by Emma Chapman
Kylan doesn’t say anything.
‘I’m glad you’re back safely,’ he says. ‘We’d better go to bed. It’s getting late, and we have work in the morning.’
He turns and walks away, leaving me standing in the corridor, wanting to explain again.
24
When I wake up, he is sitting on the edge of my bed. Outside the blue edges of the window, I can hear the constant underbelly rumblings of the city. I tell myself that he isn’t really here, that he is just a memory. I kick him with my foot, trying to get him to disappear.
‘What have you done to your hair?’ he says.
I sit up, pulling my knees up close to my chest. It is really him. I scream.
‘Marta,’ he says, ‘calm down. It’s only me.’
I keep crying out, moving round to the other side of the bed. ‘Get away from me,’ I gasp.
Kylan comes into the room then, still wearing his pyjamas, his hair messy. ‘What’s going on?’ he says.
I’m trembling now, staring at Hector, standing by the bed.
‘Mum,’ Kylan says. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I need him to get out of here,’ I say. ‘Please, Kylan. Make him leave.’
‘He’s driven through the night to get here. He was worried about you.’
I laugh. ‘He’s not worried,’ I say. ‘He’s frightened. He thinks I’ll tell you what he’s done.’
Hector is staring at me.
‘Mum, Dad has already told me,’ Kylan says. ‘He told me everything.’
I look from one to the other.
‘You know?’
‘Yes.’ He sits down. ‘I think you’re over-reacting a little bit.’
My mouth drops open.
‘It was a misunderstanding,’ Kylan says. ‘I can’t believe you think Dad would do that. She’s young enough to be his daughter.’ He puts his hand on his father’s shoulder. ‘Dad needs our support right now. They can’t fire him without evidence. If they try, we’re going to fight it.’
‘You don’t understand,’ I say. ‘I’m not talking about the student. We need to go to the police.’
‘Mum, you’re not making any sense. Do you seriously not believe him?’
Hector is still watching me, not blinking. I recognize the slight smile at the corner of his mouth.
‘Kylan, please,’ I say. ‘I need you to listen.’
Kylan stares at me.
Still Hector doesn’t say anything. He just sits on the end of the bed and watches me.
‘You don’t understand,’ I say. ‘He took me.’ Kylan looks at me blankly, and I start to cry with frustration.
Hector stands up. ‘Marta,’ he says.
‘You know that’s not my name,’ I say. Kylan and Hector exchange glances.
‘We think you should see somebody.’ Hector crosses his arms. ‘It’s not easy to have to say this, but you haven’t been well for a long time. I understand you’ve been under a lot of stress, with Kylan leaving home and me losing my job: things have been hard. But you’re not making sense any more and we don’t know how to help you.’
‘You know I’m making sense,’ I say. ‘Tell him what you did.’
Kylan puts his hands on my shoulders, leaning down so he can look me in the eye.
‘Mum,’ he says, ‘I know what Dad did. You need to calm down.’
‘You don’t know, Kylan,’ I say. ‘You won’t let me explain.’
There is a horrible silence. ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ Kylan says eventually. ‘But I’m worried about you, we both are. You’ve stopped taking your pills—’
‘I don’t need my pills.’
‘Just look at yourself, Marta,’ Hector says. ‘I don’t know how you can say you are better without your medication.’
I reach for Kylan’s hand. ‘Please let me explain,’ I say. Kylan waits. ‘He took me from outside the ballet studio,’ I say. ‘He told me my family was dead. Look under the front porch, under the house. You have to believe me.’
Kylan stares at me.
‘Please, Kylan,’ I say. ‘I’ll show you. Let’s go back to the house now, and I’ll show you.’
He looks at Hector, then back at me.
‘All right,’ he says. ‘We’ll all go back to the house and have a look. Let’s get dressed, I’ll go and ring work and tell them I won’t be coming in today.’
I can feel Hector staring at him, and I want to smile.
‘Then we can go to the police?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘We’ll go to the police.’
* * *
We drive through grey streets, the early morning light making everything colourless. A big yellow cloud spreads across the sky behind the buildings, and the tension in my temples means a storm is coming.
In the reflection of the window, I see myself, my new haircut which is really my old one. I brush the fringe out of my eyes and I am her again, on my way to ballet class, on my way home from school.
We drive past the edge of the park, the Palace hidden through the foliage. The trees along the avenue are bare black skeletons, and even the leaves at their feet are turned to dust now, carpeting the paths with fragments of old beauty.
I look round at Kylan in the back of the car.
‘He’s not going anywhere, you know,’ Hector says, and I swing back round to look at him in the driver’s seat. He glances at me. ‘There’s no need to keep checking on him.’
I turn to look out of the window as we pull into a parking space.
‘Why are we stopping here?’ I say.
‘This is where I work,’ Kylan says. ‘I just need to pop in and get a few things.’
‘I won’t stay here with him,’ I say.
‘Come in, then,’ Kylan says. ‘You can meet everyone.’
