Lullaby Girl

by Aly Sidgwick

  ‘Things are not good here, Magnus. I won’t stick around much longer.’

  He turns sharply.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I tried to tell you on the phone.’ I look behind me and lower my voice. ‘It’s not safe here …’

  Magnus looks hard into my face, and for a second I think I detect concern. Then he tips his head back and says, scornfully, ‘Are you still talking about that?’

  ‘I can’t take it any more. I’m going back.’

  ‘Back?’

  ‘To the UK.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know. In a few days. Maybe a week.’

  ‘You can’t!’

  ‘Why not? You’re already back with Mathilde. There’s nothing left for me here. Even Bobble’s gone.’

  ‘Bobble?’

  ‘Fucksake, Magnus. I told you a hundred times. My cat.’ I look over my shoulder and hiss, ‘I think he did something to her.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid!’

  ‘Shhhh!’ I stuff my hand to Magnus’s mouth. But he takes this opportunity to throw both arms around my waist and pulls me to him.

  ‘Don’t go,’ he croons.

  ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘I love you,’ he sobs into my neck. ‘You’ve got to believe me …’

  I hang in his arms, confused by these mixed signals. I want to hit him and get angry. To tell him there’s not a chance in hell. That he blew his chance with me a long time ago. But it’s no good. I can’t extinguish that flame.

  ‘You’re killing me,’ I gasp.

  He buries his face deep in my hair, and together we sway in the darkening twilight. Tears leak down my face. By the time Magnus says, ‘Let’s get drunk,’ the world around us feels unreal. Wearily, I nod, and he leads me inside.

  #

  By six o’clock we’ve emptied a good chunk of the bottle. Magnus plays music at full volume and sits on the floor, singing along. Though the aquavit has loosened my nerves, I’m still not as smashed as Magnus, and the commotion from the radio makes me uneasy. I turn down the volume several times, but Magnus turns it back when I go to the toilet. Bit by bit he stops singing and just sits, staring at the blaring radio. On one occasion, I come back to find tears on his face.

  ‘Not much left,’ he says, holding up the bottle.

  I reach to take a swig, but Magnus grabs it back.

  ‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Let’s drink this like my mother used to.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Danish way.’

  ‘What’s the Danish way?’

  ‘Colder!’

  ‘I don’t have a fridge.’

  ‘Uff,’ says Magnus. ‘Then we’ll put it in the snow.’

  Just for a moment his smile reminds me of our first, crazy night in Newcastle, and it softens me.

  ‘All right,’ I smile.

  Magnus holds the bottle out and measures with his fingers how much is left.

  ‘Little more shots first,’ he says, and hands the bottle to me. Wincing, I take a swig. It burns my mouth.

  ‘I fucking hate aquavit,’ I say.

  ‘I know,’ he says, and we laugh.

  There’s not much left in the bottle by the time we go outside. Magnus gives me a piggyback round the veranda, his feet leaving thick holes in the snow.

  ‘Shhh,’ I hiss. ‘Hans will hear us!’ And I giggle some more.

  We stop at the top of the steps, and I touch the veranda ceiling to steady myself.

  ‘Down there!’ I say, pointing at the garden, and wordlessly Magnus starts downwards. The steps are encased in ice, and at first I’m impressed by his sure-footedness. But this lasts all of three seconds. Magnus jolts forwards, grabs for the hand-rail, and I fall right over his shoulders. I reach my arms out, catch a shoulder on the bottom step and wallop head first into the undergrowth. Blackness punches into me, and for a second I don’t know where I am. Then I look sideways and see Magnus halfway down the steps.

  ‘Sorry,’ he winces. In front of him, a trail of broken glass. The last remains of the aquavit.

  A dull pain gnaws my ribs. I rock myself forwards, and as I turn to look at the hollow my body has made in the snow, I notice a twisted brown object, half hidden from sight. That must be what I landed on. But what is it? It doesn’t look like a rock …

  ‘Looks like the party’s over,’ says Magnus as he reaches for my hand. His serious face is back.

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s something down here.’

