by Aly Sidgwick
Over and over, Lina crawls away from me. She roars in the corner like an animal, and roars louder when I try to drag her away. She’s more afraid of me than of Hans. What have you done? And the look in her eyes reflects my new self back at me. I can’t bear to see.
There. The bed is sinking now. Flouncing into the cold. Blackness seeps into the sheets. Rising like mould. Staining away the white.
What have you done?
No one calls my name any more. Not even Coral.
Mary. Please.
And when you respond, my heart cracks with gratitude.
Come down, you say. So I crawl out of bed. Sink a leg in the water and shunt down to take your hand. A beautiful light waits at the bottom, and with your hand in mine we descend at your own pace. I cannot see the last step. It dissolves into whiteness, like underwater snow clouds, and as we step off into them your hand is the last solid thing left. Animals lurch and bolt beside us.
Badumbadumbadumbadumba …
Heart so loud. Can they hear it?
Shush. It’s all right.
The walls bend into a tunnel, and as we advance the edges open out. I recognise Rhona’s desk. The mountain, the noticeboard, the soft corduroy sofa. I drop Mary’s hand and sit down.
Can I really do this?
I hug myself and look at Rhona’s desk. Heat leaches out of my bones. But you stroke my head and say, The cold won’t last.
On the noticeboard, I recognise a photograph of me and Rhona wearing paper crowns. Rhona has both arms around me. Kissing me on the cheek and squeezing me so hard that my left eye is squashed out of shape. Rhona looks so strong. So protective. She could almost be my mother in that photograph.
But she can’t protect me. She’s thrown me to the wolves.
I picture Rhona signing the Dundee papers, and rage propels me to my feet. I fly at the photograph and rip it off the wall. I tear it into bits. I swipe at the in-tray, fill my fists with paper and sling it across the room. I kick the desk, which sends a jolt through the potted yucca plant. In slow motion, I watch it go down.
Kathy!
That plant was Rhona’s favourite.
What have you done?
When I look, your hand has disappeared. I cry out.
Mary?
The animals fade from my side, and with a cold shove, I land fully into the room.
Silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock. I crouch forwards, stunned.
Oh God …
I fold onto the floor. It takes some time for my shoulders to stop shaking. My tears have stuck a bit of paper to my hand, and when I look down I find a scrap of photograph there. My own face. Dumb and happy in a yellow paper crown. I yearn to rewind to that moment. But there’s no one to wear crowns with any more. No one to put their arm around me. Rhona has chosen to put herself first. This day has been coming for a long time.
I want to smash my head into the wall. To return to those empty, painless days. But I have no choice now. Only one future is left open, and that is to run. Because if they send me to Dundee, the newspapers will report it. If the newspapers report it, my mum’s killers will find me. And if they find me, I’m as good as dead.
From here, the floor looks like it’s made from paper. I rise to my knees and survey the damage. The fan guy’s keyring crunches under my hand, and as I sit back to peel it away I see the fob is shaped like a record. Grooved on one side, with a hole in the middle and everything. Vinyl Vultures! it says on the little record label. I chuck it back into the carnage. Only then do I notice the manila folder. It’s the same file Rhona brought to my room. I gaze at it with dead eyes. Then I crawl forwards and open it. The first thing I see makes me jump in the air.
Dagbladet!
I take a deep breath. It’s the front page of a Norwegian newspaper. Or, rather, a photocopy of it. On the edge, someone has written a message in English: Here is largest ‘Hans’ story for requested time period. Perhaps this helps? With friendly greetings /Jorunn.
Horrified, I run my eyes down the page. There are no photographs of his face, but that hardly matters. I’d recognise that wooden house anywhere. Narkobaron Dødsgåte, blares the headline in thick black letters. Drug Lord Death Riddle. None of the report has been translated yet, though Rhona has jotted several annotations in the margin.
Same Lina as in transcripts?
Blue house (!!!)
20km north of Oslo.
I speed-read the article, without managing to take much in. The date on the newspaper is 13th Mar, 2006.
Suddenly, a peripheral movement catches my eye.
