by Aly Sidgwick
Then I hear Rhona’s voice. Unmistakable. I approach her office, expectin’ to find her on the telephone. But jus’ as I reach the doorway, I hear a second voice. Joyce! I leap back.
‘—blame yourself. You’ve got to have the courage of your convictions.’
‘If I’d only done it a different way …’
‘Listen to me. It was not your fault! She was old! No one could have saved her …’
‘If I’d remortgaged the house sooner … we could have paid for private treatment sooner, and—’
‘No, you can’t think that way!’
‘Now she’s gone … and the money’s gone … And this debt … I can’t keep it up … I … I just …’
For a long time there are no real words. It is Joyce who breaks the silence.
‘Be honest with yourself, Rhona. You’re just not ready to be back. You’re not … bloody superwoman. Take some time off.’
‘I have to make money, Joyce. The repayments are astronomical …’
‘Look. I’m sure if you just—’
‘I’m going to lose the house … Generations, we’ve lived there. Generations …’
‘I’ll cover your patients. If I can cover Vera’s sessions for a week, I can handle a bit of paperwork.’
‘No … There’s Kathy … I can’t just … I just … I’ve got to …’
Rhona cries diff’rently now. Faster, an’ snottier, an’ without pause for breath.
‘Let me deal with Kathy,’ says Joyce.
My skin turns cold.
‘Bu … bu … but …’
‘Shush, lassie, I know how you feel. But you’ve got to put yourself first for once.’
This time Rhona doesn’t stop cryin’ at all. I listen for as long as I can bear. Then I creep away an’ climb the stairs.
13
February 5th-6th, 2005.
In my heart of hearts, I should have known Magnus would not chase me. I wait outside our building until midnight. Stamping my feet. Watching the street from end to end. When I’m certain he is not coming home I return to Loop the Loop and find it shut. The wind slices through my 15-denier tights, and I’m worried about my toes, which I haven’t been able to feel for an hour. So far anger has kept me going, but there’s only so much longer I can hold out in this weather. Magnus is not answering his phone. I decide, against all common sense, to find a hotel.
Stupid girl, I think, over and over. Why didn’t you just take the keys?
There are no single rooms left at the NordLys St Olav, and the doubles cost sixteen hundred kroner. Stunned, I ask after cheaper alternatives. The man says this is the cheapest I’ll find, this time of night. I tell him I need to make a phone call first and collapse on the lobby sofa.
What can I do? It’s the last money I have – more than that, it’ll put me in the red – but if I don’t stay here I’ll fucking freeze to death. Three deep breaths. I dial Magnus’s number. Like before, it goes straight to voicemail. I hang up, grit my teeth and go back to the reception desk.
‘Okay,’ I tell the man, and give him my credit card.
The room is spartan. I sleep like the dead.
#
I wake to the sound of a phone and groggily pick it up. A man’s voice starts talking, and I jump at the memory of Magnus.
‘Mrs Fenwick?’ says the voice, and then my heart droops. It’s just the receptionist. ‘Check-out time is ten,’ he snips.
‘Oh … Thank you.’
‘It is now half past ten. Will you be staying for one more night, Mrs Fenwick?’
Shit. I sit up straight.
‘No, no … I’m sorry, I’ll be down in a minute.’
When I step back onto the street, last night’s indignation has all but disappeared. I feel small and foolish as I walk the half mile back to the old town. My clothes, which I slept in, feel grubby and wet against my skin, and I can’t wait to crawl into a hot bath. Perversely, the foremost image in my mind is of Magnus, waiting up for me behind the front door. It was probably a case of bad timing and we missed each other by minutes. Was he worried? Will he hug me and cry and apologise when I finally show up? Some self-righteous part of me hopes so. But I’m tired of being angry now. All I want is for this to be over.
The downstairs door is propped open. That’s a good sign. I go inside and start climbing the stairs. When I reach the third floor I try our front door, but it’s locked. I knock once and wait. Nothing. Again. Again. Nothing. I try the bell. Nothing.
Where the fuck is he?
