Lullaby Girl

by Aly Sidgwick

  Outside, the wind screams.

  ‘How … old … are you?’ I ask.

  Coral doesn’t answer straight away. I feel her turn around but can’t see her face from here.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  I try to nod my head.

  ‘Twenty-six.’

  ‘Oh …’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m older … than you … aren’t I?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think so. Maybe …’

  I sigh. The first tear rolls down my face now, and I’m glad Coral cannot see it.

  ‘Funny how … things go,’ I gasp. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Aye,’ sighs Coral. ‘Aye. It sure is …’

  #

  Mrs Laird is overjoyed by Coral’s visit and says it’s the first stepping stone to recovering my past. On Monday she’ll drive north to the McLennans’ croft, and after that it’s only a matter of time before they track down my family. No one has asked my permission to do this. They’re all so excited. Gambolling from clue to clue like children on an Easter egg hunt. And the grand prize is that they get to get rid of me.

  Several hours after Coral’s departure, I hear another car. I go to the window and see Mrs Laird ushering Dr Harrison to the house. Their arms are stacked with paper files. Dr Harrison glances at my window. Then they pass behind the clematis and out of sight.

  At nine o’clock Caroline brings my pills.

  ‘Is Dr Harrison here?’ I ask, but she just says, ‘Get some sleep.’

  ‘I thought I saw … Dr Harrison …’

  ‘Oh?’

  I can tell I won’t get any straight answers tonight, but this does not put me in a bad mood. Dr Harrison is here, and unlike the others she might actually listen to me.

  ‘Did you brush your teeth?’ asks Caroline when I have swallowed all the pills.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Come on then, best do it quick!’

  She hovers behind me as I stand at the sink. These pills act quickly. Suddenly it gets hard to push my toothbrush around my mouth. By the time I’m done, the room has turned psychedelic. I think I hear my voice talking, or crying. I’m not quite sure how I get back to bed.

  #

  When I stir, I am still clutching my toothbrush. Shocked by this alien presence, I jerk backwards and the brush tumbles away. With fuzzy dismay, I hear it skid into the dust. My right palm stings. I touch it with my other hand and find a wavy pattern etched there.

  My face hurts, like I’ve spent hours hanging upside down. For a long time I lie here, opening and closing my eyes. My brain is full of blood, and too heavy to lift from the pillow.

  I recognise this. It’s a drug hangover. But I’m puzzled, because I don’t think I took more than my usual dose. Wait. No. I didn’t eat much yesterday. That explains it …

  The clouds move peacefully. Steadily. It’s no wonder people imagine heaven as being in the clouds. I wouldn’t mind hanging around up there all day.

  There’s a picture in my head today of a tiny, messy room bathed in sunlight. I’m there, sitting on a wooden floor, and somehow I know I’ve been there lots of times before. There’s a blond man next to me, and he is not Magnus. Dried paint stuck in patches up his forearm, blended on his hand, spattered in his hair. He turns to me, clutching a brush and looks like he’s telling a joke. His eyes are wild, but I feel safe. Narrow, twisting stairs, with crates of records on each step. Laughing like drains, we carry a pizza up to the light. Turpentine. Rags. Canvas. That face … I know it. A name tickles my brain, too vague to touch … Ka … ? Sa … ? Ti … ?

  Somebody knocks. I stiffen.

  ‘Kathy! My hands are full. Can you open the door?’

  Whose voice is that? If I pretend I’m asleep, will they go away?

  ‘Kathy!’ repeats the voice.

  Is that Mrs Laird? Caroline?

  A bump, followed by a clatter. Someone swears under their breath. Then the handle squeaks and the door flies open. If I’d been more alert I’d have pretended to be asleep, but in my present condition I am too slow. Dr Harrison stands in the doorway, beaming.

  ‘Well, good morning!’ she clucks. She stumbles towards the bed, carrying a massive two-handled tray. The crockery rattles boisterously. My eyes widen.

