Lullaby Girl Page 5

  I forgive Rhona, I think, but I still want her to say sorry. Maybe she’ll come up later …

  The newsprint feels grubby in my fingers. I fold the clipping carefully, three times. Then I kneel an’ put it back in the mattress.

  #

  Saturday.

  We have Internet at Gille Dubh, an’ Caroline’s the one in charge of it. Most stuff is blocked, like email an’ news, cos Mrs Laird wants to limit outside influences, an’ we’re only allowed Wikipedia if Caroline’s sittin’ with us. I suppose that’s to stop us gettin’ upset. We’re allowed fifteen minutes per day, each, but not many of us really bother. Mary uses it more than me, but today she’s not here. She’s in the day room with the oldies, watchin’ a film about tap dancin’. Outside, iss rainin’.

  ‘I’m gonna pop the kettle on,’ Caroline says as she heads into the next room. ‘D’you want a cup?’

  ‘Yes please,’ I say as I scroll through a map of the moon’s surface.

  Caroline comes back with somethin’ large an’ square hidden under her jumper. She grins at me, then whips out the chocolate biscuit tin an’ opens it under my nose. This is not chocolate biscuit day.

  ‘Quick,’ she says, lookin’ over my shoulder at the doorway. I dive in an’ grab a mint Viscount. Caroline an’ the tin whirl away. Hot water bubbles, an’ a teaspoon clinks on china. Then Caroline comes back with two steamin’ cups, an’ a Wagon Wheel hangin’ from her teeth. I pick up my cup an’ take a tiny, burning sip. The stripe round the edge is cornflower blue, but I don’t have the heart to tell Caroline I prefer the green one.

  ‘Thought you might be hungry,’ she winks. ‘Seeing as you missed lunch.’

  ‘I slept late.’

  ‘Figured,’ says Caroline, an’ takes a chomp out of her Wagon Wheel. Then she sits back an’ starts her crossword. She does a lot of crosswords. She must be damn clever.

  Five minutes into my session, Mrs Bell comes in an’ asks for help to write a letter to her daughter in Hertfordshire. ‘Sure,’ says Caroline, an’ they sit down at the word processor. I glance up from time to time. It seems such a waste of energy – lookin’ up the right postcode an’ checkin’ the time of the last post collection an’ the cost of stamps – when they could jus’ send an email. It seems that so much of what we do here is about the doing. Not the end result. We faff around with things that don’t matter so that we’ll forget the bigger questions. About things that have hurt us, an’ will hurt us again if we stop to remember.

  #

  We meet in the day room for music therapy. Mr Duff hands round the photocopied song sheets, an’ we vote for the tunes we want to sing today. I put my hand up for ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’, ‘Paperback Writer’ an’ ‘Michelle’, cos I like to sing the French bit. No one asks me to sing ‘Solen er så rød, mor’. Thankfully, ev’ryone seems to have forgotten that. Or maybe they jus’ don’t care any more. I could never stand at the front an’ sing like that now.

  Rhona sits with her back to us in an easy chair by the window. I look over once or twice, but she doesn’t turn round. It looks like she’s readin’, but there’s no book in her lap. I’m startin’ to feel bad about what happened. Maybe I should let her bring that hypnotist back, like she wants. Make up some stuff about Magnus. Would that make her happy?

  At the end of choir time, Mr Duff puts his guitar away. He reads from his Bible in his boomy voice. Then he asks us to pray for old Mrs McRae, who runs the village post office. We seem to pray for Mrs McRae a lot. I’ve never seen her with my own eyes, but I often think about her an’ her bad leg when I sit at the conservat’ry window. I have a picture of her face in my head. I think she smiles a lot an’ has long white hair that she wears in a bun. Sometimes I wonder what’ll happen when she finally dies. Who’ll sort all the letters, an’ dish out the stamps, an’ cash Rhona’s wage slips?

  When Mr Duff has gone, Mrs Laird wheels in the gramophone. ‘I’ve got a real treat for you today,’ she says, ‘from my personal collection.’ Then she plays the same 78s she always plays, an’ we get up to dance. As usual, Mary an’ me are partners. We tango up an’ down the room, bumpin’ into the older ladies an’ the furniture an’ the walls, until Mrs Laird orders us to calm down. As we flop onto the old church pew I look round for Rhona, but she’s not here any more. At dinner time she’s not there either. When the sun goes down I sit in my room with the door open. Rain batters the window. Rhona doesn’t show.