‘I can’t even …’ says a voice. Crystal hard.
I turn round. Our eyes lock. Stillness descends.
Rhona’s face is ghostly. Verging on blue in the pre-dawn light. Her hands wobble at her sides. Slowly, and with great effort, she waggles a finger in the air.
‘Get back upstairs,’ she gurgles. ‘Before I do something I regret!’
I remain where I am. Stuck to the floor. Rhona’s eyes bulge.
‘I said MOVE! Right this minute!’
I cannot move. But not out of fear. Inside me, a vast anger is growing. Pushing on my insides. Swelling higher, wider, until it covers everything. I get to my feet. From here, Rhona looks small.
‘I’m leaving.’
‘What?’ coughs Rhona. ‘What did you say?’
My throat dries up. Rhona steps forward. I flinch as she grabs my arm.
‘Now!’
‘No!’
I yank my arm away and Rhona tumbles to her knees. She shoots a hand out and manages to steady herself.
‘Traitor!’ I hiss.
Rhona’s face twists. ‘Traitor? How am I a traitor? I’ve done everything for you!’
‘You said you’d look after me, but—’
‘For God’s sake, Kathy!’
‘How long have you had this?’ I demand, waving the newspaper extract.
‘I’ve busted a gut for you! How dare you—’
I move for the door, but Rhona blocks my path.
‘You blew your last chance for me to protect you!’ she spits. ‘No one will help you if you keep fighting!’
‘I’m not fighting!’
‘Then testify! Tell the police what Hans—’
‘I can’t!’
‘Why the hell not?!’
‘Because he’s dead!’
Silence rings out. Rhona looks at the report in my hand.
‘So that’s him?’ she asks.
I nod.
‘Well then, what are you so worried about? If someone already killed the guy, there’s no way he can hur—’
‘I killed him.’
Rhona jolts. We stare at each other. I hear her breathing in little short gasps, like sobs.
‘What?’ she says.
But I can no longer look at her.
‘Tell me what you just said!’
She grabs for my arm, but I shove her away. A weight drags on my arm, and I realise Rhona has fallen to the floor. I stand over her, horrified by the look in her eyes.
‘Kathy …’ she starts, and trails off. For a second I see a flash of fear. Then she gets up, and says, ‘Please. Just trust me.’
‘I’m leaving.’
‘No you’re not, and we both kn—’
‘Get off!’
I pull my arm away, but this time she’s ready. I gasp as her fingers tighten.
‘No!’ I cry. ‘No! No!’
Rhona’s face is inches from my own. For the first time I see her tears. They’re all over her face.
‘I’m sick of it,’ she shudders. ‘I’m sick of you fighting me.’
I struggle. I flex what muscles I have. I go limp and try to dodge away. But it’s no good. She’s behind me every step of the way. In desperation, I swing a fist and manage to clip her chin. Rhona inhales.
We sway. Then straighten. Then she has hold of my right arm too.
‘Joyce was right!’ she thunders. ‘You’re never going to get better!’
These words deliver the death blow. I fold to my knees, tears streaming from my eyes.
‘How could you?’ I weep. But my words are barely audible. Rhona walks past me, decisively, and with horror I realise she’s heading for the panic button. I look up. This is my last chance.
Gathering all my strength, I leap onto Rhona’s back. We tumble forwards, through the spilled soil of the yucca plant. Then I lunge again. In a second, I’m on top of her. My left hand comes free. On the floor beside us is Rhona’s glass globe. Cold, and solid, and even heavier than I’d imagined. In one swift movement, I bring it down on Rhona’s head. She raises an arm. But too late.
#
I’d forgotten about the perimeter gate. I stand on the gravel track, cowed by its silent authority. I am not allowed to go through the perimeter gate. That rule is hardwired through me. The bars are not electrified or anything. I know that. And there aren’t any spikes, or cameras. But it’s tall. And I am not allowed.
Afraid, I turn back towards Gille Dubh. I can just see its outline against the sky. My home. What am I doing?