  I lean forwards and tug the lump out of the snow. It’s spongy and greasy, with hard bits inside. I poke at it, and a smell like rotten eggs fills the air. Then I see the eyeball.

  ‘Oh!’ I cry, and drop it.

  ‘What?’

  I kneel where I have fallen, looking at the body, and a horrible feeling suddenly grips me. That this is not a wild animal. That it’s … It’s …

  I crawl back to the body. Lean really close and squint through the darkness. There. It’s unmistakable. She looks tiny with her fur plastered flat. Her face squashed sideways, as if yawning.

  ‘Oh God … Magnus … It’s my cat …’

  Magnus pokes Bobble with his foot and shrugs.

  ‘Looks like it froze to death.’

  ‘How did she get out?’ I wail. ‘I always kept the door closed …’

  I push Magnus’s foot away and dust more snow from Bobble’s head. Black liquid oozes through my fingers, but I can’t give up yet. I have to know how she …

  There.

  Oh God.

  That hard thing round her neck is a belt. I see the buckle now, fastened at the throat. The woven leather wound tightly. Round and round, leaving no more than an inch in the middle …

  I place Bobble back in the snow. Magnus is in front of me, somewhere, but I barely hear his words as I stumble into the house. Dumbly, I start packing a bag.

  ‘—anything stupid.’

  I get on my knees beside the washing machine and extract the plastic bag I’d taped behind it. In the bag is six hundred kroner, give or take. My life savings. I put it in my bag, next to the rest of my stuff.

  ‘—you doing?’

  In go my phone, my wallet, my miniature torch. An apple from the kitchen. The book my mum sent for Christmas. I zip the bag closed. I carry it to the door and start putting on my boots.

  ‘Kathy!’

  I look up. Magnus looks furious. My hands have still not stopped shaking. I force them to tie my laces.

  ‘You have to believe me now,’ I tremble. ‘He’s not right in the head …’

  ‘What are you talking about?!’

  ‘Him. You saw what he did. He killed my cat.’

  ‘Your cat froze to death!’

  ‘She had a belt round her neck!’

  ‘What are you doing?’ He stands over me and bats my hands. ‘Stop it!’

  I finish tying my laces and look up.

  ‘I’m going. I told you. It’s not safe.’

  Magnus hovers over me. There’s something akin to panic in his eyes, something unnatural, and I can’t figure out why. He’s been acting weird ever since he arrived. But I don’t have time to deal with that. For the first time in months, I must put myself first.

  ‘No!’ says Magnus as I stand up, and this time there is more force in his tone.

  ‘What do you mean, no?

  ‘Just. Please. Sit down.’

  ‘Don’t you care that I’m in danger?’

  ‘I need you to stay!’

  ‘Magnus, I’m not your fucking pet!’

  He moves in front of me and starts removing the coat I’m trying to put on.

  ‘You don’t understand! You can’t … You … Take off the jacket!’ He starts to cry now in a crazy, childish way. Snotty, uncontrolled, with his mouth curled wide open. I’ve never seen a grown man cry like that, and it scares me. I stop struggling, and with a great sweep of his arm Magnus flings the coat away.

  ‘What’s going
on?’ I can barely squeeze the words out.

  ‘I had to do it,’ he groans. ‘I had to. For my family …’

  A chill moves through me. I start backing towards the bed.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘You don’t understand … They made me choose … Between you and the kids …’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘They won’t hurt you. If you don’t fight them … He promised me that—’

  ‘Who promised you?’

  ‘Hans.’

  I reach the bed now and snatch my knife from under the pillow. Magnus’s eyes go wide.

  My mind is racing, trying to make connections. One answer is more prominent than the rest, but I can’t convince myself Magnus is capable of it.

  ‘You said Kolbeinn was your friend,’ I gasp. ‘You lied, didn’t you?’

  ‘There’s no other way.’

  ‘Who is he? Did he lend you money? Is that what it is? Money?’

  Magnus squares his jaw. The gap between us closes.

  ‘I can get you money,’ I cry.

  ‘I can’t let you leave,’ says Magnus hoarsely. Then he lunges.