  Why did Rhona have to find out about Magnus? That sleep lady told her, I jus’ know it. See, I can’t trust anyone here. An’ that’s no good, see, cos I can’t have ’em all whisp’rin’ about Magnus. Laughin’ at me behind my back. Sayin’ I’m weak. They’ll whisper to the papers, an’ the papers’ll whisper to folk outside, an’ then – jus’ maybe – the whisper’ll get all the way back to Magnus. I can’t risk that. I couldn’t handle it. I wouldn’t do it even for Rhona.

  Magnus. I want you to know that I know. I know about you an’ I know about the pain you brought. I can’t see your face prop’ly. Not yet. But you’re here all the same. Hoverin’ over me. For nine long weeks, my life hasn’t had you in it. I ate my eggs from my green striped plate an’ I sat at the conservat’ry window an’ I slept under my mustard bedspread. When I could stand to be with people I joined in group therapy, an’ when I could speak I spoke my first words to Rhona. I watched the sun rise an’ I watched it fall. I watched the mountains change colour an’ the winds shift direction. All of that time you weren’t there. But that time is over now, an’ iss time I admitted it. You first showed up in a dream, an’ for some time I believed that that’s all you were. Then the sleep lady saw you too, an’ the cat was out of the bag. You did walk beside me once. You did hold my hand. You were part of my life – more than that, you were ev’rythin’ – an’ then, quite suddenly, you weren’t. They don’t know as much as me yet. Jus’ your name. But now they know you’re there, they won’t give up. Rhona says you’re the key. She’s tryin’ hard to bring you back out.

  I’m scared of that, Magnus. I don’t think I can ever let it happen. There’s bad stuff tied to you, an’ I can’t risk settin’ it free. I did that once before, I think, an’ it turned me into a diff’rent person. I’m scared, Magnus. Damn you for coming back. If you’d stayed away, I wouldn’t have had to deal with you.

  #

  The clouds are low this morning. I pick at a plate of toast, an’ drink a cup of milky tea. As I sit in the conservat’ry, the wind sucks at the window. Fwwwopp fwooopp it goes, an’ blasts the roof in little flurries. Today, like yesterday, I’ve eaten breakfast alone. Rhona has been missin’ for three days, an’ I’m too scared to ask anyone why. I think yesterday was my day to have Mrs Laird talk at me, but no one came to take me there. In the afternoon there’s a keep-fit class in the dinin’ room, an’ I don’t like all the commotion, so I go up to my room. I keep tellin’ myself Rhona will appear soon. That the next face I see will be hers. But she doesn’t come in. No one even comes upstairs. I stare out the window till the clouds come right down, an’ after that I stare into the grey. Darkness grows, an’ the house grows quiet. At dinner time I can’t bring myself to go downstairs, so I lie on the bed an’ try to forget how hungry I am. Voices come an’ go. In the end, the room turns black.

  #

  Day number six an’ Rhona is still missin’. Iss gettin’ hard to think of ways to fill my days. I spend most of the day sittin’ by my bedroom window. The pane is thicker in some parts than others, an’ this makes the world outside look wonky. If I move my head around, it makes stuff move. A bird crossin’ the sky might jump forwards by an inch, or a ripple might pass through the hillside. Before, it was fun to play with this superpower, but today is not one of those days. Sittin’ perfectly still, I watch the long red gravel driveway. The path to the outside world. Rhona is out there somewhere.

  Golds an’ greens fleet across the moor. Clouds march from left to right, shiftin’ in colour an’ thickness an’ shape. Faraway mountains step
from the mist, then vanish again like ghosts. Once or twice I hear footsteps, but no one ever stops or knocks on my door. I haven’t spoken to anyone all day, not even the cook, cos I’ve got too scared to leave my room. This is not good for me, an’ I know it. How dare Rhona leave me for so long? I feel myself shrinkin’. All the skills I’d learnt are slidin’ backwards, an’ the ugly bits of me they’d covered are right back out in the open. It doesn’t matter that I’ve spent three months amongst these people. Suddenly iss back to me an’ them, an’ the thought of havin’ to talk to anyone makes my skin fizz cold.

  The day passes slowly, like yesterday, an’ the day before, an’ the day before that. But this is a new kind of slowness, that I haven’t felt before. Like I’ve fallen into a load of warm, sug’ry syrup an’ been cut off from the world. Stuff is goin’ on out there, I know that, but iss like those things don’t matter any more. In here, they can’t reach me an’ I can’t reach them. All I have left is myself.

