by Aly Sidgwick
She claps her hands brightly.
‘So! Who’s first? I’m afraid it’s one at a time.’
She looks at Madge, who in turn points at me. My eyes turn moist.
‘Youngest first,’ says Madge.
‘Right,’ says the nurse, and without further ado she leads me through the doors.
#
The room I walk into smells of bleach and flowers, with a faint musty tang lingering underneath. I’d expected the place to be dark, or at least look something like my bedroom at Gille Dubh. But I’m south of the border now, and I suppose they do things differently here. The decor is sparse but functional, with a pine writing desk, single bed and easy chair. A cork noticeboard hangs above the desk, devoid of notices or pins, and a giant blue flower has been stencilled onto the woodchip wallpaper. Through the open curtains, the sky is deep black.
A man with steel-coloured hair sits in the chair, hunched almost double over his knees. His hands stick like lollipops through the sleeves of a brown plaid bathrobe, and on his feet there’s a pair of matching slippers. As I creep forwards, his head jerks up. Both of us freeze, and draw a breath.
The glasses are new. Thick-rimmed, making his face look gaunter than it already is. Suddenly I feel like I’ve travelled into the future. That the door behind me is a portal, and stepping through it has somehow, suddenly, stuck a decade onto my father’s age. Because it’s him. Despite everything, it’s him.
The cords in his throat tighten. Then, in a voice like wall-paper paste, he croaks, ‘Kathy!’
I want to run. Not through fear. At least, not the same fear I harboured as a child. All the way here, I’ve been steeling myself to face him. Preparing to unearth the years of pain and bitterness he represented. But the man before me is not the fearsome overlord of my childhood. Not any more. He’s a faded photocopy. A ghost.
I feel behind my back for the door handle before remembering there’s not one. If I want to leave early, I’ll have to attract the camera’s attention.
‘Katherine,’ hiccups the man. ‘Is that you?’
I am rooted to the spot.
‘Dad?’
A little sound comes from his throat. He stretches out an arm and holds it there. Then tears start gushing down his face. I blunder forwards and he flings his arms round me.
‘I’m back, Dad,’ I sob. ‘I’ve come home.’
‘I thought I’d never see you again …’
For several minutes, neither of us can speak. It’s the first time I have ever seen my father cry. Finally, I kneel down on the floor and we search each other’s faces. I’d wanted to off-load my anger on him. To demand why he never came to get me. But the answer to that question is crystal clear. He’s been as lost from the real world as me. Battling the same demons.
‘Your mother …’ he says, and cannot continue.
I watch until I can stand no more. Then I blurt, ‘I know.’
‘That she … she’s … ?’
‘They told me.’
‘She went so quickly. I was with her when …’
He looks at me with that awful, shrunken face. Trembling, twitching. Fresh tears bloom from my eyes.
‘If I’d driven her to the shops myself,’ he wobbles. ‘She’d have been nowhere near that road. That bastard would never have …’
I sit up straight.
‘Did they catch the one who … hit her?’
‘Oh yes. He’s in HMP Durham. And thanks to our joke of a legal system, he’ll be out again by spring! Drunken bastard … What kind of justice …’
‘What was his name?’ I tremble.
‘Jim Wilkinson,’ replies my father, with visible hatred. He snorts and puts a hand to his face. With wide eyes, I watch my father wiping his glasses on his bathrobe.
‘That’s an English name,’ I hear myself saying.
‘Doing 92 mph when he hit her. Snivelling, boy-racer swine …’
‘He was English?’
‘From Gateshead.’
‘But you said … on the phone … You said the car was foreign …’
Dad looks at me. His glasses are back on now, and behind them his eyes are bitter.
‘Vanity plates,’ he says, with emphasis on the vanity bit. Then his mouth snaps shut.
For many moments, this information is too much to get my head around. Is it true? Did Hans have no part in her death? If so, it’s a bittersweet victory. My mother is still gone. She still died without me by her side.
‘Was Mum hurt,’ I tremble, ‘that I didn’t come?’
