Lullaby Girl

by Aly Sidgwick

  I can’t do this, I think. But still I press onwards. The door at the end of the room is closed. Lina’s voice has stopped, but I know she’s in there. I know they both are. A sob shakes my chest, soundless amongst the thrashing of the music.

  I can’t do this …

  The door glides open and I slip inside. The smell of urine hits me first. Then the dull crimson of the bedside lamp. My eyes skim across her bloated face and rest upon the painting above the bed. Hans’s voice is in my head, dark and loud, and the sweat and skin and blood is overpowering, but all I can see is the painting of the ship. A red line smears the wall below it, as if Lina had tried to crawl right into the picture. Hans is moving forwards, half naked, and the noise and tension advance with him. He is getting closer, and Lina is trying to get off the bed, and my feet are cemented to the floor. His mouth moving fast, spitting words. A swish. My nose explodes with pain. I bellow. Then he’s on me, and my hand swipes up into his face …

  Staggering backwards. No sound now. Only thrashing. My vision tunnelled in onto that single dense spot. The picture is not straight. The fork stuck thickly in his temple, like some harpooned, slapstick monster. His hair straggles into my mouth. That awful, slow grunt as the light goes out of his eyes. The veins in his hands slacken and release me. Then his full weight comes down, and I am pinned to the floor.

  #

  For some time, all I hear is Lina. Her voice is so broken that the screams are no longer screams. Guttural, continuous, the noise fills the air. I try to look at her, but Hans is so heavy I can barely move my head. His skin is sweaty against my own. Again I struggle, and manage to free an arm. Levering myself sideways, I crawl away. Hans rolls the opposite way, along the back of my legs, and I kick at him desperately. But he doesn’t leap after me. He doesn’t move at all.

  ‘Lina!’

  I can see her now, bundled small in the corner. From here I can’t tell if the marks on her body are real. I crawl to her, and she explodes. One kick lands square in my chest, sending me back against the bed. Lina scrambles to Hans’s side, and from our new positions we watch each other.

  ‘Come on,’ I hear my voice say. ‘We have to go.’

  ‘What have you done …’

  I barely hear her say it. I move towards Lina, and again she freaks out.

  ‘I can’t leave y—’

  ‘Ne!’

  She’s on her feet now. Breasts swinging. Hands clawing. A massive bruise on her hip.

  ‘Please, Lina,’ I sob. ‘They’ll come ba—’

  ‘Get away!’ she howls, and swings both fists at me.

  At the door I look back and see Lina bent double beside Hans. Her cries are so muddled I can no longer tell what language she’s speaking. With both arms, she embraces him. Then the adrenaline takes hold, and all I can do is run.

  29

  A tapping sound alerts me.

  What? Why is …

  ‘Katherine?’ calls a voice, and I slur, ‘Yes?’

  A click. Feet. Shuffling. I open my eyes.

  ‘Hallo, dearie, how are you?’ asks Mrs Laird.

  I’m so shocked to see her, I don’t know how to react. My mouth trembles into a smile. Overjoyed, I start to shake. Then my eyes flood with tears.

  ‘Oh! No!’ she exclaims, and breaks open the box of mansize tissues she has brought with her. ‘I must confess, this isn’t the reaction I’d anticipated,’ she chuckles as she dabs my face. I titter. It takes all my strength not to grab her hand. I want to chain myself to her, to make sure she can’t leave.

  ‘Have you come to … get me out?’

  ‘Out? What do you mean?’

  ‘Can you … stop … them … ?’

  ‘Ah …’ Mrs Laird lowers herself into the chair, and her face becomes serious. ‘You’re on quite a lot of medication, aren’t you?’ she says.

  ‘Joyce …’

  Mrs Laird sighs. ‘It’s for the best, dear.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You’ve had a lot on your plate lately. And what with Rhona …’

  She trails off and turns her head away. I wait for her to elaborate, but she does not. Her face sinks behind her hand like a setting sun, and as it does so all the warmth seems to go out of the room.

  ‘I have to … get out … of here …’

  ‘Katherine. I’ve come to talk to you for a reason.’

  I blink and stare. ‘What?’ I try to say. But I don’t have enough air to push it out.

