Lullaby Girl (34 page)

I remain silent. Something is badly wrong. With barely a pause, Joyce launches into her speech.

‘Do you have any idea how much it costs to keep you here, Katherine? I mean, per year. For your therapy. Your bed and board. Your medication. Social activities. Heating. Light. For running water and sewage removal and council tax. Your clothing. Your personal toiletries. Dr Harrison’s visits? Do you know?’

I stare at her.

‘Do you know?’

‘No.’

Joyce looks triumphant. She sits back in her chair.

‘Twenty-three thousand, four hundred and forty-six pounds. Did you know that? Did you?’

‘No.’

‘And who do you think pays for that?’

I look at Joyce.

‘The Lullaby Girl Foundation!’ she exclaims. ‘Or they did, before Rhona saw fit to set the lawyers on them. Almost half of the funds they raised were used to pay for legal action against them! All to keep you out of the news! All for you, Kathy! And now that the charity money’s gone, someone
else
will have to foot the bill for your upkeep. Do you know who
that
would be?’

I blanch. But Joyce seems to be enjoying herself tremendously and blusters on.

‘The taxpayers! The hard-working citizens of the United Kingdom. With some National Lottery handouts, of course. But mostly … the blood, sweat and tears of good, honest people. Now, at any one time, we have funding to support ten residential patients. Until Mary popped off you may have noticed we were, in fact, eleven, and that’s because your stay was financed by
Daily Post
readers. But that’s changed, Katherine, and so we find ourselves at a crossroads.’

I remain silent. Joyce folds her hands in a complicated way and tilts her face to one side. She pauses dramatically. Then continues.

‘This is not a long-term residential home. A place where people live indefinitely. It’s merely a resting place. A place for people to gain the help they need. To rest, and get better. After which they return to their real lives. We are trying to help you, Katherine. We are trying so very hard. And it just seems to me that you resist our every effort.’

‘But I’m—’

‘What I mean to say,’ she continues, ‘is that maybe this is not the best environment for you.’

Baboom
, goes my heart. My eyes flick to Joyce’s face.

‘Rhona has fought tooth and nail to keep you here. She wanted you to fill Mary’s spot. To become the tenth member of our flock. But you’re not the only contender, Katherine. Far from it. There’s a waiting list for that spot as long as my arm, and your recent behaviour has convinced me you no longer deserve to be in the running. You’re bedridden! You need round-the-clock care. And that is something that—’

‘I’m not bedridden! I don’t want to be!’

Joyce smiles sadly.

‘My dear, I’m afraid that you are. And with the growing cost of your medicine – not to mention your increasingly violent tendencies – I’ve had no choice but to arrange your transfer to a different institution.’

‘No! You can’t! Rhona won’t—’

‘Rhona has already lent her authorisation. We signed the papers this morning.’

‘But … but … Where—’

‘Dundee. You leave at the end of the week.’

I can’t see Joyce any more. There are too many tears in the way.

‘She
wouldn’t
!’ I squawk. ‘I don’t believe you!’

‘I’d be happy to show you the paperwork. I can bring it up to show you.’

I lower my head into my hands.

‘She wouldn’t … She wouldn’t …’

‘We only want the best for you,’ says Joyce crisply. And with those words, she leaves me alone.

#

Caroline brings my pills. She does not mention Rhona, and her behaviour indicates she doesn’t know what happened. My body feels stronger somehow. Harder.

‘Are you all right?’ asks Caroline. ‘You seem a little off.’

I look at her, and cannot speak.

‘Do you feel hot? Your eyes look different.’

I stiffen as Caroline lays the back of her hand on my forehead, but all she says is, ‘Hmm.’

I try to avoid Caroline’s eyes. She hands me the red pills, and I put them in my mouth. She hands me the white pills, then the yellow pills, and I put them in too. Then the plastic ones, and a drink of water. When I’ve finished, she takes my beaker and stands up.

‘Have you brushed your teeth?’ she asks.

I nod.

‘Good.’

I watch as she heads to the door. ‘Night, then,’ she says, and turns out the light. When she has gone, I lean out of bed and spit the pills into my hand.

