Lullaby Girl (23 page)
There, I see his shoulder in the shadows. He can’t have been that drunk if he managed to undress himself. I lie by his side and am about to put my arm round him when I notice the girl. I jolt upright. Sølvi! She’s stark naked, pressed snugly against his side, and sleeping just as soundly. For a moment I cannot move. Tears well up in my eyes. But no … Wait … Magnus is only naked from the waist upwards …
I put both hands on my forehead and take a breath. I’m well within my rights to raise hell. I know that, and I know that I probably should. But I’m also dead on my feet …
Stiffly, I lie down on my back. Magnus’s arm is warm against my frozen skin and already I feel him thawing me out. Sensation prickles back into my fingers, and then my feet. For a while I close my eyes, trying to pretend Sølvi is not there. But the pain soon usurps my fatigue, and I find myself wobbling back down the ladder.
#
The living room looks like a lorry has driven through it. Seven people lie draped across the two sofas, but clearly it took more than seven to make all this mess. Håkon is nowhere in sight, and the only person I recognise is the girl who opened the door. I perch in an empty spot by the window and take the plastic off my packet of cigarettes. Within forty minutes I have chain-smoked the lot.
One by one, people fall asleep or disappear. I boil the kettle, add some more coffee to my karsk and look out of the window while I wait for something to happen. For the hundredth time, I feel like I’m going mad. Why the fuck do I keep coming here? It’s like letting him punch me repeatedly in the face. But I know that if he says
I love you
between each punch, I will allow it to continue …
Eventually Magnus and Sølvi come through. Magnus jumps when he sees me. Sølvi goes to the fridge and leans over, looking inside. Her bare legs are supermodel slim and she’s wearing the hoodie Magnus wore on our first date. Magnus remains frozen in the doorway and smiles at me with that simpering expression I hate so much. That look that shows he’s waiting for me to explode. Maybe all his ex-girlfriends used to do that. But I’m not an exploder. I see him see the weakness in me, like always, and choose his course of action. His expression exaggerates into sourness, and his bottom lip juts out. He rolls his eyes dramatically.
‘Oh come
on
,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘That look. You know.’
‘I didn’t—’
‘Well, fuck you if you’re going to be like that,’ he says, not looking at me as he lights a cigarette. With a
whoomph
, he sits down on the other sofa. ‘Why did you bother coming?’
Sølvi comes over and sits beside Magnus. She smiles a private smile, which he returns. Then she takes the cigarette from his fingers and takes a long, slow drag. During this transaction they do not lift their eyes from each other. I look away, wishing I had not already smoked my cigarettes.
What am I doing here?
I cup one hand over my face and try to blink the moisture from my eyes. Sølvi stares at me. There are so many things I cannot say in front of her. I know I should trust him. That the kid probably just pawed him all night. But that still doesn’t make it all right.
‘Sleep well?’ I ask Magnus, tartly.
At this moment Håkon swaggers into the room and all of us look up. He flops down next to Magnus, and the three of them start joking in local dialect.
I look through the window at the river. In the middle the water has cut a path through the ice, and small clusters of snow bob along this surface. From edge to crumbling edge they pinball along, and for some time I find myself dazzled by this display. On the opposite bank, candles cast pastel reflections in the snow. Behind my head, the stream of words I do not understand. A magical, poetic language, like ambient music. I sink away till the only thing rooting me here is the pain in my heart. It’s the only link I’ve had left for a while, and it’s time I admitted it. The real world is drifting away from me.
Oh Magnus, how I’m coming to hate your beautiful face …
I realise the voices have stopped, and look up to find the room deserted. Only Håkon is left, snoring in a mound of spilled cigarette ash. His thin, freckled arms are crossed over his chest, and I see now that someone has covered him with marker-pen tattoos. Under normal circumstances this would make me laugh. But right now I can’t even smile. I feel like I’ve been beaten with a baseball bat, and despite Sølvi’s presence my first instinct is to go to Magnus. He’s the one I came to see. He’s the one who’s supposed to love me. I go to the bedroom and try the handle but find the door locked. Some people come into the living room then and resume drinking. I join in, pretending to be drunk so they’ll leave me alone. I recognise one of the new arrivals. She’s a friend of Sølvi’s, from that crazy night at Råkk. I try to ask what happened, but she is very drunk and doesn’t understand.
