by Aly Sidgwick
‘You’re not my friend! You’re not anything!’ I yell.
Rhona’s face hardens. Out she goes, an’ the door clicks shut. My hands are still shaking. I stare at the doorknob for a long time.
#
MmhorGDRegP89/10
Name: Katherine (Fennick?)
Gender: F
DOB: Unknown. (Est. age 30)
Date of session: 17/07/2006
Duration: 35min
T: Therapist, P: Patient
[Session notes: Patient too agitated to achieve somnambulist state. Light relaxation only possible after extended pre-talk.]
Excerpt 1:
T: I’d like to talk about your mother, today.
P: No. I said I wouldn’t.
T: Take a deep breath. If you relax, you’ll find this much easier.
P: We were meant to talk about Mary.
T: Well, we’re coming to that. We can talk about Mary as much as you like. But first I need to go over a few things. Do you think you can help me?
P: [Long pause.] All right.
T: So, in one of our previous sessions we talked about your holidays on the farm. When you were small. Do you remember these things?
P: A bit. I read the transcript.
T: But you also remember that farm? You can picture it, if you think hard enough?
P: Yes. A bit.
T: Good. I’d like you to imagine you are at that farm right now. You have just arrived with your parents. It’s a beautiful day and you are feeling very happy. Very glad to be there. Can you see yourself there?
P: Sort of.
T: Good. Very good. Now, I’d like you to imagine you are getting out of the car. You look at your mother and–
P: I said I wouldn’t talk about her.
T: Okay. Okay. Well, maybe we can talk about the farm instead.
P: This is stupid.
T: Whatever you tell me will be utterly confidential.
P: No. I’ve changed my mind. They’ll read it.
T: Who will read it?
P: Rhona. Joyce.
T: Don’t you trust Rhona? I thought you and her were close?
P: No.
T: All we want is to help you.
P: No you don’t. You want to get rid of me. You’ll disappear.
T: Why would we disappear?
P: You will. You always do.
T: People you’ve loved have disappeared before?
P: You’re going to leave. I can’t do it again.
T: Who has left you?
P: Mary. Magnus. Mum.
T: How do you know your mother left you?
P: She didn’t come to get me.
T: When was this?
P: After the newspapers … She didn’t come.
T: Did she leave you before this, too?
P: Yes.
T: You remember this?
P: No.
T: How do you know, if you don’t remember?
P: She’s not here, is she?
T: Is your mother dead, Katherine?
P: Stop it!
[Patient becomes agitated and gets up from chair. Takes several minutes to return her to relaxed state.]
Excerpt 5:
T: Earlier, you said that Magnus left you. I’d like to talk about that, if you–
P: No.
T: You don’t want to talk about Magnus, or you didn’t mean what you said?
P: [No answer.]
T: Why don’t you want to discuss Magnus? Is it because he hurt you?
P: [No answer.]
T: Concentrate, Katherine. Is Magnus the one who hurt you? Is he the one who put you in the loch?
P: No.
T: I know there’s someone you’re afraid of. You just have to tell me who it is.
P: [Patient cries. Speaks incoherently.]
T: Do you remember how you got to the loch, Katherine?
P: I don’t know.
T: Did Magnus take you to the loch?
P: He loved me.
Excerpt 8.
T: You were close to Mary?
P: Yes.
T: Were you best friends?
P: It was different. She didn’t talk. But she understood me.
T: You felt that you could trust her?
P: Yes.
T: Was this the first time you’ve been able to trust someone in this way?
P: [Pauses.] No.
T: How did it make you feel when Mary died?
P: Guilty.
T: What made you feel guilty?
P: I wasn’t there. She needed me and I wasn’t there.
T: You didn’t fail her. You were her friend.
P: No. I was worse than Joyce. She trusted me. I should have seen.
T: What did Joyce do?
P: She left her. Like Rhona’s going to leave me.
T: You’re afraid that everyone will leave you?
P: Yes.
T: What do you think will happen then? After they’ve left you?
P: I deserve it.
T: What do you think you deserve?
P: Punishment.
T: But why should you be punished? You’re a lovely girl.
P: I’m Miss La-di-da.
[Patient wakes abruptly. Gets up and tries to leave room. Extremely agitated. Attempts to calm patient/resume session unsuccessful.]
