Lullaby Girl (33 page)

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 muttering. 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.

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.’