  On the first try, I almost get away. I’m halfway across the veranda when he catches me, and for the second time in one night we clatter head first down the steps. The butcher’s knife flies out of my hand, disappearing with a plop into the snow of the garden, and I scramble forwards in an effort to regain my footing. Behind me, I feel movement. Orange light blinding me. Pinning me to the ground. I see my hands, bright red against the ice, and my blue woollen sleeves. The squeak and clink of shoes on ice. Then I get my balance and dive onwards, into a surface as hard as steel. Everything jars. Magnus’s feet in front of me. I raise my eyes higher, trying to find his face. In his hand, my butcher’s knife. His breath spumes out in clouds. My blood smudged on his sleeve.

  ‘Please, Magnus!’ I scream. ‘Magnus!’

  His knee comes up fast. My nose explodes.

  Sobbing.

  Down.

  Down.

  So sorry …

  Static.

  27

  MmhorGDRegP89/10

  Name: Katherine (Fennick?)

  Gender: F

  DOB: Unknown. (Est. age 30)

  Date of session: 12/08/2006

  Duration: 45min

  T: Therapist, P: Patient

  [Note: Patient is in a hypnotic trance and has just visualised stepping into a room.]

  T: What can you see?

  P: It’s dark. Quiet. I’m in the house.

  T: Which house is that?

  P: Hans’s house. On the hill.

  T: Is Hans here with you?

  P: No. He’s upstairs.

  T: Are you alone?

  P: There’s a kitten. It’s scared of me.

  T: Where did you get the kitten?

  P: Lina got it for me.

  T: Who is Lina?

  P: I work with her.

  T: Where do you work?

  P: Not real work. He pays pocket money.

  T: Who does?

  P: Hans.

  T: What work do you do for Hans?

  P: I clean. Wash. Mop. Sweep. Make coffee.

  T: Do you like working for Hans?

  P: No. But now I have Bobble.

  T: What is Bobble?

  P: The kitten.

  T: Why do you stay, if you hate him?

  P: I can’t leave.

  T: Why not?

  P: He’ll hurt me.

  T: Who will hurt you?

  P: [No answer.]

  T: Is Hans the one who hurt you?

  P: I have to go back now.

  T: Is there someone who can help you? A best friend?

  P: Tim. From art school. But I don’t … I can’t …

  T: Tell me about Tim.

  P: He wants me to go back.

  T: Back where? Where does Tim live?

  P: Above the shop.

  T: What about your parents?

  P: No … Don’t hurt my mother …

  T: Who will hurt her? Magnus? Hans?

  P: He’s with Mathilde now. But I love him …

  T: Earlier you said you need pills …

  P: I can’t get them now. But I promised I’ll be happy …

  T: What kind of pills do you need?

  P: Blue and white.

  [Patient becomes twitchy.]

  T: What’s happening now, Katherine?

  P: He’s back.

  T: Who’s back?

  P: I locked the door. But I think he has a key.

  T: Katherine, can you tell me what Hans looks like?

  P: I locked the door.

  T: Does Magnus ever get angry with you?

  P: He’s coming!

  [Patient falls out of bed. Brought out of trance.]

  *Session ends*

  #

  At eight o’clock Caroline comes with my pills. I stare at her, confused by this break in routine.

  ‘Come on,’ she says as she holds out the beaker of water.

  ‘It’s … not nine o’clock.’

  ‘I know. Just take them.’

  ‘But … why are … why isn’t … why …’

  ‘Take your pills, Kathy. You need rest.’

  ‘I want to talk to Rhona.’

  Caroline counts the pills out of the Tupperware. First up, as always, are the big red ones. She puts them in my hand and, grudgingly, I take them.

  ‘It’s important,’ I say.

  ‘You need rest.’

  Caroline hands me the white pills. These are smaller, and smoother, and easier to swallow. I put all three on my tongue at once.

  ‘Why hasn’t she come back yet?’ I ask.

  ‘Dunno,’ says Caroline. She hands me the yellow pill, and I swallow it. Last of all come the two plastic capsules. I swallow these too. ‘Good girl,’ she says. ‘Did you clean your teeth yet?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lie. The pills will hit soon, and I don’t fancy being manhandled into bed. Caroline takes my empty beaker.