*Session ends*
[Note: Try ‘La-di-da’ as bridge in somnambulist state.]
#
Tuesday.
I spend most of the day in my room. Rhona hasn’t shown her face, and I can’t bring myself to go to her.
At five o’clock I hear voices, so I go to my window an’ peer through the curtains. The first thing I see is Joyce’s head. I know it’s her from that cast-iron hairdo. No one else in the world has hair like that. She’s leaning over a green car, talkin’ to the person inside. I strain to hear their conversation, but all that reaches me are the high tones in Joyce’s voice. I hate that bloody voice. The pure noise of it. Joyce steps back an’ the car swings round. Through the windscreen, it’s Dr Harrison. Her hand flutters once. Then the car creeps round an’ makes for the gates. I watch till she’s out of sight. So does Joyce. I don’t think Dr Harrison is coming back.
Last night, Dr Harrison tried to trick me. She asked all the things she said she wouldn’t. She thinks Magnus dumped me in Loch Oscaig, like nuclear waste. I found myself wonderin’ if this was true, an’ suddenly, clear as day, I saw a face. A handsome face. Sandy-haired, with stubble and super-bright blue eyes. I knew straight away it was Magnus. My chest reeled from the impact. I felt that wild devotion, as if for the first time, and it made me want to laugh and run and sing. For a second, I was almost there with him. But his face bled away, then, an’ a diff’rent one rose its place. Pinpoint eyes, hairy arms an’ a mane of black hair. A calloused fist swung down. Veins in his neck, an’ the dark thrum of violence. I felt my hysterical hatred of this man. The shame an’ desperation, an’ the fear. That man’s been in my nightmares for weeks, an’ now for the first time I saw his face. A name flashed through my head. Hans. An’ in an instant I knew who he was.
21
Wednesday.
Rain clouds loiter, like they’re waiting for an opportunity to soak me.
I haven’t eaten for thirty-six hours, an’ I’d planned on holding out longer, but I snap this morning when breakfast smells float up the stairs. I think I smell waffles, which are my favourite. Waffles and golden syrup. Oh, that’d be fab right now. Crispy brown edges. Fluffy inside. I imagine prising the lid off the syrup. Licking my sticky fingers. Loading my fork with sugary goodness. They said I’m not allowed sugar right now. But maybe I can sneak some anyway. They’d never know.
I slip out of bed and follow my nose downstairs. Rhona is in the dining room. I jump as we clock each other, an’ for a second my hunger turns to nausea. This is the moment I’d dreaded. But Rhona is talking with Joyce and only glances up for a moment.
I hover by the doorway, recalculating. Did I overr
eact the other day? Should I apologise? Storm out? But my belly has taken control now an’ won’t let me do anythin’ that results in me not eatin’. Lookin’ straight ahead, I approach the hot-plates. There are no waffles, and before I can take anything else the cook swoops in to stop me. She microwaves my ‘special meal’ porridge – made without seasoning – and I shuffle off angrily to eat it. If I swallow it fast I can almost trick myself it’s sweet. It’s just a question of replacing the thoughts I don’t like with ones I do.
Joyce seems to be dominating the conversation with Rhona. Sometimes Rhona holds her head in her hands, an’ sometimes she nods. It makes me sad to watch them, so I go back upstairs an’ play snakes and ladders on the floor. The clouds grow closer each time I look up, as if they’ll end up comin’ right through the window. At four o’clock I crawl into bed, pull the pillow over my head an’ close my eyes.
#
Men’s voices. Right outside. I stiffen and grip the pillow to my face. The crack beneath my door moves with shadows.
‘—much longer, madam.’
‘Well please, for the other girls’ sakes, do try to be quiet.’
Was that Mrs Laird?
‘Of course.’
Heavy feet pound the floorboards. Mrs Laird must be cross they didn’t take their shoes off in the hall. They sound like big shoes. Boots. Full of mud and mess.
‘Come on, people, you heard the lady. Let’s get this done.’
‘Yes sir.’
A soft thud, like a woolly animal falling over. Coughing. ‘Sorry,’ says a voice. Footsteps walk around, further away. Muffled sometimes, like they’re walkin’ on a rug. Then I know for sure. The men are in Mary’s room. My first instinct is to run out and hit them. I leap out of bed and stand behind the door, hands clenched. But the feeling passes quickly. Bit by bit, my fists go slack. I go to the window and wipe a looking-hole in the condensation. A big white van is parked below. Police.
