by Aly Sidgwick
At dinner, I eat fast. Both of my eyes are bruised, an’ a hard grey lump crowns my forehead. I’m not a pretty sight, an’ I know it. Each time I look up, someone’s eyes dart away. I wonder if people know what happened by now.
My wrists still hurt, though the doctor assured me they are not broken, only torn. He gave me painkillers that make me mega sleepy an’ told me not to move too much. In the evening I play snakes and ladders with myself, cos I’m too tired to do anythin’ else. I play with two counters. One for me and one for Mary. Whenever it’s Mary’s turn I throw the dice for her an’ move her counter. We win roughly the same amount of games each.
22
April 2nd, 2005.
Magnus has moved back in with Mathilde, for the good of the kids. I should have fucking known. On the first day of my visit, he breaks the news. He kisses my face and says this is not the end. That he still loves me deeply. Or, rather, he loves the old me. If that version comes back, he says he’ll be powerless to resist. I say I will try.
The five of us take a walk through the playground. Isak and Tor Olav run ahead, throwing sticks at each other. Mathilde does not speak to me, and I do not speak to her. The way Magnus gazes at her makes me nauseous with pain, but somehow I hold myself together. He has told her I’m a friend of Håkon’s, and though I could easily blow that lie apart, I daren’t risk driving him away.
They sit on the climbing frame and nudge each other and whisper, but each time I approach they move to a different spot, so I stand in a snowdrift and wait for them to finish. The spring thaw is still some way off at this latitude, and as the sugary top crust of snow skitters round my legs, my hands shake inside my gloves. I play counting games with my heart-beat. I want to die … I want to die … I want to die …
Magnus pays for me to stay in a hostel, and I barely see him for the rest of the weekend. On Monday he’s too hungover to walk me to the night bus, but he comes out to meet me in the street outside Mathilde’s house. He tells me not to cry. That Mathilde likes me. That he’ll bring her to visit. Then he reaches out and shakes my hand goodbye.
‘I need to talk to you,’ I tell him, as I have all weekend. But Magnus shakes his head and says, ‘Not now.’
In this weather, the half-mile walk to the bus station takes forty minutes. The pavements are compacted with snow, so I have to drag my bag down the middle of the road. By the time I get on the bus, my face is raw with tears. I crawl onto my seat, curl up under my coat and try to sleep. On the way across the mountains, I catch my first ever glimpse of the northern lights.
#
The next three days are hellish, but I restrain myself from telephoning Magnus. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, my mother always said. I must make him miss me. In a box under my bed there’s a box of UK stuff, with my old mobile phone in it. It’s the first time I’ve looked at it in months, because I never got round to buying a local SIM card. On my knees beside the bed, I switch it on. The little screen turns blue; the welcome tune hums. I scroll through the phonebook to Tim’s number and sit looking at it for a long time. His name on the screen comforts me. There’s probably a few pence left in the phone. I might hear a few seconds of his voice, and he’d probably call me right back. But I can’t call. I’m too ashamed. Several times I almost press the green button and stop myself. I’ll never hear the end of it if I tell him what’s going on. Tim hates Magnus with a passion, even if he never admitted it to me. It comes from the heart, though. I know he’s just looking out for me, and that makes it worse in a way, because so far he’s been 100 per cent right. No. I’ll show him. Maintain radio silence. When things with Magnus are fixed, I’ll be glad I didn’t jump ship.
#
On Wednesday, Hans is not at the shop. After I have made the coffee and swept the floor and cleaned the windows, I go to the sofa, where Lina sits in between customers. She does not look up as I sit beside her. For a while I pretend to be looking out of the window. Then I glance at her copy of Se og Hør, but the photographs are all of Norwegian celebrities and I don’t recognise anyone except the princess, Mette-Marit.
‘What?’ sighs Lina.
My eyes shoot to her face. But she doesn’t look pissed off.
‘Um, can I ask something? About Hans?’
The muscles around Lina’s mouth harden. But she says, ‘Okay.’