  Time gets stuck. I close my eyes.

  #

  Coldness wakes me, an’ my eyes open into blackness. Neck hurts. Was I dreamin’? I push myself upright, an’ the coldness sucks at my forehead.

  Right. The window.

  I’m on the window seat.

  Pinpricks of light trickle down, an’ I understand I am lookin’ at the stars. My hand reaches out for the windowsill. Solid, an’ cold, an’ very real. My head doesn’t feel good. Across the room, the clock’s swallowed in shadow. Clutchin’ my jumper to my throat, I get up.

  Wait … Uh …

  My knees buckle an’ I fall onto the chair, almost missin’ it in the darkness. Silence drills into my head. Gatherin’ momentum, makin’ me giddy. I shut my eyes against it. My heart squirms. Then, quite softly, things start to move.

  What … What’s … …

  Uh …

  Oh no …

  No … … … …

  Flakes lift an’ drift. Up, up. Into my nose, makin’ me sneeze. Zoomin’ faster. Stronger. Sharper. They blaze an’ froth an’ multiply. A million lurid eyes, peeled inwards. Through my ears, through my nose, through my teeth an’ my lungs an’ my gulpin’ tongue. Crowdin’ like wolves upon a single dense atom. My heart swings out of control. They are in me. Behind my eyes. In my veins. Rushin’. Squealin’. Whippin’. So many pictures, so many feelin’s. So fast. I can’t stop it. I gasp. Gasp again. Jerk my mouth open. Then my eyes. I am grippin’ my collar. Shocked, I let go, an’ the blood floods back into my hand.

  Breathe … …

  … … … … ….

  … … … …

  There. There …

  … …

  …

  Breathe …

  Iss over … …

  Breathe … … …

  Fizziness crawlin’ up my neck … my face … …

  Iss okay. Iss okay. Iss okay …

  Curlin’ sideways, I let my weight pull me off the chair. Here, I’m safe. I shrink as I stroke my neck, an’ smell the flow’ry Shake n’Vac. Iss over. Iss okay. Iss okay.

  … … … … … … … ..

  I drift back, an’ realise I’ve been singin’.

  That song. I recognise it. Of course. My song. My song …

  … … ….

  I retreat into cold, fresh light. And I know I am outside. For a moment I don’t recognise myself, because my hair is white. Then I see my breath has turned it that way. Freezing clouds, coming from my mouth. My fringe a deathly skeleton. And beneath me, my clothes have frozen to the suitcase.

  This place is like something off a postcard. Rickety wooden houses overhang the street. Lemon-yellow and brick-red and sage-green. Twisty gateways with hand-painted signs, and fat blue candles at every doorway, melting holes through the ice. A man-sized snowdrift hulks over me, banded with layers of grit. In the middle, a child’s glove. Fingers sticking out, as if beckoning for help.

  Come on.

  Please …

  My new lingerie feels tight beneath my clothes. I wish I hadn’t put it on for him.

  No. Don’t think of that.

  Close your eyes.

  Stop.

  Just another one.

  Why did you come?

  Why did you bother coming?

  No.

  Why did you even bother coming?

  I punch Håkon’s jeering lip. Blood spills over my hand. He looks up.

  Why …

  The spray hits my eyes.

  Come at me, then!

  One more of his sluts.

  No!

  Why did you come?

  Come on, you bastard!

  6

  The room is pale. Risin’ on one hip, I blink the sleep from my eyes. Is that an envelope, pushed under the door? Maybe iss from someone outside. I wonder about Mrs McRae.

  No one woke me. Again. That means Rhona’s not back.

  I swing my legs round an’ hop onto the cold floorboards. I’m wearin’ my nightie with the strawberry on the front, an’ that scares me cos I don’t remember puttin’ it on. When I pick up the letter I see iss tucked, not sealed. No postmark on the front, or an address. Jus’ Katherine in nice curly handwriting.

  Dear Kathy,

  As I’m sure you know by now, I have had to take a leave of absence. My mother’s condition has worsened and the doctors doubt she’ll make it to the end of the week. I’d only planned to be gone for the weekend, but I’m sorry to say circumstances have changed. Joyce will take over my duties for now, and I urge you to cooperate with her. As for your private psychiatric sessions … I know how you hate them, and how much support you need afterwards, so Vera has agreed to leave your next one until after my return. Having said that, please feel free to speak to someone if you need to. Vera, Joyce and Caroline are all there should you need them, and have been informed of the situation. Your group sessions will continue as normal.