‘That man was wrong to hit your friend,’ I tell her, and she just squints her eyes.
‘You mean Hans?’ asks another girl, in perfect English.
‘What?’
‘The man at Råkk, who hit Sølvi. Were you there?’
Suddenly, I feel horribly sober. I think of the man with the black hair. Those big shoulders. I only saw him from behind, but …
‘Hans?’ I repeat.
‘Yeah. From Oslo.’
‘How does she know Hans?’ My voice is faint now.
‘She doesn’t. He’s her dealer’s boss. But she owed some money, and … well, he wanted it back …’
For a second, I cannot breathe.
‘It’s just business to those guys,’ says the friend. She shrugs. ‘It could have been worse.’
I make it upstairs in less than twenty seconds an’ hurl myself at Mary’s bedroom door. The hinges are bright. Brand new. I pump the door handle as hard as I can. Again an’ again an’ again. I drop to my knees an’ stare through the keyhole. Inside, iss dark. No Mary. Nothing. I can’t see anything.
‘Mary!’ I screech. ‘Mary!
Mary!
’
Dr Harrison appears, followed by Rhona and Joyce. Joyce holds a blanket. Rhona is shouting. They run at me.
I hammer my fists on the door. Behind me, people are comin’ out of their bedrooms.
‘Mary!’
They rush at me, an’ as I roll along the floor I feel the blanket snare my limbs. Strong hands appear an’ stop mine from movin’. Joyce and Rhona are shoutin’ at the same time. My heart surges and curls. I cry so powerfully that it chokes me.
Hands roll me over an’ a sky full of faces rolls in. Other people are screaming now. Dr Harrison holds Liz by the wrists. Rhona is arguing with Joyce. Joyce leans on me with her full weight.
‘Where’s Mary?’ I howl. ‘Where’s Mary? Where’s Mary?’
I free my left hand an’ swipe at Joyce. But something gets in the way. My wrist snaps under a great weight an’ I’m pushed even further under the blanket. More runnin’ feet. Along the corridor, Caroline appears with a syringe. Her feet pound closer. Joyce leans on my throat. ‘Wait!’ shouts Rhona. ‘Wait!’
I scream. Caroline crashes down. The syringe hits my arm an’ my veins rush cold. I feel her push it in. Roughly, like a shove in the back. My heart swells and trips, an’ I fall back. My eyes shut. Clunk. They open. The corridor is melting. Down. Down. A syrupy collage. My leaking eyes bounce the lights into crystals. Icicle daggers, dashing in all directions. My hand swoops to catch one. Then the world slides away and there is only darkness.
#
I spend two nights in the crisis room. On the second day, Rhona tells me the others spent the night on the library floor. Everyone is upset, she says. Last night was the biggest crisis they’ve ever had at this place and we need to stick together. Is this is an attempt to make me guilty? I don’t know. But I have no room for any more guilt. I’m already so full that no more will fit.
Rhona cries with me during that second day. When she cries, I catch glimpses of a huge weakness in her. Eternally deep an’ black, like a mountain chasm. Since Rhona came back from Skye I’ve often sensed its presence but never seen it with my own eyes. It makes me feel closer to her, cos it proves that she’s not perfect. But it also scares me, cos isn’t Rhona supposed to be the strong one? If we’ve both fallen into the chasm, what hope do we have of escaping? Who’ll lower the rope to me if there’s no one on the outside?
I want to go to Mary’s funeral, but Rhona says the family doesn’t want it. None of us are invited. Not even Joyce, who was Mary’s case worker. We decide to have our own ceremony on the day of Mary’s funeral, and in the end this thought is what holds me together. Rhona says the police have already combed Mary’s room, but there’s little doubt over what happened. Mary was found hanging from the curtain rail in her bedroom, two days ago. She’d taken Mrs Laird’s keys and locked herself in. There was no note, but as the keys had gone missing four days before, the police said the act was
premeditated
. They’ll come back to tie up loose ends, but the case is pretty much closed. Till then, Mary’s room is out of bounds.
I ask why Joyce didn’t notice Mary’s state of mind, but Rhona just says, ‘She can’t be held accountable.’ This answer puzzles me, but when I press her about it she keeps changing the subject. On the third day, she admits Mary’s last psych session had been cancelled by mistake. Mrs Laird was away that week, and Joyce was supposed to take her appointments. But Mary’s session clashed with a
My Fair Lady
rehearsal, and when Joyce changed appointments round she forgot to pencil Mary back in.