  ‘Okay. Well, good night.’

  I try to stay awake, but it soon becomes clear this won’t be possible. Darkness sinks me below the surface, gluing me into a monstrous limbo. Joyce loves the pills because they carry me out of their way. I’m swept under the rug, dirt and all, and everyone assumes I am safe. But the pressure down here is immense. It’d be more humane to slug me with a hammer.

  Memories become clearer now. I tremble as they crowd around my head. Nudging me. Snickering. I see Hans, fist raised high in the air. Waving treetops. A halo of screams. He recites my parent’s address to me. Mispronouncing everything. I think I am weeping. My mother appears next, standing at the kitchen door. Whistling with both fingers in her mouth. Teatime. And I run to the house. Soil pounds down, cold and hard around my head. My arms cannot move. Then the edges contract, and I slide into blackness.

  #

  It’s not your responsibility. She’s not your daughter!

  She might as well be!

  Look. There’s nothing you can do for her when you’re like this. You have to let go. Let us take care of her.

  But that’s just it! You’re not! Drugging her to the eyeballs is not taking care of her!

  It’s for her own protection.

  Look at her. No, look at her! Does that look like protection to you? She’s higher than the fucking moon!

  It’s standard procedure, post trauma, for—

  Would you listen to yourself! Good God … You make it so that I can’t leave! You’re failing her … You … Oh …

  Shhh. You’re upset—

  Damn right I’m upset! If you did your job properly, I wouldn’t have t—

  So go back to your sick leave. Let us deal with her.

  You’re not listening …

  #

  When I wake, there is no one in the room. I look at the clock. Twenty minutes past one. Someone has closed my curtains. I look at the chair and try to assemble my thoughts.

  Was that Rhona’s voice I
heard? Is she here?

  I barely have the energy to breathe. But this is serious now. I miss Rhona, of course I do, and I’m hurt that she’s been gone, but right now I have bigger motives for needing to see her. That phone message Dr Harrison mentioned – I can’t get it out of my head. I’m a sitting duck in here, just waiting for Hans to come and follow up his threat. I must tell Rhona about him. Get her to protect me. She’s the only one who might take me seriously.

  Embracing the nightstand, I haul myself sideways. The wood is like ice.

  Can I do this?

  I have to.

  I take a deep breath, tense my stomach and haul myself out of bed. I had meant to land on my feet, but my ankle flops sideways beneath my weight and splays me head first onto the carpet.

  My God, I think as I dab my chin. When did my legs stop working?

  I gather my breath and try again. This time I make it to the door before my legs give up. I claw at the wall, hoping to rest against it, but gravity has other ideas and hauls me back to the floor. I loll onto my back. The ceiling looks so far away.

  It’s okay … it’s okay … it’s okay …

  Fuck it. All right. I’ll crawl.

  Painstakingly, I drag myself to my knees. Four deep breaths. Then I fall at the door handle. It jolts beneath my weight, and opens. Two seconds to get my breath back. Then I nudge my way outside. The corridor is empty as I drag myself to the landing. This takes a long time. Cheerful voices drift upstairs. When I reach the banisters I collapse, panting, on my belly. My heart pummels the floor like the movements of some hideous internal parasite. Pushing that metallic fizz through my gums. I close my eyes, trying to regain control. The air presses down like a centrifuge.

  Keep still. Keep still. Breathe …

  nonono …

  oh …

  no …

  I don’t think I’m out for more than a few seconds, but the experience drains me all the same. I lie on my side, pushing my head to the gap in the banisters.

  As long as no one comes, I’ll be all right. If I can just lie here … get my breath back …

  A door opens below, and my eyes widen.

  ‘Rhona!’ I gurgle.

  She stops and looks up.

  ‘Jesus!’ she shrieks, and clatters up the stairs.

  I try to grab her arms.

  ‘Shhh,’ she says. ‘Don’t try to talk.’

  ‘Please … You have to … listen …’

  Rhona pushes her hair back, revealing a shockingly run-down face. I jolt. Her eyes are dull. Her skin puffy. She is smaller. Harder. Frailer. And somehow much, much older.