‘It’s just … he seems so rich. With that big house, and the car, and the clothes … And this shop is … well … not exactly busy. So I was wondering where he gets all that money from?’
Silence follows my question. Thick, substantial silence. For a split second, Lina’s eyes film with moisture. Then she puts her magazine on the floor and makes a big show of picking a tangle out of her hair. With her back to me, she mumbles something about a new shampoo. I watch until it becomes clear she won’t turn back. Then I touch her arm.
‘Lina. Please. This is important.’
‘What is?’
‘I … heard something. About Hans. And I just need to know …’
Lina’s face is red now. She smoothes her fringe back with one hand and blinks her eyes at the ceiling.
‘I tried to warn you,’ she whispers.
‘About what?’
‘Him.’
Silence descends again. I stare at Lina, bursting with questions but afraid to ask the wrong ones.
‘The girl before you …’ starts Lina. She stops and looks around. The shop is empty. ‘We shouldn’t be talking about this,’ she whispers, and vigorously rubs her eyes.
‘Is he dangerous?’ I ask, feeling ridiculous to say the words out loud. But Lina is on her feet now and heading for the door. I watch through the window as she lights a cigarette. By the time I join her, her face is back to normal. I accept a cigarette, and we sit down on the kerb. It feels good to smoke something decent instead of the cheap shit I’ve been relegated to.
‘“Hans” is not a normal man,’ says Lina. She does not speak his name, only mouths it, and even then she takes a good look round for eavesdroppers. ‘But you’re okay, for now. He is always shy with new ones.’
Before this afternoon, that statement would have made me laugh. Hans is so brash, it’s hard to imagine he could ever be shy. But I don’t feel like laughing now. In my mind, I picture Hans smashing Sølvi in the face. Then I picture the flimsy lock on my apartment door. I shiver.
‘I live with him …’ I say.
Lina turns to face me. Her eyes are dry now, and very serious. It’s the same look she’s been wearing for months. The one I had mistaken for snottiness.
‘Listen,’ she says. ‘Bring your passport to the shop. I will hide it for you.’
I stare at her.
‘Why? Do you think he’d take it?’
She brushes her hands through her hair again.
‘Has he done it before?’
Lina folds her hands and looks at the floor.
‘You’ll be okay,’ she says. ‘You have your man to protect you.’
This time it is my turn to be silent. For a while, I look at the floor too. Then, faintly, I reply, ‘Yeah.’
#
Summertime wraps around me like a bubble, and as the days flick past I allow my routines to numb me further. My sleep pattern grows ever more erratic, and some nights I don’t sleep at all. On those occasions I go outside and walk down the track to the farm. By now the wheat is almost head-height. I pick my way to the middle of the field, lie on my back and sing my lullaby to the stars. Animals come close sometimes, when I’m lying there. I hear their legs swishing through the crop, their voices calling to each other. It scared me a lot, in the beginning.
My telephone calls with Magnus grow shorter as my depression grows. It’s hard to think of nice things to talk about, because the only bright point of my life here is the growing friendship with Lina, and at my most paranoid moments even that is thrown into doubt. Day after day, I pray Magnus will tire of Mathilde. That he’ll forget the parts of me he does not love and come down here to save me.
‘It’s in my genes,’ I tell Magnus when he tells me to cheer the fuck up.
‘Faen i helvete! Stop blaming other people! You’re the one in control.’
‘But I’m not in control,’ I wobble.
‘How can I love you when you can’t love yourself?’
‘It’s not like I can choose! I need a doctor!’
‘Then get one!’
‘I’ve told you why I can’t—’
Magnus sighs loudly. ‘Call when you’re feeling better,’ he says, and hangs up.