Dad shakes his head.
‘She was unconscious. She never knew.’
‘But you were hurt …’
He looks at me.
‘It was my fault,’ he whispers. ‘I drove you both away.’
These words have an electrifying effect on me. Frantically, I start patting his back.
‘No, Dad! It wasn’t your fault!’
‘I’ve been a terrible father …’
‘Please don’t say that!’
I lean back to look him in the face. To convince him it’s all right. But his eyes are far away now, and I know my words would not reach him. For some time he cries into his knees and, not knowing what else to do, I keep my hand on his arm.
My father’s sobs become quieter, though the trembling never fully stops. I hear him gasping for breath and remove my hand so as not to crowd him.
‘Has your husband come with you?’ he asks, when he is able to speak again. I look up from my perch on the armrest.
‘No.’
‘Where is he, then?’
‘Long gone.’
Dad is silent for a moment. Then he murmurs, ‘Good. He never did love you.’
A gust of wind jolts the window, stirring the curtains.
‘I’ve been sick,’ I say. ‘I still am.’
Dad sits back and studies my face. The bags under his eyes are still shiny.
‘Sick how?’
‘Sick like you.’
The sadness in his eyes is unbearable. Quietly, he asks, ‘The gloom?’ His pronunciation makes this sound almost comical.
‘Yeah.’
‘How long’s that been going on?’
‘Years.’
He looks at the floor, and his face turns hard.
‘No wonder you hate me,’ he says.
‘I don’t hate you. Not any more …’
As soon as these words leave my mouth, I realise they’re true. I forgive him, and always would have. But Dad seems not to have heard.
‘I’ll make it up to you,’ he says. Then his shoulders start shaking again. This time the shaking doesn’t stop at all. I see him fighting it. Trying to stop, without success. He removes his glasses and flusters blindly in an attempt to clean them.
‘What are we like?’ I say when he has slotted them back on his face. And both of us try to smile.
Suddenly I remember the letters.
‘Here,’ I say. ‘Express delivery.’
Dad smiles and accepts the bag. ‘Madge?’ he asks.
I nod.
‘Probably junk,’ he says. ‘It usually is. They don’t want me to have this, you know …’
I watch him sorting through it, glad of the distraction. His mouth moves silently as he reads the envelopes. Once or twice he chuckles. Then, without opening anything, he hands the whole lot back.
‘Junk,’ he confirms. ‘But thanks anyway. My hiding place is only big enough for essentials.’
‘Do you ever get any real post?’ I ask. My father knits his brow.
‘There were sympathy cards, in the beginning. But I didn’t … I couldn’t … I threw them away.’
I place the envelopes back into the bag and roll it closed.
‘Hey!’ says my father, suddenly. ‘I have a letter for you …’
‘What? For me?’
‘I kept it. In case you ever … I mean, just in case you …’
With effort, he hauls himself to his feet. He crosses the room to the bed a
nd gets down on his hands and knees.
‘Do you need help?’ I call.
But he just replies, ‘Cameras don’t cover this bit. Puh. Might as well be in prison myself.’
‘Why don’t you go home?’
‘I don’t know. I could …’
He ambles back to my side, deposits a blue envelope in my hands and eases himself back into his chair.
‘I suppose I just think … what’s the point?’ he says, and with these words his face darkens.
‘It’s your home.’
‘I’m not the same, Kathy. I’m not as strong as—’
‘What do the doctors say?’
He sighs heavily, and scratches his head. ‘They think I’d be okay. But—’
‘Well then.’
‘Kathy. I’m not normal.’
‘Well, neither am I.’
For a moment we stare at each other. My father’s eyes dart around my face. Breathing shallowly.
‘We have to live our lives,’ I say.
Wind buffets the windowpanes. Eventually I look down at the envelope in my hands.
‘I’ve had that for a long while,’ says my father.
I turn over the letter and look at the front. The writing is smudged, scrawled in thin blue biro and all crammed into one line.