A ghoulish desire gathers pace in me, to look at Mary’s room one last time. If they lock the door from now on I might never see it again. Creeping forward, I touch the door handle. But I can’t make myself go further. Why not? It doesn’t make sense to be so frightened. They’re policemen. No more likely to hurt me than Mr Duff. But I can’t open the door. Not with all those fists on the other side. All that weight and hair and sweat, crushing their big shoes into the carpet. Smiling teeth and black eyes.
The back of my neck is on fire. I try to move my arm, but my body has turned into a suit of armour. Behind my eyes, bright shapes boogie. I lower myself to the carpet an’ wipe my sweaty hands on it.
The voices outside seem to have stopped, and a great rustling noise has taken over, like a forest of paper bags. Swishing this way, then that. Close then far. A creak from the loose floorboard in the corridor. The swishing diminishes. Then, quite suddenly, the corridor falls silent. I sit up straight. Outside, a motor starts. I raise myself up and inch the door open. There is no one in sight, but my bravery has come too late. Mary’s door is padlocked shut.
#
Thursday.
Gentle rain lulls me awake. The room is darker than usual, but when I get up to look I find it is indeed morning. Thick fog has come down low outside the window, so all I see is a hellish spotlight of red gravel. I slog back to bed and lie very still. But my thoughts are too morose to let me drop off again. Shadows rise and fall beyond the curtains, and the glass sucks and creaks. Sometimes the wind changes direction and smacks rain into my window. When this happens I get a lump in my throat. I think of the conservatory, and then the ash tree. She’s probably burned up by now. The thought of it repulses me. I wonder if the logs went to one person’s house, or if they shared her out like slices of cake. Then I think about birthday cake, and how everyone lied to me about Dr Harrison. This makes me cry. It seems an unforgivable crime, to conceal death with something so joyful. I push my hand under my pillow and close my fingers around the heart-shaped counter. It came from a cereal packet originally. I remember the day the cook gave it to us.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. Then the tears flow harder and will not stop. I think of Mary’s smile as she waved goodbye. That last, clinging hug.
Everything is changing. I thought I could stay here forever, like the ash tree. But now it seems that won’t be possible after all. What will I do if Rhona abandons me? I know what a mess I am. That I couldn’t survive on the outside. Maybe they’re right. Maybe it is time to tell them I’ve remembered Magnus. I lost my chance to confide in Mary, an’ if Rhona leaves too there’ll be no one left to listen. I don’t think it’s good for me to keep it all in. Unravelling inside me, making a mess. Things are startin’ to get squashed, an’ the nastier stuff gets, the less I want it to stay inside me. Someone has to help. I must break my silence.
#
At lunchtime I go looking for Rhona. I check her office an’ the library an’ the day room an’ the dining room, but she’s nowhere to be found. Maybe she’s in her bedroom, I think, so I go through to the staff wing an’ knock on Rhona’s door. There’s a pause. Footsteps. The door swings open. I leap back.
Joyce!
A yellow blanket hangs over her arm, semi-folded.
‘Kathy. You know you’re not allowed here. What do you want?’
‘I’m … looking for Rhona.’
‘Rhona isn’t here.’
A chill wriggles through me.
‘Where is she?’ I croak.
Joyce sighs as she finishes folding Rhona’s blanket. I can hardly stand to watch her.
‘You won’t see her for a while. She needed a wee break.’
‘But … she would have told me …’
‘Get used to it, Kathy.’
‘What about … our sessions?’
‘I’m taking over,’ snips Joyce.
I feel my jaw fall.
‘For how long?’
‘As long as it takes.’
I stare at her. Or, rather, I stare at the dark place where her face should be. As Joyce refolds her arms round the blanket, a sunbeam sends a blizzard of lighted squares through her rings. Stupefied, I watch them dust the walls. Joyce clears her throat.
‘Look. I know you don’t like me very much. But it’s still my job to help you. We’ll be having a long talk tomorrow.’
I grab the wall to steady myself.
‘But … Rhona …’
‘Go on,’ sighs Joyce, flapping a hand. The swirl of bright squares envelops me like sparkles from a wand, and inwardly I bristle at the idea Joyce could ever put me under her spell.