#
As the days become hotter, it gets hard to concentrate on anything. At work, I perform the tasks required of me, at lunchtime I eat the sandwiches Lina puts into my hand, and in the evenings I walk home. The weather is gorgeous, without a cloud in the sky, and in different circumstances I might have enjoyed this. But I’ve lost the ability to enjoy anything. Day after day, a little more hope dribbles out of me, and my participation in the world feels increasingly ethereal. I stop bothering with make-up, or my hair, or washing my clothes. At home, I stare at the wall while waiting for sleep to liberate me. Sleep is all I care about now. It’s the only thing that makes the pain stop.
This is the longest that I’ve ever gone cold turkey, and it’s shocked me to learn how much I need my pills. Medication has veiled me from my true self for so long, I barely recognise the monster that’s festered beneath. I’m embarrassed to exist, in this unrecognisable skin. Everything is changing – my reflection in the mirror, the way I hold a spoon, my perceptions of space and sound and other people. In the night-time my mind drifts to Dad, and I shiver to realise I am turning into him. The weaknesses I had hated in him as a child. The irrational mood swings and flashes of violence. I recognise all of them in myself now. Or, at least, the potential for them. Does this mean I was wrong to hate him? That despite everything, his behaviour was justified? Maybe I’m being punished now, for the conclusions I jumped to back then. After all of it, my father has had the last laugh.
#
July 21st, 2005.
I am crying on the sofa bed when Hans lets himself into my apartment.
‘What is wrong?’ he blares.
I sit up, incensed by his sudden presence. Instinctively, I bring my arms up to conceal my chest. Under my vest top, I am not wearing a bra.
Hans is either high or drunk. He sends a hand towards me and hits my teacup. Off the table it goes. Over the floor. Into three perfect pieces. Hans follows it with his eyes, one beat behind. By the time he looks back at me I have retreated. His hand moves back, and I realise there is an envelope in it. On the front, my name. Recognising Mum’s handwriting, I grab it.
‘What is wrong?’ he repeats.
‘Nothing, I’m okay.’
‘Do you want a line?’
‘No. Thank you.’
‘When your husband coming, Katty?’
‘He’s not coming any more.’
‘Oh. That is why you crying?’
‘I’m not crying. I’m okay.’
Hans drops his plank of an arm round my shoulder.
‘Have a line. You can have a line. Do you want some?’
Wiping his nose, he reaches in his pocket. But I’ve already escaped his grip. Rushing to the kettle, I try to busy myself. What do I do? I can’t ask him to leave. If I offer him coffee, he’ll stay longer …
Hans snorts in my ear, and I realise he’s followed me across the room.
‘Have a bit,’ he says. ‘Get a bit.’
I look at the wrap of white powder in his hand. He jabs my arm with it.
‘No thanks. I’m really tired. It’ll keep me awake.’
‘Come up to drink with me,’ he says. ‘I have beers.’
‘No. Really. Thanks. But I’m going to go to sleep now.’
Hans sways, and for a moment his brow darkens. But all he says is, ‘Well I party alone.’
I hold my breath as he walks to the door.
‘You make him come live here,’ he shouts over his shoulder. ‘You have rent to pay. Thirty thousand kroner.’
The smile freezes on my face.
‘Rent? I thought—’
‘Five months. Thirty thousand. No time to visit your husband. You will not leave. Not to your mother. Not to nowhere.’
Panic streams through my veins, but somehow I manage a nod. Hans swings round and starts to climb the stairs. I daren’t close my door until I hear his TV come on. Only then do I look down and see Mum’s letter has already been opened.
Fuck!
I rip the letter out of the envelope and scan it for sensitive information. But aside from the return address, it’s clean. Thank God my mum leads such a mundane life, and thank God she doesn’t know the truth about Magnus. If Hans knew I was alone, I dread to imagine what he’d do.
23
Sunday.
The weather is dreadful, which immediately puts me in a bad mood. I’d had such strong visions of how today would look. The clouds should have been high and fluffy. The bay should have been calm as glass and airbrushed in a hundred tones of sepia. Clad in black, we would gather on the sun-warmed deck and hang our heads for Mary. I’d throw a single white flower an’ then we’d head for home. It would be warm-hearted and dignified and serene.
