A ghoulish desire gathers pace in me, to look at Mary’s room one last time. If they lock the door from now on I might never see it again. Creeping forward, I touch the door handle. But I can’t make myself go further. Why not? It doesn’t make sense to be so frightened. They’re policemen. No more likely to hurt me than Mr Duff. But I can’t open the door. Not with all those fists on the other side. All that weight and hair and sweat, crushing their big shoes into the carpet. Smiling teeth and black eyes.
The back of my neck is on fire. I try to move my arm, but my body has turned into a suit of armour. Behind my eyes, bright shapes boogie. I lower myself to the carpet an’ wipe my sweaty hands on it.
The voices outside seem to have stopped, and a great rustling noise has taken over, like a forest of paper bags. Swishing this way, then that. Close then far. A creak from the loose floorboard in the corridor. The swishing diminishes. Then, quite suddenly, the corridor falls silent. I sit up straight. Outside, a motor starts. I raise myself up and inch the door open. There is no one in sight, but my bravery has come too late. Mary’s door is padlocked shut.
#
Thursday.
Gentle rain lulls me awake. The room is darker than usual, but when I get up to look I find it is indeed morning. Thick fog has come down low outside the window, so all I see is a hellish spotlight of red gravel. I slog back to bed and lie very still. But my thoughts are too morose to let me drop off again. Shadows rise and fall beyond the curtains, and the glass sucks and creaks. Sometimes the wind changes direction and smacks rain into my window. When this happens I get a lump in my throat. I think of the conservatory, and then the ash tree. She’s probably burned up by now. The thought of it repulses me. I wonder if the logs went to one person’s house, or if they shared her out like slices of cake. Then I think about birthday cake, and how everyone lied to me about Dr Harrison. This makes me cry. It seems an unforgivable crime, to conceal death with something so joyful. I push my hand under my pillow and close my fingers around the heart-shaped counter. It came from a cereal packet originally. I remember the day the cook gave it to us.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. Then the tears flow harder and will not stop. I think of Mary’s smile as she waved goodbye. That last, clinging hug.
Everything is changing. I thought I could stay here forever, like the ash tree. But now it seems that won’t be possible after all. What will I do if Rhona abandons me? I know what a mess I am. That I couldn’t survive on the outside. Maybe they’re right. Maybe it is time to tell them I’ve remembered Magnus. I lost my chance to confide in Mary, an’ if Rhona leaves too there’ll be no one left to listen. I don’t think it’s good for me to keep it all in. Unravelling inside me, making a mess. Things are startin’ to get squashed, an’ the nastier stuff gets, the less I want it to stay inside me. Someone has to help. I must break my silence.
#
At lunchtime I go looking for Rhona. I check her office an’ the library an’ the day room an’ the dining room, but she’s nowhere to be found.
Maybe she’s in her bedroom
, I think, so I go through to the staff wing an’ knock on Rhona’s door. There’s a pause. Footsteps. The door swings open. I leap back.
Joyce!
A yellow blanket hangs over her arm, semi-folded.
‘Kathy. You know you’re not allowed here. What do you want?’
‘I’m … looking for Rhona.’
‘Rhona isn’t here.’
A chill wriggles through me.
‘Where is she?’ I croak.
Joyce sighs as she finishes folding Rhona’s blanket. I can hardly stand to watch her.
‘You won’t see her for a while. She needed a wee break.’
‘But … she would have told me …’
‘Get used to it, Kathy.’
‘What about … our sessions?’
‘I’m taking over,’ snips Joyce.
I feel my jaw fall.
‘For how long?’
‘As long as it takes.’
I stare at her. Or, rather, I stare at the dark place where her face should be. As Joyce refolds her arms round the blanket, a sunbeam sends a blizzard of lighted squares through her rings. Stupefied, I watch them dust the walls. Joyce clears her throat.
‘Look. I know you don’t like me very much. But it’s still my job to help you. We’ll be having a long talk tomorrow.’
I grab the wall to steady myself.
‘But … Rhona …’
‘Go on,’ sighs Joyce, flapping a hand. The swirl of bright squares envelops me like sparkles from a wand, and inwardly I bristle at the idea Joyce could ever put me under her spell.
‘What about Sunday? Isn’t she coming?’
‘Sunday?’
Joyce has no idea what I’m talking about. Rage crashes through me, nudging the shock to one side. I want to scream an’ shout an’ hurt her.