The wind musses my hair. Shivering, I grip the beige folder to my chest.
No. That life has gone. I’ll never have that again.
My whole body is shaking. I take a breath. Chuck the folder through the bars. Then I tuck my pyjama legs into my socks and start to climb. The hard red rust hurts my palms. As I hoist myself over the top a rough bit catches my sleeve, and I tumble backwards. For a second I dangle by one arm, kicking against the railings. Then the cloth rips. I land on my side in a hail of gravel, and something sharp punches the air from me. I roll and gasp. My hand is sticky with blood. It takes several seconds to compose myself.
How long will it take for them to find Rhona? How long till they sound the alarm?
I hurry down the road we took on Mary’s day, legs swaying crazily under my weight. Ahead of me, there’s a junction. It’s not signposted, but I know which way to go. Downhill, the loch twinkles at me. The place where all of this will end.
Mary, I’m coming back to the place where I should have stayed. I will lower myself, singing, into the surf, and this time they will not drag me out. We will drift away from the world of men. Into the Gulf Stream, into the clouds. And I will sing my song for you.
The sun is rising higher.
How stupid of me to trash Rhona’s office! If I hadn’t done that, they might not have checked on me until five. I’d have had hours to get away. But now. My God … They’ll be down here with a cage. The papers will have a field day.
I run in the middle of the road. My shoes clatter.
Out of nowhere, my heart fills with Tim. The pain is unbearable. I rejected him as I did Rhona, and in return he abandoned me. He never even came to get his car. I never heard a thing about that car, now I come to think of it. It’s something even the police seemed to miss. But I can’t blame Tim. He has his own life. By now, he’ll be a dad.
So many houses. It makes me nervous. I don’t remember seeing so many houses the last time. The closer I get to the water, the more houses there are. Each one full of people, with watchful eyes and gossiping mouths. Is it obvious I’m from Gille Dubh? I covered my pyjamas with a cardigan I found in the porch. And these are Rhona’s shoes, so I’m not barefoot. But I don’t know what kind of clothes the outside people wear. Maybe I’m horribly outdated. Maybe only nutters wear cardigans and leather shoes these days.
Finally I reach the seafront and conceal myself in the shadows beside the inn. To my right, there’s a garden edged with palm trees. Downhill, the sea. The beige folder is growing cumbersome and I know I should leave it behind. But the news report is too tantalising, so I kneel on the ground and do my best to read it. Lina’s name catches my eye – circled with red pen in several places – and I focus my attention on these parts. This is when I make my discovery.
Lina is missing. That’s what that word means, isn’t it? I struggle to remember.
Yes. That’s definitely right. Hair stylist Lina Taraseviit. Concerns for … safety. Family … reported … her missing. Drugs (something) uncovered … 100 kilos of cocaine found … at property. Fifteen stolen passports found. Suspected (gang?) killing. Police investigating.
My skin goes cold. I swallow. Desperately, I read further. But as far as I can make out, there’s no mention of me.
Hans is definitely dead.
Killer …
A banging sound makes me jump, and I look back to the road. Downhill, a family with three children is getting out of a car. They jabber and shriek. My heart skitters.
What am I doing? Get up!
Leaving the folder, I scrabble to my feet. The family are heading downhill. I wait against the wall till they’re out of sight. Then I take a sharp right and bolt along the road. My shoes clomp on the tarmac. I go past the general store. Past the church. Past the guest houses. After the sign with the name of the town, the road narrows to a single lane. A rocky beach opens out to my left, and at the sight of the water my heart stops racing. I go over a stile, stray through some sheep and scale a crumbling wall. Stones tip and clack beneath my feet.
I’m here, Mary. I made it.
Katherine, what are you doing?
I’m coming to be with you.
Are you crazy?
I don’t know, Mary. I think I might be. Maybe I am. Yes.
Go back, Katherine.
Please don’t make me.
This is madness.
Mary. I’ve killed Rhona.
The sea flips an’ licks around my ankles. Around my thighs.
Go backbackback go back go back. ack. ack.