But no. It’s not going to go that way at all. The sun has been eaten by a dense fog. The sea not even visible. And a lusty rain jibbers round the house, spittin’ mouthfuls at the glass. Enraged, I clutch the windowsill.
Half past nine, the clock says. Another blast punches the window, and angrily I punch back. But I’d forgotten my injured wrist. Shrieking, I recoil. The fight goes out of me and I crumple to the floor.
At twelve o’clock people gather in the hallway. When I peer over the banister I see they’re wearing raincoats. I look down at my dress, which was loaned from Mrs Laird’s niece. The colour is perfect – a dark, bluish sort of grey – and I don’t want to hide it under my yellow cagoule. What kind of funeral party is this? Dumb, rainbow-coloured freaks. But I’ll never get away with being the odd one out, so I take my cagoule from the wardrobe and join the others downstairs. Mrs Laird appears and starts to count heads.
‘One … two … three …’ she says.
It feels horrible to know there’ll be thirteen of us, an’ not fifteen. Fifteen, there should have been fifteen …
‘… eight …’
Mrs Laird taps my head. Counted, I sit down next to Mrs Bell. Unlike the others, Mrs Bell’s coat is black. That makes me feel a bit better. Old ladies know how to do funerals properly.
‘… eleven … twelve … thirteen … fourteen. Okay, ladies, hoods up. It’s blowing a gale out there!’
Everyone starts shufflin’ forwards. But I stay glued to the spot. Faces mill past me an’ I search them excitedly. Fourteen? Is Rhona here after all? Did she have a change of—
Then I see her.
Joyce.
All of my body heat rushes out through my face. Away, away, leavin’ me shaking and sick on my step. I look for Mrs Laird. What the hell’s going on?
She’s not supposed to be here … She’s … She’s not …
‘Come on,’ says Mrs Laird.
‘What’s … she doing here?’ I manage. Halfway through the door, Joyce turns to glare at me. But it’s Mrs Laird who meets her eyes. For a moment Joyce looks like she’ll say something nasty, but Mrs Laird raises a hand in the air an’ Joyce’s mouth snaps shut. I can’t stop shaking as I watch her go out the door.
‘Now now, dear,’ says Mrs Laird. ‘It’s only right that she should come.’
‘Keep her away from me,’ I splutter.
Mrs Laird rubs my back.
‘It’s okay, dearie. No one’s going to hurt you.’
‘It’s not right … It’s—’
‘No one’s going to hurt—’
‘She killed Mary!’
Mrs Laird’s eyes turn sharp. But all she says is, ‘Shush now.’
I search my pocket for the heart-shaped cou
nter.
I’m sorry, Mary … I’m so sorry …
Mrs Laird walks me outside, where a red minibus is waiting. The wind smacks us around as Mrs Laird struggles to open the door. Gaily-coloured figures huddle within, like people trapped in a washing machine. Suddenly another thought strikes me.
‘Where’s the vicar?’ I ask.
‘A vicar?’
‘There was meant to be a vicar!’
‘Oh. No, dearie. Who told you that?’
‘Who’ll say the prayers?’
‘We will, silly.’
I stare at Mrs Laird.
‘Get in,’ she says.
As we pass through the perimeter gate I hold my breath. I know I’ve been out here before, but … Well, that was before … Suddenly I’m grateful for the limited visibility. The world is too big to swallow in one go.
Wind chases us down the track, pushing the bus from side to side. Caroline hunches over the wheel, an’ I’m amazed she can see anything at all. The windscreen wipers slosh from side to side, shoving sheets of water to the left and right. Rusty leaves splat down and get stuck. It takes a good ten minutes to reach the sea, and during that time no one speaks to each other.
#
The boat is smaller than I’d expected, an’ much shabbier. The name on its side is Elspeth, and we board her across a rough plank bridge. The skipper has to drag us across the last bit cos there’s no handrail, but judging by the horror everyone greets this with, I think they’d rather just have fallen in. On board, I hear Mrs Bell asking about life jackets.