Kathy, 11 Station Street, Northsheel, England.
Suddenly my heart leaps into my mouth. I’d recognise that handwriting anywhere. Jumping up, I hold the letter to the light. The postmark is illegible, but the stamp …
‘Watch for the cameras!’ calls my father.
Norge. Noreg. A.
‘Oh my God!’
‘What?’
With trembling fingers, I open the envelope. A paper rectangle falls out onto my feet, and I unfold this into a single sheet of college-ruled paper. Huge, messy handwriting fills both sides. I turn to the back, and find what I was looking for.
Love, Lina.
I turn to my father. ‘How long?’ I demand.
‘I don’t know. Madge brought it with the first lot.’
My legs are too shaky to raise me off the floor, so I remain on my knees. Silently, I start to read.
Deare Kathy,
I do not know how to find you. You are gone one day now. I sat with Hans until I got strength to get out. Then I came here to town in night. I am in the barbars. You are not here like I thought you might. I have not called Stian yet. After I post this letter, I will go. We will run through Sweden. I found my passport in Hans house.
I hope you are okay. I hope Petter and Håvard did not find you. They did not bring Kolbeinn with them back for me, but I am frightend they will come here to barbar so I must go.
Thankyou for helping me. I don’t know what had happend if you had not come. I am sorry did not say thankyou, and sorry so much screams. I am hurt. Still blooding.
I want you to know, you did not kill Hans. Maybe you think you did. But I finisht it myself. Put hands round neck before he waked up, and his body stoppt moving. Hans is dead for one day. Now I go. Too scared to go to Politi. If they find me I will not tell of you. It is gift to you, for helping me.
Please be careful for Magnus. Your old boy friend. He was there yesterday, at dinner. They sign a kind of contract. Heard Magnus say could not find your passport.
I hope you are alive. I hope the letter finds you. Please know I am so thankfull to you, forever. I will run now. Goodbye Kathy my good friend.
Love,
Lina
36
I rock back on my heels. The wind must be blowing in from the sea, because all I can hear is the hedge trimmer. Blankly, I look to the window, but see nothing.
‘Bloody gardeners,’ spits my father. ‘Every single day!’
I turn back to him, with tears in my eyes, and his face softens.
‘Bad news?’ he asks, nodding at the letter.
‘No,’ I sob. ‘No, it’s good.’
Beyond the high-pitched grinding, I become aware of a different noise. Crackling. Smattering. It stops and starts, growing steadily in volume.
Crackleackleackleackle. CRACKLEACKLEACKLEACKLE!
I stand bolt upright. My chair goes over.
Footsteps, running fast over gravel. There are many now, and growing louder. The letter drops from my hands.
‘Oh God,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘They’re here.’
A sudden flash of light makes me turn to the door. There, in the square glass panel, I have a partial view of the corridor through which I entered. In it, a person is running forwards. I stand back in alarm. As their torso rushes closer, a door opens behind them. Then Rhona’s face slams up to fill the window, and the movement behind her is blocked from view. Her eyes are panicked. Soundlessly, she shouts words. But the look on her face tells me all I need to know. I see her looking for a door handle, as I did. Then hands appear on her shoulders, and she turns round. A sharp-eyed face looks through the gap, and I recognise the nurse with the fancy haircut. A bleep sounds from this side of the door. Then it springs open and a throng of people bursts in.
I stand back in alarm. Between arms and legs I glimpse a hand grasping a newspaper. Lullaby Loony Seen on A1, says the headline.
‘Get back! You morons!’
That’s Rhona’s voice. But the others are louder than her now. A hand yanks my wrist, making me lose my balance. Then the floor hits my knees and faces rush in on every side. For a second all I see are Rhona’s flip-flops. Then hands drag me sideways and the doorway swings into view. There must be twenty people in here. Legs all clad in the same navy blue.
‘Is it her? Is it her?’ gabbles the nurse, while Rhona yells, ‘You’ll hurt her!’
‘It’s all right now, Mrs McNeill,’ a policewoman says to Rhona. ‘You’re safe now.’
