Silence descends again. I stare at Lina, bursting with questions but afraid to ask the wrong ones.
‘The girl before you …’ starts Lina. She stops and looks around. The shop is empty. ‘We shouldn’t be talking about this,’ she whispers, and vigorously rubs her eyes.
‘Is he
dangerous
?’ I ask, feeling ridiculous to say the words out loud. But Lina is on her feet now and heading for the door. I watch through the window as she lights a cigarette. By the time I join her, her face is back to normal. I accept a cigarette, and we sit down on the kerb. It feels good to smoke something decent instead of the cheap shit I’ve been relegated to.
‘“Hans” is not a normal man,’ says Lina. She does not speak his name, only mouths it, and even then she takes a good look round for eavesdroppers. ‘But you’re okay, for now. He is always shy with new ones.’
Before this afternoon, that statement would have made me laugh. Hans is so brash, it’s hard to imagine he could ever be shy. But I don’t feel like laughing now. In my mind, I picture Hans smashing Sølvi in the face. Then I picture the flimsy lock on my apartment door. I shiver.
‘I
live
with him …’ I say.
Lina turns to face me. Her eyes are dry now, and very serious. It’s the same look she’s been wearing for months. The one I had mistaken for snottiness.
‘Listen,’ she says. ‘Bring your passport to the shop. I will hide it for you.’
I stare at her.
‘Why? Do you think he’d take it?’
She brushes her hands through her hair again.
‘Has he done it before?’
Lina folds her hands and looks at the floor.
‘You’ll be okay,’ she says. ‘You have your man to protect you.’
This time it is my turn to be silent. For a while, I look at the floor too. Then, faintly, I reply, ‘Yeah.’
#
Summertime wraps around me like a bubble, and as the days flick past I allow my routines to numb me further. My sleep pattern grows ever more erratic, and some nights I don’t sleep at all. On those occasions I go outside and walk down the track to the farm. By now the wheat is almost head-height. I pick my way to the middle of the field, lie on my back and sing my lullaby to the stars. Animals come close sometimes, when I’m lying there. I hear their legs swishing through the crop, their voices calling to each other. It scared me a lot, in the beginning.
My telephone calls with Magnus grow shorter as my depression grows. It’s hard to think of nice things to talk about, because the only bright point of my life here is the growing friendship with Lina, and at my most paranoid moments even that is thrown into doubt. Day after day, I pray Magnus will tire of Mathilde. That he’ll forget the parts of me he does not love and come down here to save me.
‘It’s in my genes,’ I tell Magnus when he tells me to cheer the fuck up.
‘Faen i helvete! Stop blaming other people! You’re the one in control.’
‘But I’m not in control,’ I wobble.
‘How can I love you when you can’t love yourself?’
‘It’s not like I can choose! I need a doctor!’
‘Then get one!’
‘I’ve told you why I can’t—’
Magnus sighs loudly. ‘Call when you’re feeling better,’ he says, and hangs up.
#
As the days become hotter, it gets hard to concentrate on anything. At work, I perform the tasks required of me, at lunchtime I eat the sandwiches Lina puts into my hand, and in the evenings I walk home. The weather is gorgeous, without a cloud in the sky, and in different circumstances I might have enjoyed this. But I’ve lost the ability to enjoy anything. Day after day, a little more hope dribbles out of me, and my participation in the world feels increasingly ethereal. I stop bothering with make-up, or my hair, or washing my clothes. At home, I stare at the wall while waiting for sleep to liberate me. Sleep is all I care about now. It’s the only thing that makes the pain stop.
This is the longest that I’ve ever gone cold turkey, and it’s shocked me to learn how much I need my pills. Medication has veiled me from my true self for so long, I barely recognise the monster that’s festered beneath. I’m embarrassed to exist, in this unrecognisable skin. Everything is changing – my reflection in the mirror, the way I hold a spoon, my perceptions of space and sound and other people. In the night-time my mind drifts to Dad, and I shiver to realise I am turning into him. The weaknesses I had hated in him as a child. The irrational mood swings and flashes of violence. I recognise all of them in myself now. Or, at least, the potential for them. Does this mean I was wrong to hate him? That despite everything, his behaviour was justified? Maybe I’m being punished now, for the conclusions I jumped to back then. After all of it, my father has had the last laugh.
#
July 21st, 2005.
I am crying on the sofa bed when Hans lets himself into my apartment.
‘What is wrong?’ he blares.