We get out of the car and I follow him along the street. As we walk, I catch sight of us in the floor-length windows, Kylan looming tall, his sandy hair glinting in the sunlight. I feel his hand getting bigger around mine. I look down and see my flowered dress, my chubby legs and the small, black-patent Mary Jane shoes on my feet. In the reflection, I see the white blonde hair, the big eyes and small round face. I am walking with my daddy. We are on our way to buy milk for breakfast. He hums under his breath, his hand warm in mine. From down here, I can only see the bottom of his face, his firm jaw line and Adam’s apple. I squeeze his hand, wanting him to look down at me. But when he does, it is Kylan again.
We are walking up some wide stone steps now towards big brown double doors.
When we get into the lobby, he goes to speak to the receptionist. She has long dark hair and too much make-up on. They look over, then come towards me.
‘Mrs Bjornstad,’ she says, ‘if you’d like to come with me?’
‘I’ll stay with my son,’ I say.
The receptionist looks at Kylan. ‘It’ll only be for a few minutes, Mum,’ he says. ‘There’s a man who wants to talk to you.’
‘Who?’ I ask. ‘Someone you work with?’
‘No,’ he says slowly. ‘A psychiatrist.’
I stare at him. ‘Why is there a psychiatrist working in the bank?’ I say.
Kylan puts his hand on my arm. ‘Mum, I don’t work here,’ he says. ‘This is a psychiatric facility and there is a man here who I think you should speak to.’
‘But you told me we were going to the house,’ I say. ‘Why would you lie to me?’ I feel the tears come.
‘Mum, please don’t cry. I really think this is for the best. We’re worried about you. Please, will you speak to this man? I promise it won’t take long.’
As I look at him, I see him as a little boy again, home from football practice, catching me staring out of the kitchen window. I see the same crease between his eyes, deeper now.
‘Please, Mum,’ he says. ‘Do it for me. I’ll wait right here for you.’
There are tears in his eyes. I don’t want him to be upset. It will only take a second. ‘OK,’ I say, and let the girl lead me away. ‘But stay here,’ I s
ay. ‘Don’t go.’
The girl leads me down a long dark corridor. She’s holding a brown folder, a few sheets of white paper emerging from the top. The first few lines are visible.
Patient Name: Marta Bjornstad.
I stop and close my eyes. I can see that name, written until it covers a sheet of white lined paper. Over and over and over. Big scrawled letters, like a child’s writing. Page after page. Write it again. I remember the way my hand shook, the words hardly coming out at all. The quivering nib, how difficult it was to clench my fingers around the pen. Marta Bjornstad. I see him put it back between my fingers again and again. That is your name. Write it again. Write it again.
‘Mrs Bjornstad? Are you all right?’
I open my eyes and the girl is standing in the dim corridor, her big brown eyes glistening in the semi-darkness. I step forwards. We come to a polished wooden door with a brass plaque marked ‘Room 4 – Dr Brun’. She knocks, and a man’s voice answers.
‘Come in.’
She pushes the door open. ‘Your nine o’clock,’ she says.
There are bookcases lining the far wall, a large mahogany desk, a comfortable-looking brown sofa with a red damask throw over the back, and a leather easy chair. On a rug in front of the sofa is a low table with a shelf underneath covered with magazines, neatly stacked.
A man with sloping shoulders and short legs is standing behind the desk. He has the beginnings of a greying beard, and small dark eyes.
The girl turns to leave but I’m standing in her way. ‘Do come in, Mrs Bjornstad.’ I stay where I am. He has a deep rumbling voice. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’
I take a step into the room, and the girl squeezes past me and out into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind her. I put my hand out, onto the handle.
‘Would you rather leave it open?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Come and sit down,’ he says, gesturing to the sofa.
I sit down, keeping my handbag over my arm. He takes a seat in the armchair and puts his hands on his knees.
‘So what brings you in to see me today, Mrs Bjornstad?’ he says.
‘My son wanted me to come.’
He looks at me. I thought he would have a notepad to write things down.
‘Why did he want you to come?’
‘Because he thinks I’m losing my mind,’ I say. I imagine Kylan’s concerned face: it makes me want to go out and try to explain again.
‘Why does he think that?’ the man asks.
‘He caught me smoking,’ I say. ‘And there was an incident yesterday.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘An incident?’
‘He thinks I tried to steal a little girl.’
He doesn’t look surprised. He waits.
‘I thought she was somebody else,’ I say. ‘I thought she was in danger.’
‘So you tried to rescue her?’
‘Yes, but her father thought I was trying to steal her.’ I laugh. ‘I suppose it might have looked like that.’
There is a pause while he watches me without saying anything.
‘And the smoking?’ he asks eventually. ‘You don’t normally smoke?’ he says.
‘I used to.’
‘And you’ve started again recently?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Why is that, do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I suppose I was bored.’
‘Bored of what?’
‘I don’t know. Everything. I have a lot of time now Kylan has left me.’
‘Your son?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘When did he leave home?’ he asks.
‘A few months ago.’