  Mrs Laird’s mouth tightens. She picks my freezing hands from my lap.

  ‘I have to talk to you about your mother,’ she says.

  I look at the box of tissues, and suddenly things make sense.

  ‘Oh …’

  ‘I don’t quite know how to tell you this. I thought you should be the first to know …’

  My hands go slack. I raise my eyes to Mrs Laird’s and see the answer emblazoned there.

  ‘She’s dead. Isn’t she?’

  Mrs Laird blinks. Then says, ‘Yes.’

  I stare at my hands.

  ‘A traffic accident,’ she continues. ‘Eighteen months ago. The police confirmed it.’

  And that’s it. I look at Mrs Laird. She looks at me.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Kathy,’ she says.

  ‘What about … my … father?’

  ‘I’m afraid we couldn’t trace him.’

  This is strange. I ought to be crying by now. Mrs Laird knows it as well as I do. I see the anticipation in her face. But …

  ‘Shhh,’ she says, though there is nothing to shush, and leans in to hug me. I hang in her arms. Feeling her grief for me. Her confusion. The tension as she waits for me to fall apart.

  But there’s nothing left to fall out of me. My mother is dead. I knew that … didn’t I? I always knew. How could I have forgotten?

  ‘Shush,’ repeats Mrs Laird, sounding ridiculous now.

  ‘S’okay …’ I whisper, to make her happy. Whether this is true, I don’t know, but it feels good to say it.

  ‘You’re in shock,’ says Mrs Laird. ‘The tears will come.’

  I look at her face, so far away. Eventually she takes her tissues and leaves.

  #

  I wake and instantly know I have been dreaming. Magnus was there, and me. Just the two of us, struggling in the snow. As I lie here the memory sticks to me. Sucking at me. Sapping my power.

  The clock says ten past seven. I stare at it. Trying to latch myself on to something real. Finally I convince myself I am really here with the clock.

  Softly, I begin to shudder.

  Magnus. My love. Would he really do that to me? Sell me, like a cow, to save himself? He’s just like Rhona. Saying he loves me, then plunging the knife through my back. My God, I’ve been such a fool. The only one I can count on is myself.

  A sudden crash startles me.

  ‘Knock knock,’ says a voice. I look up.

  Rhona.

  She barely gets two steps into the room before I yell, ‘How could you?’

  In her hands there’s a tray, with soup on top. She halts and the bowl slides sideways. It’s orange. Probably carrot.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she says. But her tone is far from confident. We look at each other. Then she moves forwards and the gap between us closes. She sets the tray down on the nightstand and perches herself on the bed. I shove at her.

  ‘Look,’ she says. ‘I need to ask you something.’

  ‘How can I ever trust you—’

  ‘Would you just listen?’

  ‘You said you’d help me!’

  ‘I’m trying to!’

  Silence rings out. We glare at each other. The urge to cry is stronger than the urge to lash out, but somehow I manage to do neither.

  ‘You’re your own worst enemy,’ snaps Rhona, and reaches for the tray. I look at the floor, and when I turn back I see it’s not a tray at all but a folder. With a sigh, Rhona opens it.

  ‘I noticed something,’ she says. ‘When I read through your last session. This
Hans guy. It’s him you’re scared of, isn’t it? Not Magnus?’

  I close my eyes.

  ‘Look, Kathy. Things can’t go on this way.’

  I look at Rhona’s face – so weak beneath the well-meaning eyes. Wishing I could trust her.

  ‘I can’t bring him back,’ I say limply. ‘I won’t.’

  Rhona’s face hardens. She looks away, and for a second it seems she is wiping her eyes. The rhythm of her breathing is odd.

  ‘You’ve been asking for me for weeks. Day in, day out. Pleading. Saying how desperately you need to talk. Well, here I am! I’m listening!’

  ‘Changed my mind,’ I mumble defiantly.

  ‘Is this a game to you? Cat and mouse?’

  I glare.

  ‘No one else will be this patient with you,’ whispers Rhona. ‘This really is your last chance to—’

  A jolt passes through me.

  ‘What do you mean, last chance?’

  Rhona pauses. Studies me with those sad eyes.