30

I think I hear a car when I reach the track, so I change course and veer off into the big field. Here there are no lights at all, but the thick snow throws a ghostly luminescence across the landscape. It scares me, because I don’t know how visible this makes me from the track. In summer, the wheat crop might have hidden me. But this is February and the ground is barren.

I crawl through the snow. Trying not to think of Hans. One time I make the mistake of looking over my shoulder and see the house, still so close behind. The porch light remains on, throwing an orange triangle down on the snow. Why hasn’t it gone off yet? Did someone follow me? I scan for movement but find nothing. Upstairs, one window is illuminated.

My whole body hurts. Adrenaline is all I have left. Right now, that’s more precious than possessions.

Wait …

My passport!

I look at the house. A pointed shape against the sky.

I have to go back …

This time I really do break down. Squatting on my haunches, shaking uncontrollably. In my mind I see Hans grunting on top of me. His hairy arms thrashing. The sweat and blood and semen. Did I kill him? Am I a killer?

Magnus’s face. So beautiful …

I love you,
he says.
I love you. I can’t let you go
.

Wait …

I look up.

The upstairs light. Someone turned it off. Does that mean someone’s there? Someone besides Lina? I stiffen.

Kolbeinn …

No. If Kolbeinn was here I’d have seen his car.

Concentrate
.

Any minute now, Hans’s friends could return. If I want my passport I must go now. Where did I bury it? Come on. Try to think straight. It was a tree. Under a big tree. Which tree?

I widen my eyes in the direction of the track. The skeletal windbreak, halfway between me and the house. It’s under one of the middle ones. That tall, bendy one. I’m sure of it.

I cast my eyes back at the house, but there’s no movement. No sound at all. Stealthily, I creep forwards. Heart thumping in my ears, like a slave drum. On I go. On, until the tree looms above me. Then I drop to my knees and claw the ground. Where’s the right place? I remember a natural hollow between the roots. And a black triangular stone that I put on top. But that was summertime, and in daylight. There’s so much snow here now. Frantically, I rake my fingers round. They’re so numb I can barely feel the ground beneath them. Wait. There! I feel a stone!

Using my sleeve, I scrape away some snow. Thank God it’s just snow and notice. I tug the stone out, take it in my hands and use it to dig. Beneath me, a dark shape opens up. The topsoil is looser than I’d feared, but the further I go the harder it gets. How deep did I bury the bag? I can’t remember …

Just then, the unmistakable squeak of plastic. My heart leaps violently. Breathing hard, I put my hand in the hole. There! Inside the Rimi bag, the hard edges of the passport are unmistakable. I fall back, clutching it to my chest. One deep breath. Two. Then I rise up, and run.

#

The sky is changing. Shades of indigo creeping in to conceal the stars. I lie on my front at the north edge of the field. Listening. Waiting. Not far ahead, I see the lights of the main road. Every so often I unclasp my hands and check my passport’s still there. In the bag, I hear the dull jangle of spare change and thank God I didn’t just leave it under the tree. My nose is fucked up, and my right eye too. Now I’m closer to the street lights, I see red in the corner of my vision. For a while I close both eyes and concentrate on listening. Nearby, a dog is yodelling. Time drags. The dog sounds like a woman. I wish I had my knife.

Sometimes, I hear footsteps. Hard against the ground. Sharp and fast. The first time I hear them, I freeze. Then I remember the deer. Of course, just deer. Like in summer.

Christ. Summer. All those nights, lying out here on my back. Why didn’t I get out then? Before things went this far. Was it because of Magnus? Despite all the pain, I still believed he was the one …

Everything has gone wrong …

I have to go. I have to go now, before the sun comes up.

Come on …

I’m so scared
.

Come on!

I climb out of the field and run. A single deer stands in the road. There are no cars. No people. Just us. We flee in the same direction.

Street lights flash over my hands and I see that the wetness is blood. The station. I reach the station. The payphones. Coins. Incredibly, the first number I dial is Magnus’s. Then I remember, and put my hand down to break the connection.

Fuck …

Holding the receiver to my face, I sob. In front of me, someone has scratched their name and number into the wall, and for a second I consider calling them. Then I think of calling the police, but that idea scares me most of all. The phone line hums. I hang up and sink to my knees. What now? Then Tim’s number just drops into my head.