‘Mary’s ceremony,’ I splutter.
‘Is that Sunday?’
‘Yes!’
‘Well then no. No she’s not.’
‘But doesn’t she … How can she …’
I convulse. My vision blacks out for a second. Then the world rushes back an’ delivers me onto the floor. Joyce towers over me, barking, ‘Stop it this minute!’
I try to sit up, an’ can’t. Joyce’s eyes are like glass-topped pins. She swoops, seizes my wrists an’ hauls me up. But my legs still don’t work, so her efforts just sort of stretch me.
‘You stop this charade right now!’
‘I think I’m goin’ to—’
‘Don’t defy me, Katherine!’
My belly bubbles. I stumble. For a second I almost free myself. But Joyce is quick. She grabs my wrists an’ shoves me back down. I start to cry.
‘Ohhh ho ho! No, missy … That might work on Rhona, but it won’t work on me!’
‘I want Rhona!’ I shout.
‘Well Rhona isn’t here!’
I propel forwards. Upwards. Joyce’s face centres in my vision. Circled in black, like a noose. I feel the blood pumping through me, my hands reaching forward. In my ears, Joyce’s voice.
Put yourself first … I’ll take care of Kathy … I’ll take care of Kathy
… I think of Joyce’s singing. Of the horse-shoe. Of Mary. Blackness explodes across my vision, taking every ounce of my strength with it. Then the noose slides back an’ returns me to the room. Before me, Joyce’s face drips with water. Spit.
My
spit.
For a second neither of us moves. A low breath grumbles out of Joyce. Then her palm swipes, hard, across my face. I stagger but don’t fall. Trying to hide my pain, I lick the inside of my cheek. I look at her. Then I run.
At first my flight takes Joyce by surprise. But two steps short of the door she grabs my legs. We clatter forwards. My forehead strikes the desk. Joyce sits on my back, twisting my hands.
‘Little madam!’ she shrieks.
‘Go on then! Kill me like you killed Mary!’
‘You little—’
Her hand bats my head. I gasp as my teeth hit the floor.
‘I’ll tell them!’ I screech. ‘I’ll get you sacked!
Joyce leans hard against my back. Her heart hammers into my spine. My wrists are twisted to breaking point. I yell, an’ the taste of blood fills my tongue.
Holy shit. Is this how things will be from now on?
The door springs open, spillin’ running feet.
‘What are you doing?’ shouts Caroline’s voice.
‘Help me! Hold her down!’
‘Joyce, what the hell? Take it easy!’
‘Don’t touch me!’
‘Hey …
Hey!
’
My spine jolts. Several knees jut into my kidneys. I slide sideways. Behind my head, Joyce yowls. Hands grab me, then release me, then grab me again. A cry of pain. A snarl. A foot slides across an’ cracks into my spine. Hands claw my back, like a cat. Then, incredibly, the weight lifts from my body. Hands release me. The sliding noise continues, like a lazy tap dancer. I cradle my wrists to my chest. Suckin’ in air. My whole body hurts.
‘Shhh,’ says Mrs Laird’s voice. I shrink further, an’ the hand follows me.
‘Don’t play her game!’ Joyce shrieks.
‘Get her out of here,’ says a voice.
The footsteps scuff away, carryin’ Joyce’s shoutin’ with them. Mrs Laird puts her hand on my shoulder. By the time my pulse has slowed, the room is dark.
#
Saturday.
I think they tried to wake me yesterday, but my memory of that is muddy. Today Mrs Laird summons me to her office. What happened was very wrong, she says. Joyce has been suspended an’ so Mrs Laird will take over her duties. She stresses that this is a temporary solution. I ask to see Rhona, but Mrs Laird says I can’t. She asks if I want to press charges against Joyce. ‘It’s your right,’ she says. But she seems scared I’ll agree, so I shrug an’ say no. Besides, I’m scared loads of policemen might come here. Joyce would get revenge for that sooner or later, an’ I can’t live with that over my head. No. The best I can ask for is that Joyce isn’t here for Mary’s ceremony. Talk about perfect timing. I’m proud I could do Mary this small service.
At dinner, I eat fast. Both of my eyes are bruised, an’ a hard grey lump crowns my forehead. I’m not a pretty sight, an’ I know it. Each time I look up, someone’s eyes dart away. I wonder if people know what happened by now.