  ‘I’m leaving Gille Dubh,’ she says. ‘For good. And if you won’t let me help you before then, your future will be pret—’

  My body drains of blood. I feel it all go, from top to bottom. Plunging through my limbs. Leaving nothing behind but my eyeballs. Rhona’s mouth is moving, but I no longer hear the words. Suddenly I realise my hands are moving. I watch them striking her. Ripping at the folder. Picking up the soup and throwing it. Rhona’s eyes widen as she falls off the bed. Anger rushing through her face. The soup in her hair like alien blood. She touches her cheek. Then the pain rises, godlike, to choke out everything else, and I step off into purest blackness.

  #

  It feels like I’ve been asleep for centuries. I see the darks, the greys and the closed curtains. They look like the old curtains. The curtains I closed to stop Hans seeing me. I lived in the dark then too. I hate the dark. I want to be outside. I want to run. I will never get out. I must trick them … but how … I want it to stop it hurts and … oh … I feel sick …

  a cat outside … Bobble … no it can’t be … The curtains turn white, then black, then white again. My ribs grow.

  Caroline puts spoons in my mouth. She holds up a cup, and I swallow. How long has this been going on? I try to focus on her face. What day is it? The air is dark now, thick like syrup. Memories prowl like slow monsters.

  #

  Joyce sits by my bed. Impulsively, I make a face, and though it was not my intention for her to see this, it is nevertheless obvious that she has.

  I look around us. There is no one else in the room. Joyce is wearing her best dress.

  ‘Good evening, Katherine,’ she announces. ‘I’ve come to talk to you.’

  I remain silent. Something is badly wrong. With barely a pause, Joyce launches into her speech.

  ‘Do you have any idea how much it costs to keep you here, Katherine? I mean, per year. For your therapy. Your bed and board. Your medication. Social activities. Heating. Light. For running water and sewage removal and council tax. Your clothing. Your personal toiletries. Dr Harrison’s visits? Do you know?’

  I stare at her.

  ‘Do you know?’

  ‘No.’

  Joyce looks triumphant. She sits back in her chair.

  ‘Twenty-three thousand, four hundred and forty-six pounds. Did you know that? Did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And who do you think pays for that?’

  I look at Joyce.

  ‘The Lullaby Girl Foundation!’ she exclaims. ‘Or they did, before Rhona saw fit to set the lawyers on them. Almost half of the funds they raised were used to pay for legal action against them! All to keep you out of the news! All for you, Kathy! And now that the charity money’s gone, someone else will have to foot the bill for your upkeep. Do you know who that would be?’

  I blanch. But Joyce seems to be enjoying herself tremendously and blusters on.

  ‘The taxpayers! The hard-working citizens of the United Kingdom. With some National Lottery handouts, of course. But mostly … the blood, sweat and tears of good, honest people. Now, at any one time, we have funding to support ten residential patients. Until Mary popped off you may have noticed we were, in fact, eleven, and that’s because your stay was financed by Daily Post readers. But that’s changed, Katherine, and so we find ourselves at a crossroads.’

  I remain silent. Joyce folds her hands in a complicated way and tilts her face to one side. She pauses dramatically. Then continues.

  ‘This is not a long-term residential home. A place where people live indefinitely. It’s merely a resting place. A place for people to gain the help they need. To rest, and get better. After which they return to their real lives. We are trying to help you, Katherine. We are trying so very hard. And it just seems to me that you resist our every effort.’

  ‘But I’m—’

  ‘What I mean to say,’ she continues, ‘is that maybe this is not the best environment for you.’

  Baboom, goes my heart. My eyes flick to Joyce’s face.

  ‘Rhona has fought tooth and nail to keep you here. She wanted you to fill Mary’s spot. To become the tenth member of our flock. But you’re not the only contender, Katherine. Far from it. There’s a waiting list for that spot as long as my arm, and your recent behaviour has convinced me you no longer deserve to be in the running. You’re bedridden! You need round-the-clock care. And that is something that—’

  ‘I’m not bedridden! I don’t want to be!’

  Joyce smiles sadly.

  ‘My dear, I’m afraid that you are. And with the growing cost of your medicine – not to mention your increasingly violent tendencies – I’ve had no choice but to arrange your transfer to a different institution.’

