Lullaby

by Bernard Beckett

  ‘We will help you with all the necessary arrangements. For now there is nothing you need to worry about, but getting well. This was, of course, a significant procedure. We’ll move you to a recovery facility, until we’re confident you’re ready to return to your normal life.’

  ‘And Theo? Can I just…’

  ‘It’s not possible, I’m afraid.’

  The first hint of sympathy. For a moment I thought he might hug me. He offered me a tissue.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to…’

  ‘You’ve no need to apologise.’

  My eyes felt dry, despite the tears. The paper tissue rasped at them.

  ‘Can I have a mirror, please?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know if you really want…’

  He didn’t understand. He wasn’t a twin.

  I had to hold the mirror in my outstretched hand to see the extent of the damage. My head was swathed in white bandages, as if I’d been dragged from the set of a cheap horror movie. My eyes were an angry scribble of red, the skin around them darkly bruised. I thought of Theo, wondered if they’d bothered bandaging him. He looked back at me from the mirror, the way it had always been.

  The doctor watched me, and normally that would have made me self-conscious, but there was no normal in that room. I drew the mirror to my lips, kissed him. Whispered, ‘Goodbye.’

  He waited the polite length of time, then gently took the mirror from my hands.

  ‘Is there anybody you want to talk to? Our psychologist, Maggie, has come in today.’

  ‘Is Emily here?’ I asked. I was vaguely aware I should have been feeling something more than this slow inward collapse.

  ‘No,’ the surgeon said. ‘She has requested a little time to get used to this. An orderly is on his way to take you to the transfer bay.

  ‘I’d like to walk. Is that possible?’

  ‘We can try, if you like.’

  The orderly was thin and tired looking. He helped me out of bed. There was a wheelchair waiting by the door.

  ‘He’d like to try to walk,’ the surgeon explained. The orderly nodded, and held my elbow to steady me. My legs shook, the feet were slow to respond, as if they didn’t belong to me at all. I shrugged him off. It felt right, to be stumbling alone. It was less than ten metres along the corridor to the lifts, but I could see I’d have to do it in stages. My vision blurred, came clear, blurred again. A drop of sweat escaped my bandages and stung at my eye. I leaned against the wall. The orderly moved towards me, but I waved him away. I straightened, breathed in deeply and felt a crackling in my ribs. My hand went instinctively to the point of pain. I remembered.

  My fingers moved up slowly, from my ribs to under my arm. I found the spot where the blade had been, traced its line with my fingers. The skin was still rough from Emily’s blade, as I knew it would be.

  Something made me turn. Somehow, I knew he was there. A glimpse, then another orderly, realising his mistake, trying to get between us. The lying bastards. I wanted to call out, but I couldn’t find my voice, and then he was being dragged away, we both were.

  I screamed out my protest, but too late for him to hear me.

  I struggled against the orderly’s grip, but the operation had left me weak. For a moment I broke loose and stumbled forward. I was sure I saw Emily, her hand on his arm, breaking my heart in two.

  Then more orderlies arrived, security too, shouting their instructions, swarming all over us. They tore me apart.

  A voice came to me, a memory.

  When this is done, what stories shall we tell ourselves?