Lullaby Girl

by Aly Sidgwick

  ‘Come on,’ she sighs. ‘Let’s get you back before Joyce sees you.’

  She tries to walk me along and I do my best to cooperate. Somehow we make it back to my room. Rhona dumps me on the bed, closes the door and falls into the chair beside me. I loll against the pillow, overjoyed that my mission succeeded. When I get my breath back, I’ll explain to her. Rhona holds a hand to her forehead and kneads the skin there. I watch her left eyebrow rising and falling. Her skin is so stretchy. Old.

  ‘I’m not feeling good, Kathy,’ mumbles Rhona, without meeting my eyes. Her hand moves faster as she talks. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you yet, with you being so ill. But … I’m really not doing well.’

  Her statement hangs, and I am unsure how to deal with it. The concept of Rhona being sick is unthinkable. Like a hilarious joke.

  ‘I lost the family home this week. The bank repossessed it. Do you know what that means?’

  My neck begins to tremble beneath the weight of my head and, fearing the onset of a panic attack, I lie down flat. Breathing raggedly, I try my best to nod. Rhona continues.

  ‘I had to remortgage it, to pay for some things. But I didn’t get a good deal …’

  For one terrible moment I think she might cry. But that moment passes.

  ‘I missed you,’ I mumble.

  Rhona’s mouth curves upwards, and for a second I snatch a glimpse of the old her. My heart leaps. Then her mask snaps back, and she’s gone.

  ‘I missed you too,’ she says. ‘But … See … I’m not well enough to be here.’

  A lump appears in my throat.

  ‘But you’re back now.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Please. It’s dangerous … Make them stop the pills …’

  Rhona’s mouth remains shut. She rubs her forehead as she looks at the floor. When she replies it sounds even less like her.

  ‘That’s not my decision.’

  ‘What?’ I croak.

  ‘Look, hon. I don’t know if you knew this, but Joyce is back. More than that. As of today, she’s taking over your case.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She has to, for now. Do you understand, love?’

  My mouth forms the word No. But no sound comes out. Rhona sighs heavily, and sits forward in her chair.

  ‘Look. We’re very short-staffed. I’m not strong enough to help you right now. We need all hands on deck, and Joyce is the only one here who can do my job.’

  ‘What about Mrs Laird?’ I whisper.

  ‘She’s sixty-one years old, Kathy. There’s a limit to how much extra work she can take on.’

  My collar is getting tighter. I claw at it. Trembling, I meet Rhona’s eye.

  ‘I’ll be good. I promise …’

  Rhona shoots me a weary look.

  ‘Please,’ I croak. But the room is rushing away now, and it’s hard to make myself stay with her. Whiteness wraps around my head, swallowing all but the sound of my breathing. I think my eyes are crying, on the outside. But as I slip further, it gets hard to tell. Sounds falter, like distant radio waves. Handful by handful, the static gains precedence. Then I float right down, and all of it goes away.

  #

  My sores have almost healed. Caroline turns my hands over and over before deciding I don’t need any pink ointment today. She clicks a biro open and writes something in her notebook. I wish I could see what else is written in there. Would she show me if I asked? I’m sure that’d be a thrilling read. This Is Your Life, in Caroline’s handwriting. Hey presto!

  ‘Has Rhona gone away again?’ I ask. Caroline looks sideways at me.

  ‘No,’ she replies. ‘No … She’s still with us.’

  ‘Why doesn’t she come up here any more?’

  Caroline clears her throat. ‘Rhona’s … sick right now.’

  ‘I know. She told me. But—’

  ‘Oh, she did?’

  ‘But still … I thought … Well, I hoped she might have come to see me …’

  Caroline doesn’t reply.

  ‘Will you tell her I need to talk to her?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Caroline, though her body language tells a different answer.

  ‘Please?’

  ‘Kathy, I said I would!’

  I sink into the pillows while Caroline bustles around. She goes to the curtains and unveils me to the world. The light hurts my head, but I don’t look away from it. I mustn’t. It’s my last link to a future outside of this room.

  ‘When can I go outside?’

  ‘When you’re better.’

  ‘I am better. My hands are better—’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ snaps Caroline.