  ‘No! You can’t! Rhona won’t—’

  ‘Rhona has already lent her authorisation. We signed the papers this morning.’

  ‘But … but … Where—’

  ‘Dundee. You leave at the end of the week.’

  I can’t see Joyce any more. There are too many tears in the way.

  ‘She wouldn’t!’ I squawk. ‘I don’t believe you!’

  ‘I’d be happy to show you the paperwork. I can bring it up to show you.’

  I lower my head into my hands.

  ‘She wouldn’t … She wouldn’t …’

  ‘We only want the best for you,’ says Joyce crisply. And with those words, she leaves me alone.

  #

  Caroline brings my pills. She does not mention Rhona, and her behaviour indicates she doesn’t know what happened. My body feels stronger somehow. Harder.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asks Caroline. ‘You seem a little off.’

  I look at her, and cannot speak.

  ‘Do you feel hot? Your eyes look different.’

  I stiffen as Caroline lays the back of her hand on my forehead, but all she says is, ‘Hmm.’

  I try to avoid Caroline’s eyes. She hands me the red pills, and I put them in my mouth. She hands me the white pills, then the yellow pills, and I put them in too. Then the plastic ones, and a drink of water. When I’ve finished, she takes my beaker and stands up.

  ‘Have you brushed your teeth?’ she asks.

  I nod.

  ‘Good.’

  I watch as she heads to the door. ‘Night, then,’ she says, and turns out the light. When she has gone, I lean out of bed and spit the pills into my hand.

  30

  I think I hear a car when I reach the track, so I change course and veer off into the big field. Here there are no lights at all, but the thick snow throws a ghostly luminescence across the landscape. It scares me, because I don’t know how visible this makes me from the track. In summer, the wheat crop might have hidden me. But this is February and the ground is barren.

  I crawl through the snow. Trying not to think of Hans. One time I make the mistake of looking over my shoulder and see the house, still so close behind. The porch light remains on, throwing an orange triangle down on the snow. Why hasn’t it g
one off yet? Did someone follow me? I scan for movement but find nothing. Upstairs, one window is illuminated.

  My whole body hurts. Adrenaline is all I have left. Right now, that’s more precious than possessions.

  Wait …

  My passport!

  I look at the house. A pointed shape against the sky.

  I have to go back …

  This time I really do break down. Squatting on my haunches, shaking uncontrollably. In my mind I see Hans grunting on top of me. His hairy arms thrashing. The sweat and blood and semen. Did I kill him? Am I a killer?

  Magnus’s face. So beautiful …

  I love you, he says. I love you. I can’t let you go.

  Wait …

  I look up.

  The upstairs light. Someone turned it off. Does that mean someone’s there? Someone besides Lina? I stiffen.

  Kolbeinn …

  No. If Kolbeinn was here I’d have seen his car.

  Concentrate.

  Any minute now, Hans’s friends could return. If I want my passport I must go now. Where did I bury it? Come on. Try to think straight. It was a tree. Under a big tree. Which tree?

  I widen my eyes in the direction of the track. The skeletal windbreak, halfway between me and the house. It’s under one of the middle ones. That tall, bendy one. I’m sure of it.

  I cast my eyes back at the house, but there’s no movement. No sound at all. Stealthily, I creep forwards. Heart thumping in my ears, like a slave drum. On I go. On, until the tree looms above me. Then I drop to my knees and claw the ground. Where’s the right place? I remember a natural hollow between the roots. And a black triangular stone that I put on top. But that was summertime, and in daylight. There’s so much snow here now. Frantically, I rake my fingers round. They’re so numb I can barely feel the ground beneath them. Wait. There! I feel a stone!

  Using my sleeve, I scrape away some snow. Thank God it’s just snow and notice. I tug the stone out, take it in my hands and use it to dig. Beneath me, a dark shape opens up. The topsoil is looser than I’d feared, but the further I go the harder it gets. How deep did I bury the bag? I can’t remember …

  Just then, the unmistakable squeak of plastic. My heart leaps violently. Breathing hard, I put my hand in the hole. There! Inside the Rimi bag, the hard edges of the passport are unmistakable. I fall back, clutching it to my chest. One deep breath. Two. Then I rise up, and run.