  ‘Morning. Afternoon. What’s the difference?’ winks Dr Harrison as she sets the tray on the nightstand. ‘There! A nice breakfast. Get the day off to a good start. I made you a smoothie with my own fair hands. Chock-full of vitamins! And there’s toast, and jam, and honey from my local—’

  ‘I don’t … usually … eat …’

  ‘Everyone needs a good breakfast,’ she says as she shakes out a napkin. ‘Come on, sit up! Your egg’s getting cold.’

  What is this obsession they have with eggs? I think as I push myself upright. Dr Harrison tucks a napkin into my collar.

  ‘I heard you took a tumble into the loch. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shall we have a nice chat later?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Good. Well, tuck in and we’ll get started in an hour.’

  Dr Harrison glides to the door. I look at the tray, which is packed with enough food to feed an elephant.

  #

  Caroline arrives to dress me. This is the first time I have worn day clothes since the accident, so it is also the first time I have had to endure this.

  ‘I can do this myself,’ I say.

  ‘Of course you can,’ mutters Caroline, without looking at me, and this makes me flinch, because her tone of voice turns the phrase into Of course you can’t.

  ‘Why do I still have to take … all these bloody … pills?’ I ask, with effort. My bottom lip feels absolutely massive. I can feel the blood pumping through it.

  ‘You know why,’ says Caroline as she pulls my socks on.

  ‘No, I don’t … Why don’t … you … tell me?’

  ‘Don’t be difficult, Kathy. Not today.’

  I glare at Caroline. She starts putting my arms into my cardigan. I detest being this weak. It wasn’t so noticeable when I spent all my days in bed. But my God, this is awful … Caroline fastens my top button and starts fiddling with my hair. I scowl and swoon under the force of her hands. When she’s finished she thumbs something off my cheek and stands back.

  ‘Pretty as a picture. Ready to go?’

  I glare at her. Without waiting for an answer, Caroline puts my arm round her neck. She heaves, and we topple to the right. My feet feel like they’re cut from paper. Caroline grunts to a stop. Tries again. Staggers to the left.

  Jesus!

  Caroline seems as amazed as me. She hauls me further over her shoulder, and I dangle there like a Santa sack. I want to ask what the fuck they’ve drugged me with, but my mouth won’t even form the words. Cold flushes trickle down my neck, and my eyes flutter shut against the light. Caroline takes another step, swears and lays me back onto the bed. I stare at her, aghast. The light moves fast around her head, making her look like a huge, pouncing animal.

  ‘Okay,’ she pants. ‘Okay … Let me think …’

  ‘Don’t … hurt … me.’

  ‘I’m not gonna hurt you!’

  The light bulb cuts the air into patterns. My vision shivers.

  ‘I don’t … feel …’

  Caroline lays the back of her hand on my forehead.

  ‘Huh. You’re very cold.’

  I swallow and close my eyes against the light. My heart is fluttering in my throat. I can’t control it.

  ‘Kathy? Kathy!’

  What did you give her?

  I didn’t give her anything!

  What did you do?

  Nothing! She just …

  She’s already had forty milligrams!

  I didn’t …

  Hey … hey … look … look!

  Kathy!

  Katherine!

  I fall into a cluster of white. Faces. Talking. Mouths. I gasp, cough, and my eyes go wide. Then the mouths hit full volume and I
am plastered back onto my pillow. I am in my best clothes. Skin saturated. Stinking of sweat. Someone fighting with my buttons.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Katherine! Thank God!’

  Mrs Laird.

  ‘What’s … going on?’

  Mrs Laird drags my arms out of my cardigan. I flop from the sleeves, hot and patchy. Ice-cold, hot, cold … I lie here and try to breathe. Someone is fanning my face. But it’s no good now. It just makes me cold. I start to tremble. I don’t understand. Voices are jabbing.

  It’s okay … I think it’s okay … I think it’s just shock …

  Shock from what?

  I don’t know. Delayed shock … from the loch …

  Don’t be absurd! It’s been a week!

  You didn’t give her more than the usual dose?

  What did she eat? Has she eaten anything different?

  I gave her breakfast.

  What? You’re not supposed …

  I thought …

  She’s on a strict hypoglycaemic diet!

  What? She wasn’t on that last time I was here!

  It started right before you left. We were trying to keep her stable.

  Oh … Oh no … I’m sorry!