  ‘What about my legs?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘I’ll forget how to walk.’

  Caroline puts her hands on her hips.

  ‘See … This is exactly why Rhona doesn’t come.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just … oh … Forget it, Kathy. When Joyce gives the word, we’ll reduce your meds. Then you can go downstairs again. All right?’

  ‘How will Joyce know I’m better? She never even sees me! Why can’t Rhona—’

  ‘Rhona’s sick!’ blusters Caroline. ‘She’s resting. My God, Kathy, don’t you listen to a word I say?’

  ‘It’s just … I’m scared … I—’

  ‘Exactly. You’re sick too. And until you are well, young lady, you’re staying in bed!’

  ‘My legs—’

  ‘That’s the end of it!’

  ‘Caroline!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you going already?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Can’t you stay?’

  ‘Shush now. Get some sleep.’

  ‘I’m sick of sleeping!’

  ‘Shush,’ says the dark gap behind the door. ‘I’ll be back at five. You know that.’

  ‘Please!’

  The door seals shut, and I am alone.

  #

  ‘What day is it?’

  ‘Sunday.’

  ‘Sunday the what?’

  ‘I dunno … the 10th, I think.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘September.’

  ‘I thought it was August?’

  ‘Come on now,’ says Caroline as she lifts the plate of stew. ‘Sit up.’

  ‘Why don’t I have breakfast any more? Dr Harrison brought me breakfast …’

  ‘My, aren’t you feisty today? Come on, sit up.’

  ‘Is Dr Harrison still here?’

  ‘Nope.’

  A lead hammer strikes my chest, taking my breath away. There goes another of my allies.

  ‘But … why didn’t she say goodbye?’

  ‘You were sleeping.’

  ‘Mrs Laird, then. Will you ask her to—’

  ‘Nope.’

  My stomach twists.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Kathy,’ warns Caroline. I realise she is waiting. I look at the stew. It’s dark green.

  ‘I’m not eating that.’

  ‘Of course you are. It’s superfood!’

  ‘Why can’t I have proper food?’

  ‘This was made just for you. Chock-full of potassium!’

  ‘It looks horrible.’

  Caroline glares. ‘Do you want me to send Joyce up?’

  The name sends a shiver through me.

  ‘Send Rhona,’ I say.

  Caroline’s jaw stiffens. ‘That’s enough. Eat your dinner.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t make me get Joyce,’ she growls, and stabs the fork full of stew. I dodge as she aims it at my mouth, and the fork hits the cut on my lip. I scream and flap my arms up, hitting Caroline in the face.

  ‘RIGHT!’ roars Caroline. She scrambles to her feet and out of the door.

  I drag myself off the bed. Maybe I can make a run for it. But my legs are like twigs. I crash straight to the ground.

  ‘Help!’ I shout. ‘Help!’

  Nearby, footsteps approach. A pause.
Then Mrs Bell’s face appears in the doorway. She looks terrified.

  ‘Help me!’ I gasp. ‘I’m begging you, get Rhona!’

  Mrs Bell opens her mouth. Then Caroline reappears with a syringe and pushes her to one side. I yell. Caroline swoops and pins me with her full weight. I grab her arm. It’s then that I turn and see Rhona standing over her shoulder. Relief cascades through me. Now everything will be all right.

  ‘Rhona!’ I cry. ‘Get her off me!’

  ‘I’m warning you, Kathy,’ pants Caroline.

  I look up once more, but Rhona has not moved. Her sad eyes are fixed right upon mine. With a sudden rush of emotion I realise she does not mean to help me, and in that split second my relief turns to rage. I feel it gush through me. Throttling me, turning my face red hot.

  ‘Goddamn you!’ I roar. ‘You old bitch!’

  Suddenly Caroline is behind me, and my fists are full of Rhona’s hair. With a tremendous yank I roll forwards, and Rhona rolls with me. Her mouth opens, and a wobbling, womanly cry comes out. We tumble into the door frame. Someone is battling to loosen my grip, but it’s no good. I work my fingers well in and tug with all my strength.

  ‘Kathy!’ screams Rhona, but this just makes me angrier. Somewhere underneath us, the needle scrapes my arm but does not hit. My sleeve turns wet.