Suddenly my ears prick up. Just for a second, I could’ve sworn I heard a creak. So quiet it could almost have been the wind. Neighbours. Traffic on the street. But my gut instinct tells me it was none of these things. That the creak came from the other side of this door.
I put my finger on the bell and hold it. The creak comes again, louder this time. A pause. A little crash. Then footsteps approach the door, and it whooshes open to reveal Magnus. His face is like thunder.
‘What?’ he barks, engulfing me in whisky fumes.
‘What do you mean, what?!’
Muttering, he walks back down the hall. I dump my bag and follow. My anger has returned fully fledged, but there’s something about this that puts me on edge. We’ve fought before, dozens of times, but this is different. This is something much, much more …
‘Would you like to explain?’ I demand, when we reach the living room.
‘Explain what?’
‘The girl! Who the fuck was she?’
‘She’s no one.’
‘Where have you been all night? With her?’
‘Where have you been?’
‘I stayed in a hotel! I had to!’
Magnus makes a face. I realise now that he’s still drunk.
‘Are you seeing that girl?’ I demand.
‘No.’
‘Who is she?’
‘One of the kids. She’s in love with me, I guess.’
‘But you’re with me!’ I cry, exasperated.
Magnus makes the face again. He mutters something.
‘What?’
‘You don’t love me,’ he repeats.
I reel. ‘How can you say that?’
He mutters again.
Suddenly I feel light-headed. I float away to the sofa and sink to the floor beside it.
‘I spent my last money on the hotel room,’ I whisper.
‘I gave you the keys. Should have taken them, shouldn’t you?’
‘I have nothing now.’
Magnus snorts. ‘So how are you going to eat?’
I glare at him, and he glares back.
‘That girl,’ I start, but Magnus slams his hand down on the door frame, shocking me into silence.
‘She’s innocent,’ he says.
‘Have you told her you have a girlfriend?’
‘It’s not as simple as that.’
‘It’s extremely simple!’
‘She’s fifteen. She’s just flirting.’
‘So you haven’t told her you’re with me?’
‘Nobody knows. Not yet.’
‘What? You haven’t told anyone?’
‘It’s too soon.’
‘It’s been five months!’
Magnus shrugs. His eyes are like steel. Something in me snaps, then, and my shoulders start to shake. I curl into the floor and weep, while Magnus’s feet remain planted to the floor before me.
Time drags. My head aches. By the time Magnus pulls me into his arms, hours could have passed. I cry myself out against his chest, smelling the salt of his skin through the whisky-stained shirt. His heat against my cheek.
‘You’re mine,’ he whispers, from somewhere above my head. ‘No one else. But for now we must be secret. We must let people down easy.’
I don’t reply. I can’t.
‘They’re just kids,’ he says. ‘They’re vulnerable. I could never live with myself if they did something stupid.’
I want to say They? But I don’t have the energy for tha
t argument. Instead I squeak, ‘Okay.’
‘I love this job. I don’t want to lose it. So no more dramatic shit, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ve got debts to pay, besides food for you and me. So you need to get a job, right? Try harder. Smile.’
He brings up a hand and pats my head with it. It feels like a lead weight. And as I submit to this comfort, I feel some important part of myself draining away.
#
Friday, 11th February 2005.
In the aftershock of Saturday’s events, Magnus is extra patient with my fluctuating moods. Maybe that’s because he feels guilty. Or it could simply be that my reasons for feeling bad are more tangible to him now. It’s hard to believe a Scandinavian could fail so completely to understand depression. As if I enjoyed feeling like shit, or did it on cue. Anyway, a shaky truce is formed, and I agree – against every bone in my body – to keep our relationship a secret.
There’s a party tonight at a rock club in the old town, and most of Magnus’s friends will be there. Before going, Magnus sets several ground rules: no hand holding, no clinging and no crying. I bristle inwardly as he recites this list. But until I can afford to feed myself, I have little choice in such matters. To hold on to Magnus, I must start making compromises.
‘Just for now,’ he says.
‘I know. Just for now.’
‘Come on. Cheer up.’
I do my best to smile. Magnus kisses me.