  What were you thinking?

  I didn’t know!

  What kind of breakfast?

  I don’t know … toast … honey … eggs.

  Did she eat the honey?

  I … I think so …

  (sighing)

  Oh blazes, I made her a smoothie too … With the last of the bananas …

  (sighs)

  (more sighs)

  (muttering)

  Well, the worst is over. The sugar spike set her off … but …

  I’ll stay and keep an eye on her.

  I’m so sorry …

  Just ask next time, will you? You have to ask …

  (sighing)

  I’m sorry …

  #

  Everyone is angry with Dr Harrison except me. We are the bad guys. It feels good not to be the only one. She sneaks up to apologise for yesterday. ‘It’s okay,’ I tell her, ‘it wasn’t your fault.’

  We talk quietly. Dr Harrison asks if I was trying to commit suicide when I jumped into the loch last week. I actually hadn’t considered this, and need a moment to decide.

  ‘No,’ I tell her.

  Dr Harrison seems pleased.

  ‘Have you told them that?’

  I shake my head. She urges me to tell them, because it’s the main reason they’ve got me so drugged up. I’m on suicide watch, she says. It’s the reason she came down here so fast.

  ‘Mm hmm,’ I reply. I have no intention of doing this, though.

  ‘I’ll try to get us a session tomorrow,’ says Dr Harrison. ‘I think I can convince them. As long as I don’t try to feed you again.’

  We smile. She gets up.

  ‘Okay,’ I say.

  Dr Harrison pauses at the door and presses her forehead to the door frame. When she speaks, her face is deadly serious.

  ‘Do you trust me, Katherine?’

  Cautiously, I nod. It seems like the best option.

  ‘You see, there’s something that’s been puzzling me,’ she continues. ‘Something that’s written in your file.’

  I sit up straight.

  ‘It’s about Magnus. I’m sorry. I know you don’t like to talk about that. But I need to know. What kind of accent did he have?’

  I stare at Dr Harrison.

  ‘He’s from … Norway,’ I reply.

  ‘So he had a Norwegian accent?’

  ‘Well … yeah.’

  ‘You’re positive of this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dr Harrison looks at her feet. She looks through the open door. Then she steps back inside, closes the door behind her and comes to sit on the bed.

  ‘A man called the police hotline,’ she says, quietly. ‘The same day you were found.’

  I swallow. Dr Harrison’s eyes are harder now. More careful.

  ‘What did he say?’ I whisper.

  Dr Harrison looks me in the eye for a second. Then looks away, as if regretting opening this can of worms.

  ‘He said … Well, he asked if you were still alive, and he called you Katherine. The police asked how he knew your name, because that information hadn’t been released yet, and he wouldn’t answer. He asked where you were being held, and when they wouldn’t tell him he got angry. He said to tell you he’ll be waiting. And he said these weird words. They tried to keep him on the line, of course, but he hung up. He was the only lead, back then. The only lead they ever had …’

  I stiffen against the headboard. Suddenly my whole body feels like stone.

  Hans …

  ‘What were the weird words?’ I ask.

  Dr Harrison shakes her head. ‘It wasn’t any language I’m familiar with.’

  A little sob escapes me. Dr Harrison shoots a hand out and puts it on my arm.

  ‘Look, I’m not saying this to scare you,’ she says. ‘You’re safe here, no matter what. But it would help us a great deal if you could tell us who that man was. You’ve been remembering things in therapy, and—’

  ‘It wouldn’t do any good,’ I whisper. Suddenly my plan to come clean about my past seems laughably naïve. Talking about my ex is one thing. But Hans is another completely.

  ‘You’re safe here,’ repeats Dr Harrison.

  But this time I cannot find the words to answer. All I can do is shake my head.

  26

  March 10th, 2006.

  A rustle in the dark stirs me out of sleep, and I open my eyes. For a moment, all is still. A faint glow comes from behind the curtains, indicating that the porch light is on. Then a shape moves across it – a shape that is in the room with me – and approaches the bed. I rocket backwards. Forgetting the knife. The shape comes closer.

  ‘Katty?’