‘And you’ve been finding things hard since then?’
‘Yes, but not because of that.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of my husband.’
He rubs his chin. ‘What has your husband done?’ he says.
I stare at him, unable to answer.
‘Mrs Bjornstad?’ he says. ‘What has your husband done to make things hard?’
He waits.
‘Do you mind if I call you Marta?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I say.
He stares at me then, a question marking his features. ‘You do mind?’
‘It’s not my name,’ I say.
The doctor reaches out and slides my file off his desk. ‘Marta Bjornstad?’ he says. ‘Is that not right?’
‘No,’ I say.
He looks at the file again. ‘What is your name?’ he asks.
‘Elise Sandvik,’ I say.
He lowers his eyes to the file again, turns over a page.
‘And your address?’
‘14 Hansgata.’
The doctor gets up and moves over to his desk. He presses a button.
‘Yes?’ I can hear the girl’s voice, tinny and small, in the office.
‘The file for my nine o’clock is for a Marta Bjornstad, and I have an Elise Sandvik here. Should she be in a different office?’
There is a short silence. ‘That is Marta Bjornstad you have with you, Doctor.’
‘She says her name is Elise Sandvik.’
Another silence. ‘I have her son here, and he says her name is Marta Bjornstad.’
The doctor looks at me. He presses the button again. ‘Thanks,’ he says.
He sits down again. He doesn’t say anything, just waits for me to explain. I look at him.
‘You’re not Marta Bjornstad?’ he says eventually.
‘My son thinks I am,’ I say.
‘But you’re not?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘Why does your son think you’re Marta Bjornstad?’
‘It’s the name my husband gave me,’ I say.
‘Your husband calls you Marta?’
‘He changed it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he wanted me to forget who I was before.’
‘Before you got married?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Before he took me.’
‘He took you?’
I nod.
‘What do you mean?’
I sigh. ‘He took me from outside the ballet studio,’ I say. ‘He kept me under his house.’
‘He kept you against your will?’
I nod. The man looks at me for a long time then.
‘You realize that is a serious allegation?’
‘I’m just telling you what happened.’
He picks up my file and reads for a moment.
‘Your husband mentioned on the phone that you have been on medication for some time. Is that true?’
‘He made me take it.’
‘Your husband?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Do you know what the medication does?’ he says.
‘He said it would make me better.’
He looks at his notes again. ‘Your husband said that you had been taking the medication since before he met you. That you started taking it because of the death of your parents.’
‘That’s not true,’ I say. ‘He’s a liar. He gave it to me.’
The doctor watches me. ‘The medication you are on has to be prescribed by a doctor,’ he says. ‘Your husband wouldn’t be able to get hold of it unless he had a serious psychological condition.’
‘We go to the doctor in the village,’ I say. ‘He’s Hector’s friend. He’s had him fooled from the beginning.’
He taps his pen against his leg. He writes something, and then looks up at me.
‘Your parents died when you were eighteen, is that correct?’
‘He told me that, but it isn’t true.’ I pause. ‘They might be still alive.’
The doctor looks in the file again.
‘Have you ever tried to kill yourself, Mrs Bjornstad?’
I think of the cold water of the ocean, the blue blur of lights under the surface.
‘No,’ I say.
‘You haven’t?’
‘I
didn’t go down there to kill myself.’
‘Down where?’
‘To the sea. We were on holiday.’
‘You were on holiday and you wanted to kill yourself?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I just didn’t want to come back up.’
A tear drips onto my trouser leg, leaving a wet black circle. The doctor writes something else.
‘Your husband mentioned that when you met, he pulled you out of the water, that he saved your life. He said that you had an eating disorder and that you were clinically depressed.’
‘We didn’t meet then,’ I interrupt. ‘That’s just what he told people.’
‘When did you meet, then?’
‘He took me.’
The doctor waits for me to continue.
I sigh. I’m so tired. ‘I was waiting outside the ballet studio and he took me. He drugged me and took me under the house.’
The doctor narrows his eyes. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because he wanted a wife.’
‘So he took you?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He told me later that he had found me on the doorstep, and that he took care of me when I was ill, but he made me that way.’
‘He deliberately made you ill?’
‘He knew what he was doing. He didn’t give me a lot of food: made me dependent on him. And when that wasn’t working, he told me my parents were dead.’
‘How old were you when this happened?’
‘Eighteen,’ I say.
‘He kept you under the house for how long?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘About two years.’
‘And then he let you out, and you married him?’
He doesn’t believe me.
‘He made me believe he saved my life,’ I say. ‘He gave me a new name. He was the only person I had left.’
‘When did you start remembering these things, Mrs Bjornstad?’
‘I stopped taking my pills, and I started seeing things.’
‘You were hallucinating?’
‘I thought I was, but they weren’t hallucinations. They were things that happened.’
‘What kind of things were you seeing?’
‘A blonde girl.’
‘How long has it been since you last took your medication?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘I stopped taking it a few weeks after my son left, so a couple of months?’