  ‘You’re just like them! You’re worse!’ I scream.

  ‘Rhona! For God’s sake. Get the syringe!’ shouts Caroline.

  The tears are taking me over now. Weakening me. Blurring my vision. I wilt onto the ground and look into Rhona’s face. She leans forwards, and just for a second I think she’s reaching out to comfort me. Then I’m on my back and Caroline is holding my wrists down.

  ‘Got it,’ says Rhona, and jams the syringe in my arm.

  28

  March 10th–11th, 2006.

  When my eyes open I am on a wooden floor. The room is dark, save for the glow behind the curtains. Not the porch light. I know that because the colour’s dark blue, not orange. I’m in the flat. The kitchen floor, I think. But things are not right. Something’s not right.

  Oh Christ. My nose.

  I touch a hand to the wound, crispy now, and pain radiates through my forehead. I yelp, buck backwards and suck in a breath. My nose whistles.

  Magnus!

  Fuck. Fuck!

  Flailing, I turn around. I look behind me. Then the other side. Clear. I make my hands into fists.

  Okay. I’m alone, I think. Okay. Okay …

  I rise to my knees. Crawl to the window. Push my face to the curtains. I feel sick. Weak. Like I might pass out again. Alarm spreads through me, rising higher than the pain, to take control. I open the curtains fully and drag myself up on them. I mustn’t think of Magnus. I mustn’t cry. Concentrate. Sounds pulse through the darkness. Guttural. Moving in time with my heart. Outside, the stars are bright, like the stars you get in fairytales, and another layer of snow has fallen. What time is it? How long is it since Magnus … since he …

  Wait! On the veranda, there are fresh footsteps. Who’s here? Hans? Kolbeinn? Are they already inside?

  Calm down. You’re awake. You can still get out.

  As softly as possible, I go to the door. I try the handle. Jammed. Try again. No key in the lock.

  No …

  It’s hard to keep from crying now. Wait! No light in the keyhole. I get down and look. There, the key is there. It’s on the outside of the door.

  Magnus locked me in …

  I return to the window and study the footprints. There are several sets, and all of them lead into the house. What kind of shoes? They overlap so much. Hard to tell. I close my eyes and try to remember. Was Magnus wearing his baseball boots? I think he was. There are no prints like that on the veranda. That means …

  I wilt away from the window. With wet eyes I go straight to the bed. But my knife is not there. Of course not. Magnus took it.

  Fuck …

  I go to the drawer below the kettle and fish through it for a weapon. The sharpest thing is a fork, so I grab it and retreat to my place below the window.

  How can I get out? The bathroom’s internal, with no window to the outside. In the laundry room there’s just an air vent. The windows at the front are barred by metal grilles, and there’s no door to my apartment besides this one.

  Concentrate.

  Could I tunnel through the walls? They’re made from wood. I know that. But what would I tunnel with? A fork? And maybe there’s something else in them, like concrete or insulation. Is insulation hard to tunnel through? Fuck knows. I don’t know how the fuck they build houses in this fucking country. Fuck. Fuck!

  Breathe.

  I close my eyes.

  Music is playing upstairs. Bass-heavy music, with female vocals and a heavy, rattling beat, like ragga. Masked beyond that, other noises. Bumping, like feet. Stamping. Dancing? The blood drains from me as I remember the last time Hans had a party. His guests were all men and they pounded my door so many times that I turned the lights off and hid under the bed.

  Bangs. Banging. It’s rhythmical. Short. Underlaid by a softer sound. A voice, partly muffled. A woman’s voice. Is it saying my name?

  Idiot. Don’t cry. Concentrate. Listen.

  Kathy …

  A crash. Then a second voice, and a third. Two men, laughing.

  Bumping.

  Banging.

  Drumming.

  No … A bed.

  I stiffen against the wall.

  Bam bam bam bam. Getting faster. Then the female voice comes back.

  Bang bang bang bang bangbangbangbangbangbangbang.

  Quiet.

  The male voices have stopped now, but the female voice has not. Her cries keep going. Then, quite suddenly, the banging stops, and I hear her clearly.

  ‘Kathy!’

  I reel into the wall.

  Lina. That’s Lina’s voice.