  Take care, dearest, and I’ll see you very soon,

  Rhona

  X

  I squash the letter to my chest an’ try to get my breath. Suddenly I badly want a hug, but Rhona’s the only one who can hug me, an’ she’s not here. I wipe my eyes on the back of my hand an’ get back in bed.

  Joyce can fuck right off. I’m not talkin’ to Joyce.

  Is this some sort of trick? Maybe Rhona made up the whole thing so she can go work somewhere else. The envelope wasn’t sealed … That means anyone could have read it. Maybe they’re all in on it …

  What’s the time? I peek over the bedcovers. Quarter to twelve says the clock. It’ll be lunchtime soon.

  If they give me a new case worker, will that person be allowed in my room? What if Joyce walks in at twelve on the dot an’ forces me out of bed? Rhona never tried to push me past my limits. But Joyce doesn’t know about my limits. What if she sends me downstairs before I’m prop’ly washed or dressed? Imagine! Chokin’ down lunch in my nightie, with the others all pointin’. What if she asks me about private stuff? Magnus? Denmark? No! She doesn’t get into my life that easily! She can’t take Rhona’s place! Not jus’ like that! What is this? Musical chairs?

  No …

  Suddenly my head is full of Joyce, an’ I can’t get her out again. I picture the door opening. Joyce’s bony face appearin’, instead of Rhona’s. Her voice rappin’ on me like a fist. As the clock ticks the minutes off to lunchtime, I stare at the doorknob. Waitin’ for it to twist. Waitin’ for the loose floorboard on the landin’. Footsteps on the rug. A bossy voice callin’ my name.

  No!

  Rhona wouldn’t trick me like that. She jus’ wouldn’t. An’ anyway, iss true about her mother bein’ sick. She told me herself, ages ago.

  The tears stay in my eyes, but a sort of hardness creeps in to join them. A coldness. Each time I swallow, it moves further in. Pressin’ on my heart. Curlin’ my hands into claws. I push myself into the dark, polished headboard. Beside me, the curtains are closed, but I can tell iss bad weather, from the light.

  Damn Rhona’s mother. Why did she have
to get sick? An’ damn Rhona, for lovin’ her mother more than me.

  By two o’clock I’m starvin’, so I sneak downstairs. There’s no one around, an’ no food in the dinin’ room. But the door to Mrs Laird’s sittin’ room is open, so I grab a banana from her fruit bowl an’ slip out the back porch onto the moor. The air is super-still outside, like the sky’s holdin’ its breath. My shoes schlopp loudly through the mud, spittin’ dirt up my legs, but I don’t stop runnin’ till I’m safely behind the outhouses. Here, I’m hidden from Gille Dubh. Across the hillside, a dark, lumpy bank rises up, an’ I remember Rhona sayin’ that’s where the farmers cut out bricks of peat. It looks funny from here, like a giant mouth has swooped down an’ taken a chomp. There’s a bitter, fresh smell, like somethin’ alive.

  I’ve never gone so far in this direction. Partly cos the ground gets dodgy to walk on. Wet in some places an’ hard in others, an’ never in the bits you expect. I try walkin’ on the high bits, but iss hard to see the ground through the bracken, an’ half the time I end up fallin’ into holes. Flowerless thistles jab my knees. Clumps of black lichen sink me, bubblin’, into mud.

  I come to a sticky-out bit of land an’ stop to eat my banana. Below me, there’s a dip filled with heather, an’ right in the middle of that there’s a dark space, like a hole. What’s that? I go closer an’ find a perfectly circular pit, maybe ten metres wide, jam-packed with thorn bushes. Like the peat field, it looks like a bite mark. Only this one is long-healed. I lean over an’ try to see the bottom. Birds dip an’ flit through the bushes, too busy to bother themselves with me.

  My legs are cold as I gaze downhill. Half a mile away, the perimeter fence cuts the hill in two. A long grey arm, holdin’ me firmly inside. I stare at it with tears in my eyes. Then, socks squelchin’, I climb back to the sticky-out bit. The roof of Gille Dubh creeps back over the horizon, an’ I have a little chuckle to myself at how innocent the place looks from here. Who’d believe a bunch of nutters lived inside? Wind makes the bracken rush around my knees. I close my eyes an’ it sounds like water. The sun pushes gently on my shoulders.