Lullaby Girl (22 page)

I snatch it from the pile and dash behind the sofa.

She’ll never know …

At first I daren’t even open it. I sit on the floor below the window, staring at the front page. On it, there are words. Lots of words, written by people I don’t know. The
Western Courier
is the name of the paper. That’s the local one, with the cigarette men. As I thought, the headlines are nothing special. They’ve stretched them out to fill the whole page. Something about a fisherman winning some lottery money. I look at the name of the man who wrote the story. Donald McTavish. I wonder if he’s the man who eats all the chocolate biscuits.

The novelty is wearing off already. There’s a full-page advert for a knitting supply shop, a piece about a lost dog, something about the council, an advert for
My Fair Lady
and a local weather report. I read the lost dog bit for the longest, but even that is boring. The dog’s name is Pepper and it belongs to a family from the village. They think it might have fallen into the sea, cos they lost it during a walk along the cliffs. There’s no reward for its return, just a photograph of the little girl who owns the dog. I look at the photograph closely. It is strange to see a new face. She looks very sad.

Sighing, I flip through the back pages. Cars for sale. Border collie puppies. Second-hand farm equipment.

Okay. Nothing special.

Standing up, I fold the paper. But wait … I stop. I look again. A small piece is missing. A perfect, random square cut out of the football results. How strange. Why would someone bother to cut
that
out? Then I realise. I turn the back page and look at the other side. There. In the middle of the obituaries page. Someone has cut out an obituary.

As far as I know, no staff member has family in the village. Rhona’s talked about this several times. They’re all specially qualified and came from other parts of Scotland. Rhona is the most local of the lot and she’s from Skye. So why should she be bothered with a local obituary?

Mrs McRae. Of course. It must be for her. I close the paper and check the date. But this is today’s paper.

Huh …

The sound of footsteps makes me jump. I stuff the paper behind my back.

‘Are you in there, Sue?’ calls Rhona.

I freeze. Why didn’t I close the door properly? I crouch lower behind the sofa an’ kick over the little tissue-box table.
Clatter
.

Shit!

‘Susan? Can I come in?’

The door creaks. I stuff the paper under the sofa an’ stand up straight. Rhona stands in the doorway.

‘Oh!’ she exclaims.

‘I … was looking for … you,’ I blurt.

Rhona’s eyes dart around the room once, then back at me. Her face looks weird without make-up on. Swollen.

‘Kathy, this is my
office
. You’re not meant to be in here by yourself.’

‘I just … wanted to see you before … my session …’

Rhona sighs as she crosses the room.

‘You know you have to wait outside.’

I blush.

‘Nervous?’ she asks. I nod. She gives me a hug.

‘I had nightmares,’ I say.

‘What? When?’

‘The last time.’

‘Shhh. I know it’s hard,’ she says. Her throat makes a funny sound, and for a moment I think she’ll say something more. Then a rap at the door startles us, and we turn round to see Dr Harrison.

‘Speak of the devil!’ announces Rhona, and marches to the doorway. She keeps her back turned to me, and this upsets me because I’d wanted to say goodbye. Dr Harrison nudges the door closed and shrugs her handbag onto the desk.

‘Happy birthday,’ I say.

‘What?’ Her face hovers between surprise and confusion.

‘I have a present for you,’ I say. ‘A pot stand. I made it.’

Dr Harrison blushes. ‘Oh no no, dear … That won’t be necessary!’

‘It’s okay. You can have it. I don’t have any pots.’

‘Right. Well. All right. Thank you.’

I smile.

‘Should we get started?’ asks Dr Harrison.

‘Okay.’

I hover next to Rhona’s sofa, knowing this is the point of no return. Once I sit down, that’s it. I scan the shadows beneath it, but the newspaper is not sticking out. My stomach twinges with guilt. I’ll have to find a way of sneaking it back.

‘Sit down then,’ says Dr Harrison. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

My chest feels tight as I obey. Dr Harrison is fiddling with the height control on Rhona’s chair. I look around the room while I wait for her. This is quite a low sofa. From here I can see all the dust under the furniture. It looks like no one’s vacuumed in years.

‘God
damn
 …’ says Dr Harrison. She rattles the chair and her clipboard
whoomphs
to the floor. The papers on the mountain flutter.