  The floorboards groan as footsteps cross the ceiling. Lina’s voice rises several octaves. A man’s voice rumbles through the floor. Lina screams, then coughs, then howls. And the banging starts again.

  My heart hammers.

  ‘Ne! Ne! Ne!’

  I have to open this door. I’ve no idea how, but it’s my only chance.

  With shaking hands, I put my weapon on the floor. Then I kneel and try to fit my finger in the lock. Every few seconds Lina shrieks, and I must stop myself from shrieking with her. My finger won’t reach the key, so I try with the fork. A prong snaps off and tinkles to the floor. Cheap shit. I look through the keyhole. No key. I must have pushed it out! I look under the door. There it is, on the floor.

  Then!

  Footsteps. On the stairs.

  I skid backwards across the room. The steps on the staircase keep coming. The banging bangs on. I hold the fork out in front of me.

  Quite suddenly, I hear a snigger. Right there, on the other side of my door.

  ‘Kaaaatt-eeee,’ coos a man’s voice.

  A whimper falls out of me.

  ‘Hysj,’ says a voice. Giggling.

  A jingle of metal. Through the keyhole, I see movement. A flash of cloth and skin. Then the door handle jolts. This time I can’t hold myself together. A scream belts out of me as I run at the far wall. I no longer know what is or isn’t in my hands. The curtains are all around me. I try to bury myself in them. But when I look again, the door has not opened.

  Didn’t they see the key on the floor?

  I drop to my knees and try to see through the keyhole. But I’m too far away. The men are still there. I can hear them arguing. A scuffle, and the door jolts. I jam my hands across my mouth. But the lock holds strong.

  ‘Katt-eee,’ sings a voice. ‘We come to party with you.’

  A small pause. Then laughter explodes. I cry out.

  Silence.

  The door handle jiggles.

  Silence.

  Muttering.

  Every muscle in my body is poised to run. I watch the shadows.

  More mutter
ing. Creaking. A click, and the curtains flash orange. Once, twice, small sounds scrape the windows. Floorboards creak. Then all the noises shrink away.

  Lina’s gone quiet. Is that good or bad?

  The porch light extinguishes, sending me back into darkness. I steady myself against the wall and strain my ears for clues. There’s a faint sound, like a car, but it might just be my ears playing tricks.

  Who was that? Have they gone?

  On my belly, I creep back to the door. The crack beneath it is half an inch high. I put my eye to it and look.

  No feet. But also no key.

  Just then, an almighty crash shakes the upstairs floor. I jolt, bang my head and jump up. Without stopping to think, I kick at the door.

  Banging again. That’s the music back on.

  I ram the door with my shoulder. I kick it again. I kick at the handle. No good. My heartbeat is frantic now. Fluttering in my throat, in my chest, in my ears. I slam on the light switch and look round the room. There. The microwave. I yank it away from the wall, hug it to my chest and fly at the door.

  theeee

  A smash. A flash. My neck cracks. I fall forwards and sharp bits stab my arm.

  eeee

  When I lift my head, the light is dim. A smell like burnt metal taints my tongue.

  I’m in the vestibule. I did it.

  … ee! Kathy!

  Lina. Her voice is louder now. Shriller. I hear her above the scream of the music.

  I look at the front door and know this is my chance. Through the glass, the porch light is off. I could run now. Right now. I could be out of here. Down the track, towards the main road. But …

  ‘Kathy!’

  Hans’s door is partly open. I can see inside, to a pine-clad entrance hall. Several coats hang on hooks. A pair of motorcycle boots. A bunch of keys. On the wall, a framed picture of Elvis. Ice slush dots the stairs.

  I suddenly think of Coral, screaming behind my father, and tears rush down my face.

  Fresh blood where her head smacked into the wood stove. That same terror-stricken plea. My own name.

  I clamber upwards. From here, I see the ceiling of the room above. The stark, white bulb of an unshaded table lamp. Lina’s pale-blue parka hanging over the banisters.

  In the living room, three sofas surround a black glass coffee table. The floor is strewn with beer bottles, and on one edge of the table someone has snorted powder through a thousand-kroner note. By the CD player I pass a Louis Vuitton handbag, with the price tag still attached.