My wrists still hurt, though the doctor assured me they are not broken, only torn. He gave me painkillers that make me mega sleepy an’ told me not to move too much. In the evening I play snakes and ladders with myself, cos I’m too tired to do anythin’ else. I play with two counters. One for me and one for Mary. Whenever it’s Mary’s turn I throw the dice for her an’ move her counter. We win roughly the same amount of games each.
April 2nd, 2005.
Magnus has moved back in with Mathilde, for the good of the kids. I should have fucking known. On the first day of my visit, he breaks the news. He kisses my face and says this is not the end. That he still loves me deeply. Or, rather, he loves the old me. If that version comes back, he says he’ll be powerless to resist. I say I will try.
The five of us take a walk through the playground. Isak and Tor Olav run ahead, throwing sticks at each other. Mathilde does not speak to me, and I do not speak to her. The way Magnus gazes at her makes me nauseous with pain, but somehow I hold myself together. He has told her I’m a friend of Håkon’s, and though I could easily blow that lie apart, I daren’t risk driving him away.
They sit on the climbing frame and nudge each other and whisper, but each time I approach they move to a different spot, so I stand in a snowdrift and wait for them to finish. The spring thaw is still some way off at this latitude, and as the sugary top crust of snow skitters round my legs, my hands shake inside my gloves. I play counting games with my heart-beat.
I want to die … I want to die … I want to die …
Magnus pays for me to stay in a hostel, and I barely see him for the rest of the weekend. On Monday he’s too hungover to walk me to the night bus, but he comes out to meet me in the street outside Mathilde’s house. He tells me not to cry. That Mathilde likes me. That he’ll bring her to visit. Then he reaches out and shakes my hand goodbye.
‘I need to talk to you,’ I tell him, as I have all weekend. But Magnus shakes his head and says, ‘Not now.’
In this weather, the half-mile walk to the bus station takes forty minutes. The pavements are compacted with snow, so I have to drag my bag down the middle of the road. By the time I get on the bus, my face is raw with tears. I crawl onto my seat, curl up under my coat and try to sleep. On the way across the mountains, I catch my first ever glimpse of the northern lights.
#
The next three days are hellish, but I restrain myself from telephoning Magnus.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder,
my mother always said. I must make him miss me. In a box under my bed there’s a box of UK stuff, with my old mobile phone in it. It’s the first time I’ve looked at it in months, because I never got round to buying a local SIM card. On my knees beside the bed, I switch it on. The little screen turns blue; the welcome tune hums. I scroll through the phonebook to Tim’s number and sit looking at it for a long time. His name on the screen comforts me. There’s probably a few pence left in the phone. I might hear a few seconds of his voice, and he’d probably call me right back. But I can’t call. I’m too ashamed. Several times I almost press the green button and stop myself. I’ll never hear the end of it if I tell him what’s going on. Tim hates Magnus with a passion, even if he never admitted it to me. It comes from the heart, though. I know he’s just looking out for me, and that makes it worse in a way, because so far he’s been 100 per cent right. No. I’ll show him. Maintain radio silence. When things with Magnus are fixed, I’ll be glad I didn’t jump ship.
#
On Wednesday, Hans is not at the shop. After I have made the coffee and swept the floor and cleaned the windows, I go to the sofa, where Lina sits in between customers. She does not look up as I sit beside her. For a while I pretend to be looking out of the window. Then I glance at her copy of
Se og Hør
, but the photographs are all of Norwegian celebrities and I don’t recognise anyone except the princess, Mette-Marit.
‘What?’ sighs Lina.
My eyes shoot to her face. But she doesn’t look pissed off.
‘Um, can I ask something? About Hans?’
The muscles around Lina’s mouth harden. But she says, ‘Okay.’
‘It’s just … he seems so rich. With that big house, and the car, and the clothes … And this shop is … well … not exactly
busy
. So I was wondering where he gets all that money from?’
Silence follows my question. Thick, substantial silence. For a split second, Lina’s eyes film with moisture. Then she puts her magazine on the floor and makes a big show of picking a tangle out of her hair. With her back to me, she mumbles something about a new shampoo. I watch until it becomes clear she won’t turn back. Then I touch her arm.
‘Lina. Please. This is important.’
‘What is?’
‘I … heard something. About Hans. And I just need to know …’
Lina’s face is red now. She smoothes her fringe back with one hand and blinks her eyes at the ceiling.
‘I tried to warn you,’ she whispers.
‘About what?’
‘Him.’