killing u
Katgrrl: I am getting out
VinylVultures_666: Hmm
Katgrrl: R u not happy 4 me?
VinylVultures_666: Yes. Sorry. Just sad. I’ll get over it.
Katgrrl: We can do another show. U could visit scandi. Get artist residency or somethin.
VinylVultures_666: I’ve got th record shop to run.
Katgrrl: Well mayb oneday.
VinylVultures_666: So what date u actually goin?
Katgrrl: 13jan.
VinylVultures_666: Bloody hell
Katgrrl: U shd come up visit before I go.
VinylVultures_666: I’ll miss you, Katherine.
Katgrrl: Come up this weekend. We’ll talk
VinylVultures_666: Cant leave th shop
Katgrrl: Well. We can write
VinylVultures_666: R u sure about this Kathy? Just all so sudden …
Katgrrl: I’m in love, Tim.
Katgrrl: U ther?
VinylVultures_666: Just b careful with this guy. Ok?
Katgrrl: Yessir!
VinylVultures_666: I’m serious. Any trouble, u call me. Ok?
Katgrrl: He’s not a serial killer!
VinylVultures_666: Promise.
Katgrrl: Ok I promise. If u promise to stop freakin out so much.
VinylVultures_666: I just care.
Katgrrl: Promise
VinylVultures_666: Ok Cap’n
Katgrrl: Xx
VinylVultures_666: Xxx
>Katgrrl has logged off
5
On Friday we have a special teatime in the day room. There’s a cake with my name iced on it, an’ little square sandwiches an’ jelly an’ fizzy lemonade. Mrs Laird makes ev’ryone sing ‘Happy Birthday’. Then she turns on the television an’ we watch a film about a talkin’ dog. That goes on for ages. When iss finished Joyce says iss time for bed, an ev’ryone goes out of the room. I’m goin’ to go too, but Rhona comes out of nowhere an’ says, ‘Happy Birthday, hon.’ At birthday, her hands make little rabbit ears in the air. Then she gives me a pot of nail varnish. We sit by the fire an’ paint our fingernails gold. Rhona puts a candle on the last of my cake, I blow it out, an’ we share the frosted slab onto our plates. My nails look strange, all painted up like that. I wonder if I used to wear nail varnish. Before. Together we look at our fingertips. Twinklin’ like jewels as they dry.
‘Are you ready to talk about Magnus?’ asks Rhona. When she says that, she doesn’t look at my face. Maybe that’s somethin’ Mrs Laird taught her. A brain trick. But it doesn’t work. I jus’ get mad. I stand up, throw my cake on the floor an’ leave the room. She doesn’t call out or try to stop me.
Back in my room, I scratch my nails clean with toilet paper. I can’t bring myself to throw out the varnish, but tomorrow I’ll tell Rhona I did. It’ll hurt her feelin’s, I’m sure, but right now I’m glad about that. I’ll teach her not to say that name to me.
My face is hot. When I’ve calmed down a bit I find the hole in my mattress an’ stick my hand inside. This is where I keep my bit of newspaper. They’d go mad if they knew I had this, but, like the nail varnish, I can’t make myself get rid of it. I stole it from Mrs Laird’s sittin’ room on the day we opened the curtains.
Daily Post. Thursday, 11th May
2006
Snub ‘n’ Sly Girl
Lawyers dealt a kick in the teeth to our fundraising campaign yesterday, when they forbade further press access to their client – the Loch Oscaig ‘Lullaby Girl’. The childlike amnesiac – now known as ‘Katherine’ – shot into the limelight last month after washing up on the banks of a remote loch in Scotland. Initially believed to be mute, she astonished carers one day with a rendition of a Danish lullaby, and continued to sing it compulsively.
Her story won the hearts of our readers and led to the formation of the Lullaby Girl Foundation, which has so far raised over £12,000 towards the brunette’s psychiatric care. But now lawyers have snubbed our readers’ generosity by ordering the removal of Daily Post reporters from the vicinity of Gille Dubh Lodge in Cairndhu – where Lullaby Girl currently resides.
Reactions have been mixed since yesterday’s ruling, with some doubting whether Katherine had a part in this decision at all. ‘I saw her the day they pulled her out the water, and she didn’t know her arse from her elbow,’ comments photographer Malcolm Gray. ‘We were inside Gille Dubh last week, and she’d barely progressed, mentally.’ Our correspondent Zoe Rutherford, upon whose initiative the LGF was founded, had this to say: ‘It’s just so selfish, and so disappointing for everyone involved. After everything we’ve done for her, you’d think she’d give a little back.’
Lullaby Girl’s mental capabilities have been widely debated in the media since her appearance on March 15th. But some locals, such as shopkeeper Gayle Paton, have been raising different questions.
‘How can we protect ourselves if they won’t keep us informed?’ Ms Paton asked last night. ‘As far as we know this was attempted murder, and until that loony remembers what happened, we have to assume there’s a killer on the loose.’
Insiders say police are still to receive any solid leads, either on British or Danish soil, and this has raised further questions as to why her lawyers should try to remove Katherine from the public eye. ‘They can’t very well expect witnesses to come forward, if there’s no publicit
That’s where the paper tears off. I fill my head with those words, as I have a hundred times, an’ try to gain strength from my anger. That loony. That’s all I am to the people over the fence. How horrible to know they saw this newspaper two weeks ago. That all this time they’ve prob’ly been talkin’ about me. A killer on the loose sounds bad. I don’t like to think about that bit.