So cold around my waist. Feet slide on weeds. My hand stings. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
32
‘Are you all right?’ asks Tim.
I shake my head.
His feet walk away. Minutes later he returns and delivers a plastic cup into my hands. Hot chocolate. We share this while I get myself together. Then Tim tugs my hand and we’re off again. This time we go upstairs and find a spot by a glass wall. We huddle there on the floor till our backs get tired. After that we lie down. My bruises hurt. I’m terrified about tomorrow and don’t know how to tell Tim I can’t go home. But Tim’s already done so much. I can’t expect him to babysit me forever.
‘Stop it,’ murmurs Tim, from behind my ear. I turn over.
‘What?’
‘Stop thinking.’
I smile. ‘Okay.’
‘Good. Thank you.’
A black-haired man stops in front of us. I look up and turn rigid. Without thinking, I howl. My hands grab for Tim.
‘What the … !’ says Tim, but I’m already on my feet. I haul him after me by one sleeve, and we stagger across the floor. The half-empty cup rolls behind us, leaving a thick brown trail. I howl again. The black-haired man dances backwards, and our eyes meet. He holds his hands out. I stop.
It’s not him. It’s not him.
I drop Tim’s sleeve.
‘Oh God,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I was just lookin’ at the screens, mate,’ says the man. He looks shaken. ‘Honest to God, I didn’t—’
I turn away, cupping my face in my hands. Behind me, Tim is apologising. Their voices sound embarrassed. Moments later, a hand appears on my shoulder. I jump, but of course it’s Tim. Over his shoulder, the stranger is hurrying away, watched by every single person in the room.
‘What the holy fuck … ?’ demands Tim.
‘I thought … it was someone else …’
‘Yeah, I got that. But who?’
‘It looked like … I’m sorry. It just … It just really looked like …’
‘Looked like who? I mean, what the fuck, Kathy!’
I look at Tim. My lip trembles.
‘Did something happen?’ he asks.
‘I told you … I left Magnus.’
‘No, it’s more than that. I can see it in your face.’
I look across his shou
lder, but people have stopped staring now. The black-haired man is gone.
‘There’s someone after me,’ I whisper. ‘A man.’
‘What man?’
I shake my head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Kathy.’
I grab Tim’s hand. ‘You have to promise me something. It’s very important.’
‘Okay,’ says Tim. His lips barely move.
‘If anyone comes looking for me … If some people come … Just … Never tell anyone my name. I mean, my full name …’
I look round, and lower my voice even more.
‘Tim … They hurt my mum.’
‘What?!’
‘He did it … He found out her address. So you see … I can’t go home …’
‘Kathy, this is serious! We have to go to the police!’
My eyes widen.
‘No! Nononono! It’s too dangerous! Promise me!’
‘But—’
‘Promise me!’
Tim’s arms fasten around me. For a long time I huddle into him, staring at the floor. The tiles are so shiny I can see my face in them. My eyes like deep black bowls. I am not real. A cartoon character, constructed from geometric shapes. Across the room, someone drives a floor buffer round. Time drifts. I am almost asleep by the time Tim sighs, ‘Okay, cap’n.’
#
I wake from a nightmarish vision of men standing over me. Magnus and Hans, laughing side by side. Behind them, Kolbeinn. Black rainclouds all around, and ice below my knees.
Something cold is pressed to my face. Startled, I roll away. I bump into something. A person. I jump. Then my eyes open fully, and I see that that person is Tim. Thank God. I sit back. Just Tim. He looks peaceful as he sleeps. Angelic, with his tousled golden hair. On top of him, his jacket gently rising and falling. Sitting up, I look round and see strangers lying huddled on benches. Fast asleep beneath coats and travel blankets. Someone nearby is snoring. I turn back to Tim, and my heart turns hollow.
I want to go to my mum. I do, more than anything. But I can’t, because I know who’ll be waiting there for me. Hanging around, looking to avenge Hans’s death. Even in my mind, I’m too afraid to speak his name. But I know, more clearly than anything, that he’s out there. Him or his men. My mother is bait, and I daren’t fall into the trap.