We have our own little pre-party in the flat – knocking back the bottle of rum we bought on the ferry – and this goes a long way towards softening the atmosphere. We play some music while picking out clothes to wear, and Magnus dances me round to a couple of our favourite tunes. He looks so handsome tonight. Ghostly pale in his dark shirt. At midnight, we head downtown.
Along the back streets, Magnus walks in step with me. The air is frosty, making me shiver, and as we walk through the gloom I take his gloved hand in my own. I catch his eye and he smiles. Relief floods through my chest, and just for that moment I wonder what I’ve been so upset about. Then a throng of drunks bursts, singing, round the corner, and Magnus yanks his hand from mine. In the space of two seconds, he’s put several paces between us. Reeling, I fold my arms round myself. Has the just friends act begun already? Magnus parades ahead, as if I was not there, and, feeling like a fool, I trot after him.
Råkk is a squat timber building adorned with a lightning-bolt-shaped sign. Through the darkened windows I see heads bobbing. As we approach, someone comes out of the door and the sound of AC/DC fills the street. Without a backwards glance, Magnus flounces down the steps and makes his entrance. It seems like he knows every person in the place, and under different circumstances I might have found that adorable. But not tonight. I stand awkwardly by the door, waiting for the hellos to stop and the girls to stop pawing him. A long-haired guy in a Motörhead cut-off nods at me and, grateful for some recognition, I smile back. He hurls a string of words at me, which I can only assume is a greeting. He looks at me for a reply. But at that moment, Magnus dives between us and throws an arm round the guy’s neck. They exchange words.
‘Don’t mind him,’ Magnus tells me, in English. ‘He’s drunk.’
Then a fresh barrage of friends greets him, and he’s gone again. I stand near the door, scanning the room, and suddenly it hits me that I have absolutely no friends here. Not a single one. I look round for Magnus and see him laughing with two stunningly beautiful women. One of them, a redhead with pixie-like cheekbones, is playing with his tie. At his side, a really young girl is vying for his attention, and with rising anger I recognise her as the girl from Loop the Loop.
‘It was n-ai-ss too meet yoo,’ sing-songs a voice, and I whip round to find the Motörhead guy in my face. His accent tickles me into laughter. Until this moment I have never heard anyone sound so Norwegian. With a big smile, I shake the huge, pale hand he has thrust out.
‘I am Håkon,’ says the guy. ‘Yoo are Magnus sin friend?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yoo are Scot … uh … Scots … Scot-tish?’
He looks so pleased with himself for remembering the right word that I don’t have the heart to correct him. Anyway, he’s not the first to misplace my accent. Sometimes even British people think I’m from Scotland. Smiling broadly, I nod.
‘Train-spot-ting!’ exclaims the guy, and to my astonishment he reels off a heartfelt, perfectly remembered Sick Boy soliloquy. I gape at him, impressed.
‘Whisky! Yoo like whisky? Single malt …’ He gestures enthusiastically, sloshing me with the contents of his pint glass, and in an instant the front of my top is soaked.
Swearing, I shoot backwards. But Håkon hasn’t even noticed. I look round for Magnus, hoping to extricate myself, and see him by the bar, handing a drink to the Loop the Loop girl.
‘Excuse me,’ I tell Håkon, and drift over to Magnus’s side. The girl’s hand is on his chest now. She sways slightly, and Magnus pulls her upright.
‘Hall-lo,’ I say, as brightly as I can. They turn to look at me. I’d hoped Magnus would notice the warning in my tone, but as far as I can tell, he has not. Suddenly I feel nastily sober. The girl tugs at Magnus and says something that makes him laugh. Then she takes a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and puts one in Magnus’s mouth. I stare at the packet and a surge of longing passes through me. I can no longer afford my own cigarettes.
‘Hold this,’ says Magnus, and puts his glass in my hand, before following the girl outside. Dumbstruck, I watch them go.
‘Sin-gull malt!’ blares a voice into my ear, and I turn to find Håkon beside me. I shove Magnus’s glass into his hand. Then I storm to the ladies to dry my top.