  I scream. Then the shape moves faster and a familiar voice says, ‘Kathy! It’s me! It’s me!’

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ …’

  I flump back down and click the lamp on.

  ‘Magnus, what are you doing here? How did you get in?’

  ‘Door was unlocked. Can I get in the bed? It’s freezing.’

  I wipe the sleep from my eyes. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Six thirty.’

  ‘What the fuck!’

  He flops into bed, reeking of alcohol.

  ‘Me and Mathilde had a fight,’ he says in a broken voice. There are tears in his eyes. He tries to put his arms around me, and before shaking him off I realise he is trembling.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I came to see you.’ Then, in a bitter, fake-happy tone: ‘I brought party snacks!’

  He jerks an arm sideways, to indicate a bottle of aquavit in the middle of the floor. Or rather, two-thirds of a bottle. I can only assume the rest of it is inside him. For a moment I am speechless. Magnus sways closer, almost headbutting me in the process, and folds me in his arms.

  ‘Warm me up,’ he blurts, and sinks coldly into me. Time drifts, and despite my shock at this situation I am thrilled to be close to him again. Almost as if the last year never happened.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers into my neck. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

  I lie here awhile – Magnus sprawled on me like an octopus – my eyes flicking round the ceiling. Then he whispers ‘I love you’ and an angry lump rises in my throat. Unlike me, he has not spent the last three hundred nights alone. There’s a different woman for him to curl up with, and he probably tells her those words every night. I think of him lying in bed with Mathilde. Stroking her face. Kissing her. Fucking her. Suddenly, this is all I can think of. I look into his scrunched-up face and feel that curious blend of rage and love. Then my eyes wander sideways and fix on his jacket, which lies draped on the kitchen counter. It’s the only item he seems to have brought, besides the alcohol. I imagine shredding that jacket with the knife beneath my pillow. So close to my hand. How long would it tak
e for me to snatch it and get across the room? I think I could make it before he stopped me. Then I’d throw him out. Fucking parasite. Out of my bed. Out of my life. Back to Mathilde.

  No.

  Fucking lunatic. How can you think such things? Stop it.

  I look at Magnus. The long black eyelashes. The cheekbones. That perfect, photogenic symmetry.

  Look at him. Look at me! It’s a wonder he came to visit at all.

  Mathilde is the mother of his children. His first true love. Her eyes are clear turquoise and untarnished by failure. The world is hers. Magnus is hers. It’s all fucking hers.

  But I’m still here. I’m still here …

  I drift sadly, wondering what to do, and cannot come up with an answer. Magnus snores snottily. Eventually I close my eyes.

  #

  I wake with a bitterness on my lips. The clock says 4 p.m., but that can’t possibly be right. My limbs are like lead, and my head even heavier. What happened? Strange visions crowd me, of Magnus showing up at my bedside. Of crying in the dark, and gritty-tasting water. Hauling myself outside, I find Magnus smoking on the veranda. In the snow, he has made a pile of cigarette butts. Dirty, grey, smoked down to the filters. When he sees me he takes a last, long drag and crushes the butt with his unlaced boot. His eyes are red. Part of me wants to hug him. Another part still wants to hit him. He hunches there, dead-faced, and stares at me as if he has no idea who I am.

  ‘Hangover?’ I ask, neutrally.

  ‘I shouldn’t have come here,’ he says, almost as if to himself, and his Adam’s apple bobs.

  ‘Why did you come?’

  ‘I had to,’ he says. A pause, then, ‘I had to see you.’

  ‘You’re a bit late,’ I jab.

  But he doesn’t rise to this. Instead he takes out a fresh cigarette, lights it with a cooking match and takes a slow, squinting drag.

  ‘I still love you, you know,’ he says, without looking at me. ‘I always will.’

  ‘You’re going back to her. Aren’t you?’

  He looks at me silently, blows out a cloud of smoke, and nods.

  ‘The kids,’ he says, and with these words a fat tear wobbles down his face. Behind him, dusk is already well underway. As we stand here the porch light blinks off and the snowy garden’s glow takes over, like a smooth, elegant ghost. Since last night, a fresh topcoat has fallen. We stand side by side and look at it.