Just then, something catches my eye. A bit of paper. A tiny, square bit of paper, sailing to the ground. My heart jumps, and I leap off the sofa to catch it.

‘What are you …’ says Dr Harrison.

Uncupping my hands, I look at the square. Dr Harrison moves towards me. I turn the square over, and read.

Wishart, Mary Annabel

Aged 28 years.

Taken from us suddenly, on Sunday

16th Jul,

at Gille Dubh care home, Cairndhu.

Beloved daughter of Mike and Helen.

Big sister

of John and Rory.

‘Earth has no sorrow that heaven

cannot heal.’

Funeral Sunday 23rd Jul, at St Mary’s

Catholic Church, Thurso, Caithness.

Friends please gather at church at

1pm.

19

March 18th, 2005.

Rimi is the last store I pass on my way to the night bus, and as such it’s become my last port of call. Me on a bus! I would never have believed, before, that I’d be able to handle these eight-hour bus rides. Back in the UK I only ever travelled by train. But it costs money to cushion yourself from claustrophobia, and I don’t have a lot of that now. So the night bus it is. I just have to distract myself. I’m getting quite good at it.

In Rimi, I splash out on snacks for the trip. Rosinboller, mini carrots, an apple, fizzy water. I’m not used to saying the full-length phrase for
thank you
. Sometimes I force myself to say it, but it sounds unnaturally long-winded coming out of my mouth, and I never know which syllables to stress. So mostly I just bark
Takk
and wince in the knowledge of how rude I sound.

Suitcase in tow, I cross the walkway to the bus station and plunge through the revolving doors. Inside, some men are sheltering from the snow. One of them grabs at me as I pass, but I pull my arm away and keep walking. After that I make sure not to meet anyone’s gaze. Down the escalator I go, under the departure boards and past the kiosk to the long-distance stands. Here, I slip outside and chain-smoke Marlboro Golds. As the departure time approaches, more people sidle out to join me, braving the cold in exchange for a good seat. I shuffle and jiggle and stand my ground. Then the bus swings into the bay, and like groupies we lurch at the door. The other people have pyjama bottoms and travel pillows, something I always try – and fail – to remember for next time. The queue moves slowly. I puff on a dog-end to keep warm, waiting till the last possible second to throw it away. Then it’s my turn, and I dive inside to claim a seat. I stuff my water, book and snacks into both seat pockets, then stretch out under my coat and pretend to sleep. I learnt this trick on my second trip north, and if I’m lucky it wins me a double seat for the whole journey.

As we leave the city lights behind, the bus quietens down, and it’s safe to raise my head. Trees close in, obscuring the fjord from view. My eyes are heavy, but the armrest gouging into my hip makes it hard to sleep. On occasion I look up and catch moonlit glimpses of churning rivers, or herds of elk. Unfamiliar road signs swing past my face like fists.

This is my fourth visit to Magnus since moving south. I’d come every weekend if I could, but on my current wage there’s no way I can afford that. Fifty kroner a day is more like pocket money, really, but it’s better than nothing, and at least it’s
mine
. Plus, the roof over my head is free, cos it’s Hans’s roof too. I live in the guest apartment on the bottom floor of his house, while he lives at the top. It’s really not bad. My first week here, Hans gave me jobs around the house. Washing, ironing and the like. After that he shifted me to his barber shop in town, because one of his stylists had quit and Lina needed help to run the place. Hans doesn’t cut hair – he leaves all that hands-on stuff to other people – but he certainly hoovers up the money.

I’m not sure I like Lina. She’s been cold since day one, and I secretly suspect she’s one of those girls who doesn’t like other girls. One day when we were alone she got all snotty with me and suggested I should find myself another job. But after four weeks, I think I’ve figured it out. You see, Hans has a thing for Lina. She pretends not to notice, but it’s as clear as day and I’m pretty sure she loves the attention. One day he even brought her flowers, and though she acted cool when he presented her with them, she kept them next to her barber’s chair till the petals went crispy. Maybe she’s worried he’ll stop lavishing attention on her now that I’m around. Anyway, I’m trying my best to make friends with her.