#
For forty minutes I try to talk to Magnus’s friends. Occasionally I recognise English words and jump on the chance to join in. But it never lasts more than a few seconds. People get bored of me, or don’t understand my humour, or return to speaking in dialect. I try in vain to identify words, to get some gist of the conversation, but it’s useless. My bottle goes and I get sick of grinning into empty air. I retreat into the corner and sit on a stool. By the time Magnus comes back to my side, I am sober.
‘Whatssz wrong with yurr face?’ he glowers. There’s a beer in his hand. I glare at him, wanting to slap him, but he’s so drunk by now he wouldn’t even realise why I’d done it.
‘Nothing.’
‘Why won’t you speak to people? I’m sick of you … be-ing so …’
‘So what?’
‘Cheer up, Kathy! For helvete!’
I push Magnus and he teeters off balance, taking a bar stool with him. The clatter makes people look. Magnus looks at me with undisguised contempt and drags himself upright. Suddenly I realise I’ve never seen him as drunk as this. In fact, I’ve never seen this level of drunkenness in anyone. People usually pass out when they reach this stage, or puke, or start drinking water. But here he is, still on his feet. For a moment, the pain is so great I can barely breathe. I close my eyes, do my breathing exercise and try to hold the tears in. When I open my eyes again, Magnus is glaring at the floor.
‘Can we go home?’ I ask.
Magnus tuts. I look at his hands, wrapped tightly round the stool, and try to lay mine on top. He jerks away, swears and returns to his friends.
For some time I sit with my head on the bar. No one tries to talk to me or move me on, so maybe this is a normal sight in here. My head starts to throb, and with growing bitterness I realise the hangover’s already kicking in. Until 3 a.m., the clock on the wall keeps me company.
From here I can see the top of Magnus’s head. He’s been sitting with two well-dressed men for a while. They’ve moved to a table at the back, so I can’t see them well. The big guy with the black hair has his back to me, and over the bulk of his frame I only catch narrow glimpses of the thin one’s face. Magnus is slumped between them, barely moving other than to sip from his glass. I watch his face for a while, trying to work out if he’s falli
ng asleep. If he does pass out I might need a hand getting him home. Maybe those guys could help. The big secret would be out then, wouldn’t it? I laugh to myself, bitterly.
Suddenly, a commotion draws my attention. I look up. The black-haired guy is on his feet, in the corner by the door to the toilets. Some girls are pushing him, without much effect. He tilts to one side, and I see then that he has a girl pinned against the wall. Blonde, pretty, falling out of a low-cut dress. The Loop the Loop girl. She stands there, visibly trembling, as he speaks into her ear. Now and again she tries to respond, but her jaw is hindered by the huge hand he has clasped round her face. Slowly, carefully, he turns her face from left to right, and inspects her as a vet would an animal. Then he slides his thumb down her cheek, croons some more and uses it to part her lips. For a moment she lets it rest there. Then, quite suddenly, she bites.
The man yells, draws his hand far back, and wallops the girl in the face. She falls to her knees. The girls around them go bananas. I get to my feet. But in the bedlam that follows, Loop the Loop girl makes a break for it. I follow her through the exit and run up the stairs to the street.
At first I don’t see her. Then a wail cuts out of the shadows, and I see her on the ground behind the bus stop. Rivulets of mascara stain her face, and she is spitting something red – either blood or lipstick – into the gutter. I run to her side, just as her band of friends bursts out of Råkk.
‘Sølvi!’ they yell. ‘Sølvi!’ Then they see her, and run towards us.
‘Is she okay?’ I gasp, but no one replies.
The girl cries and cries. Someone is dabbing her face with a napkin. Another strokes her knee. Just then, Magnus blunders through the door and Sølvi pushes all of us aside. As she runs into his arms he makes a meaningful face at her friends, and like a troupe of butlers they shrink away.
Magnus leads the girl into the alley behind Råkk. They sit down on a doorstep, and for a long time he just rocks her backwards and forwards. I stand by his side, waiting. When she’s stopped crying I whisper, ‘Is she okay?’