Rhona keeps saying Joyce wasn’t to blame, but the more she says it the less believable it sounds. The final insult comes when she asks me to keep quiet, cos if word gets out Joyce could lose her job.
On Thursday I am released from the crisis room. The atmosphere is subdued by now, and it seems like everyone’s in mourning. Activities are cancelled for the rest of the week, though Mr Duff drives up every day to give extra support. No one really laughs or smiles or raises their voices. My meds have been increased these last few days, and the others are so dopey-acting I think theirs probably has too. Quietly, together, we mourn.
#
Sunday.
Mr Duff comes earlier than usual, and without his guitar. In an eerie break from tradition, he leads us onto the moor and asks us to put our hands together. Then he clears his throat, and without readin’ out from anythin’, recites a prayer for Mary. Jess cries loudly, which annoys me cos she and Mary were never close.
When it’s over we file back inside for breakfast. I stand at the door, watchin’ people fill their plates. They take their food. They bustle. They sit down. I walk to the hotplate an’ stare at the sausages. I stare at the disposable egg cups. I stare at the congealed beans. Then I leave the room an’ go back outside. I try to remember which way Mary was walking the last time I saw her, an’ head off in that direction. When I reach the sheep fold I lie down on my back. The sky is clean and empty. I feel in my pocket for the heart-shaped counter an’ squeeze it until my hand hurts.
This isn’t over yet. Our official memorial thing will take place at sea, due to Mary’s love of the outdoors. They’ve printed programmes an’ everything. Whose decision was that? It seems tacky. And, I mean, they’ve been tryin’ to make me go on a boat for weeks. Are they using Mary’s death as a tool to get into my head? Would they stoop that low? I jus’ don’t know any more.
Dr Harrison is staying longer than planned, to lend a helping hand. Rhona says I should talk to her, cos it’ll help me deal with my grief. We’ll have a special talk tomorrow that’ll just be about Mary.
A light session
, they said. I said okay.
#
Rhona stays up with me, long after the others have gone to bed. We share a carton of milk and play draughts in the darkened dining room. It feels good to have something different to do. The evenings have been hard on me this week. I keep wondering if what happened to Mary was my fault. I shouldn’t have let her walk away that day. I should have told someone she was actin’ weird. But I didn’t. I forgot her. Little Mary.
‘You’re quiet,’ says Rhona as she packs up the board.
‘I guess.’
‘Thinking about her?’
I nod.
‘Want to talk about it?’
I look up. Rhona’s eyelids are puffy, like old balloons. I reply with a shake of the head.
‘Okay,’ says Rhona, and gets up from the table. She collects our empty glasses and heads for the kitchen. My stomach churns.
‘Rhona!’ I shout.
She jumps.
‘What?!’
‘Don’t go in there … I mean … don’t walk under there.’
‘What?’
‘It’s not safe.’
Rhona frowns, then turns and looks behind her.
‘This?’ she says, pointing at the horseshoe.
I nod.
‘Hmm,’ she says. She plonks the milk glasses on the nearest table, pulls a chair to the doorway and stands on it. Then she grabs the horseshoe, takes it to the window and flings it outside.
‘Thank you, Rhona,’ I say.
‘No problem, ya freak.’ She picks up the glasses again, one in each hand. ‘C’mon now. Get to bed, or they’ll have my hide.’
On my way past Mrs Laird’s sitting room, I notice the television is on. But the person sitting on the sofa is Joyce. She sings along to the film on the screen, and with a heavy heart I recognise the song. It’s one she’s been practising for weeks, for that bloody musical. The one she’s still going ahead with, despite all the damage she’s done. Her back is turned to me, but I can tell by the sounds she makes that she is eating. All at once, my shoulders tense up. I listen to the slack-mouthed crunching. The high-pitched trills.
My eyes are full of tears. But I’m not strong enough to have that fight tonight. I force myself to go upstairs.
#
Monday.
I wake to find Rhona asleep in the bedside chair. What is she doing here? Frightened, I nudge her arm.
‘Rhona?’ I whisper, and she looks up.
‘Mornin’, squirt,’ she says.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Don’t you remember?’
‘No.’
‘You were screaming.’
I feel my face grow red.