I jam my money into the phone and dial. At first there is no tone, and I panic that I’ve wasted my last coins. Then I remember the UK dialling code. After six tries, I manage to input this correctly. The British dial tone comes on and I almost weep with relief. But that’s where my joy ends. I wait. I listen. But no one picks up. The phone rings and rings and rings. It’s an hour earlier over there. He’s probably still in bed. But I don’t stop calling. I can’t. This is my final lifeline. Each time the phone spits my coins out, I feed them back in. Over and over and over and over.

Click
.

‘Hello?’

‘Tim!’

Pause.

‘Kathy, is that you?’

A sob blusters out of me.

‘Tim. Oh Tim. Thank God!’

#

I wander round the airport like a lost dog. My pockets contain only my passport and boarding pass. I hitched a ride here – not just because I’m penniless, but because Hans’s men might have been at the station. Tim bought me my plane ticket. I’ve been at Gardermoen for four hours.

Everyone has coffee. I want coffee too, but the coffee costs a lot of money. I keep walking past the kiosk, just to smell it. Maybe if I stand here long enough someone will buy one for me. I hang around for a while, but people only scowl, so I give up and return to my drifting. When I get hungry I go to the bathroom and drink tap water. I kill a lot of time this way. People stare at my face. It feels strange to have no luggage. I sit opposite the pizza place, watching all the people eating. Stealing crusts when they’ve gone. Sometimes I see men who look like Hans, and when this happens I dive into the toilets. Every man I see could be one of his men, or Kolbeinn’s. I try to stay in plain sight, so that no one can grab me without causing a scene.

Whenever I close my eyes, I find myself back in the field. Waiting for the sound of footsteps, or men’s voices, or sirens. Jumping at every breath of wind. For a moment I’ll drift away and the human voices of the airport descend into those horrible, animal vocals last uttered by Hans. At this point my eyes will shoot open, and I leap up to find myself covered in sweat. My fingers scrabble instinctively for my passport, and then relax. By the time my flight comes around, I have taken to clutching it in both hands.

The aeroplane takes off into a spotless sky. Below me, the landscape is intensely beautiful. Tall, serene trees and the fine black soil. Bare mountains shining with lakes. I cast my eyes down and feel nothing but hatred.

#

Tim’s smiling face is the most amazing thing I have ever seen. We embrace till my arms go numb. Then we walk to his car and get in. We sit there in the car park until I’ve managed to stop crying. Finally I look up and see Tim staring grimly out of the window. It feels strange for the driver’s seat to be on that side.

‘Where are you going to go?’ he asks when he sees me looking at him.

‘I don’t know,’ I answer. My voice sounds weak and faraway. It is strange to hear myself speak.

He flicks the keyring that hangs from the ignition. There’s a crocheted space invader attached to it, with neon beads for eyes.
Space invader
is Tim’s nickname, because he has this habit of standing too close to people. It freaked the hell out of me when I first met him. But it’s not his fault. He’s just one of those touchy-feely people. Like a big brother. Afterwards, of course, this turned into a joke. Whenever he got too much for me I’d quip, ‘Back off, Tim! I’m
sensitive
!’

‘Okay, cap’n,’ he’d salute, and that would be the end of it. We were daft like that back then.

‘Natalie’s home,’ says Tim flatly.

These are the worst two worst words he could possibly have said, and I know he knows it. I stare at him, knowing exactly what this announcement means. Tim does not meet my eyes. I struggle to construct a reply.

‘Can I—’

‘What about your family?’ asks Tim.

The restraint in his face breaks my heart. I know he cares, but I also know that no matter how much I regard him as one, he is not my brother. He’s not blood. And this is one mess he’s decided to sidestep …

‘You can stay on the sofa for one night,’ says Tim. ‘Natalie’s working the night shift. She won’t even know you’ve been there. But that’s all I can do.’

‘Thank you,’ I hear my voice say. And that is where I run out. Silence fills the gap where I should explain that I understand. And I do understand, in a way. But it doesn’t make this any easier to swallow. It’s hard not to start hitting Tim. Not to scream and cry and step out into the road. Emotions overwhelm me. I gulp and close my eyes. After an eternity, Tim’s voice returns.