‘What about Sunday? Isn’t she coming?’
‘Sunday?’
Joyce has no idea what I’m talking about. Rage crashes through me, nudging the shock to one side. I want to scream an’ shout an’ hurt her.
‘Mary’s ceremony,’ I splutter.
‘Is that Sunday?’
‘Yes!’
‘Well then no. No she’s not.’
‘But doesn’t she … How can she …’
I convulse. My vision blacks out for a second. Then the world rushes back an’ delivers me onto the floor. Joyce towers over me, barking, ‘Stop it this minute!’
I try to sit up, an’ can’t. Joyce’s eyes are like glass-topped pins. She swoops, seizes my wrists an’ hauls me up. But my legs still don’t work, so her efforts just sort of stretch me.
‘You stop this charade right now!’
‘I think I’m goin’ to—’
‘Don’t defy me, Katherine!’
My belly bubbles. I stumble. For a second I almost free myself. But Joyce is quick. She grabs my wrists an’ shoves me back down. I start to cry.
‘Ohhh ho ho! No, missy … That might work on Rhona, but it won’t work on me!’
‘I want Rhona!’ I shout.
‘Well Rhona isn’t here!’
I propel forwards. Upwards. Joyce’s face centres in my vision. Circled in black, like a noose. I feel the blood pumping through me, my hands reaching forward. In my e
ars, Joyce’s voice. Put yourself first … I’ll take care of Kathy … I’ll take care of Kathy … I think of Joyce’s singing. Of the horse-shoe. Of Mary. Blackness explodes across my vision, taking every ounce of my strength with it. Then the noose slides back an’ returns me to the room. Before me, Joyce’s face drips with water. Spit. My spit.
For a second neither of us moves. A low breath grumbles out of Joyce. Then her palm swipes, hard, across my face. I stagger but don’t fall. Trying to hide my pain, I lick the inside of my cheek. I look at her. Then I run.
At first my flight takes Joyce by surprise. But two steps short of the door she grabs my legs. We clatter forwards. My forehead strikes the desk. Joyce sits on my back, twisting my hands.
‘Little madam!’ she shrieks.
‘Go on then! Kill me like you killed Mary!’
‘You little—’
Her hand bats my head. I gasp as my teeth hit the floor.
‘I’ll tell them!’ I screech. ‘I’ll get you sacked!
Joyce leans hard against my back. Her heart hammers into my spine. My wrists are twisted to breaking point. I yell, an’ the taste of blood fills my tongue.
Holy shit. Is this how things will be from now on?
The door springs open, spillin’ running feet.
‘What are you doing?’ shouts Caroline’s voice.
‘Help me! Hold her down!’
‘Joyce, what the hell? Take it easy!’
‘Don’t touch me!’
‘Hey … Hey!’
My spine jolts. Several knees jut into my kidneys. I slide sideways. Behind my head, Joyce yowls. Hands grab me, then release me, then grab me again. A cry of pain. A snarl. A foot slides across an’ cracks into my spine. Hands claw my back, like a cat. Then, incredibly, the weight lifts from my body. Hands release me. The sliding noise continues, like a lazy tap dancer. I cradle my wrists to my chest. Suckin’ in air. My whole body hurts.
‘Shhh,’ says Mrs Laird’s voice. I shrink further, an’ the hand follows me.
‘Don’t play her game!’ Joyce shrieks.
‘Get her out of here,’ says a voice.
The footsteps scuff away, carryin’ Joyce’s shoutin’ with them. Mrs Laird puts her hand on my shoulder. By the time my pulse has slowed, the room is dark.
#
Saturday.
I think they tried to wake me yesterday, but my memory of that is muddy. Today Mrs Laird summons me to her office. What happened was very wrong, she says. Joyce has been suspended an’ so Mrs Laird will take over her duties. She stresses that this is a temporary solution. I ask to see Rhona, but Mrs Laird says I can’t. She asks if I want to press charges against Joyce. ‘It’s your right,’ she says. But she seems scared I’ll agree, so I shrug an’ say no. Besides, I’m scared loads of policemen might come here. Joyce would get revenge for that sooner or later, an’ I can’t live with that over my head. No. The best I can ask for is that Joyce isn’t here for Mary’s ceremony. Talk about perfect timing. I’m proud I could do Mary this small service.