‘She’s not dangerous!’
‘Come away now, let’s see to that cut—’
‘Let go!’
Rhona pushes the policewoman. Some people topple side-ways. But there are hands all over my arms now, and their grip is too solid to break. Someone puts my face into the ground.
‘It’s all right,’ I tell Rhona as metal clicks round my wrists. Then a man’s voice starts blaring above the others, and as I’m drawn back to my feet his face swings into view.
‘Katherine Fenwick, I am arresting you for the attempted murder of Rhona McNeill. You do not have to say any—’
‘It’s useless,’ says a voice. ‘She won’t understand.’
‘—thing, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned—’
Through the arms and legs of the throng, I notice my father, standing by the place he hides his letters. Face drained of colour, eyes fixed on mine. In his hand, I see Lina’s letter. He signals with his eyes. Then firmly closes his hand over the letter. No one is looking at him.
‘—something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Bodies close in, cutting my father from view, and again all I see are shoes. Then my captor swings me upright, and all of us move towards the door. We frogmarch through the yellow waiting room, through reception and down the steps to the entrance. My flip-flops have been lost in the tussle and as we step out into the breeze the gravel pricks my feet.
‘Didn’t they get the van through yet?’ asks a voice. Everyone halts.
What’s going on? I’d expected helicopters and tear gas and abseiling bloody marines. But there aren’t even any police cars. For a moment I’m stumped. Then my gaze shifts down the driveway to the gates. There, I can just see the top of a police van. A crowd of heads struggles behind the gates, and behind them there’s something that looks like a satellite dish. A large white floodlight illuminates the scene.
‘Jesus Christ,’ says one officer. ‘When did the cavalry arrive?’
At that moment a door opens and Rhona comes out, escorted by two policewomen.
‘Mrs McNeill,’ someone says, ‘if you’re up to it, would you pleas
e move your car?’
Suddenly I realise why the police moved in on foot. Joyce’s Mini is parked slap bang in front of the gates.
‘And let that mob in?’ spits Rhona.
I stare at the jumble of strangers. Moving and struggling. Every gap is filled by a face. Arms whip like tarantula legs.
‘Kathy! Katherine! Kathy! Kathy!’
‘We’ll move it for you then.’
‘I don’t have the keys,’ she replies coldly.
‘Fuck it. Let’s just walk it,’ says someone.
‘Put something on her head.’
A policewoman drapes me with her jacket. Slowly, we start to move.
I can’t see the crowd as it grows nearer, but I can hear them. Old and young, male and female, their voices form a chattering, baying cloud. Some have local accents and some do not. As my breathing speeds up, the air under the jacket grows stuffy. I gulp in breath. People behind me start shouting.
‘Move back! Get back!’
‘John – watch that camera.’
An arm wraps round my neck. Lights start flashing. Once. Twice. Then continuously, transforming my legs into a glittering disco. Something soft hits my chest, and as I skitter sideways it falls onto my feet. A small blue teddy bear, with a gift tag full of writing.
‘Kathy! Kathy! Can you give us a comment?’
‘Look at her feet! Sid, get a shot of her feet. Quick!’
An extra-big flash. I look down and see my own grimy legs lit in white.
Something hits me again.
‘For fuck’s sake, John. Watch her head.’
‘Clear a path!’
‘Lunatic!’
‘—be locked up!’
‘—love you!’
‘—wasted good money on your treatment. Can you explain why you saw fit—’
‘Mrs McNeill, how bad are your injuries? Can you comment on your ordeal?’
Somewhere nearby, I feel a struggle going on.
‘Kathy, do you have anything to say to the Lullaby Girl Foundation?’
‘Vultures!’
Was that Rhona’s voice? A scuffle breaks out, and for several seconds the voices cut off. Shoes scrabble. A hand hits the tarmac, palm down, and a woman cries out in pain. Strong hands yank me backwards. Then the lights swing away from my feet and I hear them clicking in a different place.