#

In the middle of a deep valley, the night bus parks outside a diner, and those who are still awake tumble indoors. Animal heads furnish the rough pine walls, while antique skis and weapons hang from the beams. I buy a hot chocolate from the round-faced clerk and sit by the window to drink it. Each place mat tells the story of the battle that took place here, between the natives and the Scottish invaders. From what I can make out, the natives won.

On this journey, the driver is king. Everyone eyeballs him while they eat, to make sure they don’t get left behind, and when he finishes his meatballs we pretty much sprint after him. Outside, he lights a cigarette before unlocking the bus, and like funeral guests we bow our heads and wait. I peer across the road, where the chimney of the wood mill releases a tall finger of smoke. Finally the driver discards his dog-end, and we slide carefully across the ice to the bus. Before setting off he makes some announcements – the same phrases each time – and I try to extract words from the tumult. In the beginning I believed the first of his announcements was about travel sickness, and it wasn’t till I checked a map that I realised he was talking about the town in the valley. Its name sounds just like the word for nausea and for weeks I thought this route must be a particularly bumpy one.

The second stretch of the journey is as long as the first, but I pretty much sleep it away. Just before seven, the driver announces our arrival and the yawning passengers sit up. The thick virgin snow makes the outside world seem unreal. Wild and unexplored, and full of adventure. Despite my hatred of long-distance travel, I’ve come to love the night bus.

#

Three hours I sit outside the house. Three motherfucking hours. By the time my patience breaks, I can barely feel my fingers.

I back away from the house and glare at Magnus’s window. Someone has closed it in too much of a hurry and trapped part of a curtain in the frame. I recognise the pattern on the curtain, and it reminds me of that perfect first week we had together. Under lamplight, I would gaze through the window and watch the moon rise. How I wish I was on that side of the curtains now. The trapped corner flaps sadly in the breeze. Taunting me.

What the fuck is so hard about opening a door? He knew I was coming. He’s known all week. I stamp to the middle of the street, where a trail of grit has been recently distributed. Some of it has frozen into the road, but some has not. With my foot, I scrape some into a pile, take a handful and chuck it at the house. But it sprays over a wider area than I’d anticipated and collides loudly with several other windows besides Magnus’s. I jump, fearing I’ve cracked the glass. If a neighbour calls the police, I’ll have to run.

An elderly couple strides out of the mist, hand in hand, and I blush as their eyes flick towards me. I know what I look like by now. The snow has built up steadily on my fake fur coat and I’ve long since given up brushing it off. Walking snowmen must be quite a novelty for the locals. I fish my phone from my pocket and look at it, but there are still no messages. I hold the phone to my ear anyway and bash out one half of a conversation.
Hi love. Yeah, it’s me. Yeah, I’d love some help with my bag
.

Bit by bit, whiteness swallows the couple from sight. I wonder where they are going and if it is warm there. If I ran after them and begged, would they give me shelter? Or something to eat? The air smells of newly baked bread and it’s driving me crazy. I am so hungry. But I only have two hundred kroner, and that has to last me all weekend. I’ll get some noodles later. Bunnpris noodles and a bottle of plonk.

Answer your fucking phone! Why don’t you answer?

Just then, the window next to Magnus’s fills with a face. I cringe as the window opens and a man’s head sticks out of it.

‘Sorry!’ I call. The guy is young and skinny, with long, messy hair and a Burzum T-shirt. Suddenly I recognise him.

‘Håkon! Let me in!’

Håkon wobbles slightly and squints. Behind him, I can hear music. Jayne County, if I’m not mistaken. Party music. Fuck, I should have known. That’s why Magnus didn’t answer.

Håkon disappears from the window, and in the two minutes of inactivity that follows, I fear he has forgotten me. Then I hear footsteps from inside the hall and a girl with blonde hair swings the door open. Wordlessly, she ushers me upstairs.

The hallway is full of shoes. I stand there for a moment, stunned by the noise. The door to the spare room is closed, and I don’t feel like braving the living room, so I head for the bedroom and sidle through the door. Inside, it is blissfully calm. On the bed I hear Magnus half-breathing, half-snoring, the way he does when he’s really, really drunk. But my anger is dissolving already. All I want to do is go to sleep. Kicking off my shoes, I climb the ladder.