I sit up, incensed by his sudden presence. Instinctively, I bring my arms up to conceal my chest. Under my vest top, I am not wearing a bra.
Hans is either high or drunk. He sends a hand towards me and hits my teacup. Off the table it goes. Over the floor. Into three perfect pieces. Hans follows it with his eyes, one beat behind. By the time he looks back at me I have retreated. His hand moves back, and I realise there is an envelope in it. On the front, my name. Recognising Mum’s handwriting, I grab it.
‘What is wrong?’ he repeats.
‘Nothing, I’m okay.’
‘Do you want a line?’
‘No. Thank you.’
‘When your husband coming, Katty?’
‘He’s not coming any more.’
‘Oh. That is why you crying?’
‘I’m not crying. I’m okay.’
Hans drops his plank of an arm round my shoulder.
‘Have a line. You can have a line. Do you want some?’
Wiping his nose, he reaches in his pocket. But I’ve already escaped his grip. Rushing to the kettle, I try to busy myself. What do I do? I can’t ask him to leave. If I offer him coffee, he’ll stay longer …
Hans snorts in my ear, and I realise he’s followed me across the room.
‘Have a bit,’ he says. ‘Get a bit.’
I look at the wrap of white powder in his hand. He jabs my arm with it.
‘No thanks. I’m really tired. It’ll keep me awake.’
‘Come up to drink with me,’ he says. ‘I have beers.’
‘No. Really. Thanks. But I’m going to go to sleep now.’
Hans sways, and for a moment his brow darkens. But all he says is, ‘Well I party alone.’
I hold my breath as he walks to the door.
‘You make him come live here,’ he shouts over his shoulder. ‘You have rent to pay. Thirty thousand kroner.’
The smile freezes on my face.
‘Rent? I thought—’
‘Five months. Thirty thousand. No time to visit your husband. You will not leave. Not to your mother. Not to nowhere.’
Panic streams through my veins, but somehow I manage a nod. Hans swings round and starts to climb the stairs. I daren’t close my door until I hear his TV come on. Only then do I look down and see Mum’s letter has already been opened.
Fuck!
I rip the letter out of the envelope and scan it for sensitive information. But aside from the return address, it’s clean. Thank God my mum leads such a mundane life, and thank God she doesn’t know the truth about Magnus. If Hans knew I was alone, I dread to imagine what he’d do.
Sunday.
The weather is dreadful, which immediately puts me in a bad mood. I’d had such strong visions of how today would look. The clouds should have been high and fluffy. The bay should have been calm as glass and airbrushed in a hundred tones of sepia. Clad in black, we would gather on the sun-warmed deck and hang our heads for Mary. I’d throw a single white flower an’ then we’d head for home. It would be warm-hearted and dignified and serene.
But no. It’s not going to go that way at all. The sun has been eaten by a dense fog. The sea not even visible. And a lusty rain jibbers round the house, spittin’ mouthfuls at the glass. Enraged, I clutch the windowsill.
Half past nine, the clock says. Another blast punches the window, and angrily I punch back. But I’d forgotten my injured wrist. Shrieking, I recoil. The fight goes out of me and I crumple to the floor.
At twelve o’clock people gather in the hallway. When I peer over the banister I see they’re wearing raincoats. I look down at my dress, which was loaned from Mrs Laird’s niece. The colour is perfect – a dark, bluish sort of grey – and I don’t want to hide it under my yellow cagoule. What kind of funeral party is this? Dumb, rainbow-coloured freaks. But I’ll never get away with being the odd one out, so I take my cagoule from the wardrobe and join the others downstairs. Mrs Laird appears and starts to count heads.
‘One … two … three …’ she says.
It feels horrible to know there’ll be thirteen of us, an’ not fifteen. Fifteen, there should have been fifteen …
‘… eight …’
Mrs Laird taps my head. Counted, I sit down next to Mrs Bell. Unlike the others, Mrs Bell’s coat is black. That makes me feel a bit better. Old ladies know how to do funerals properly.
‘… eleven … twelve … thirteen … fourteen. Okay, ladies, hoods up. It’s blowing a gale out there!’
Everyone starts shufflin’ forwards. But I stay glued to the spot. Faces mill past me an’ I search them excitedly.
Fourteen?
Is Rhona here after all? Did she have a change of—
Then I see her.
Joyce.
All of my body heat rushes out through my face. Away, away, leavin’ me shaking and sick on my step. I look for Mrs Laird. What the hell’s going on?
She’s not supposed to be here … She’s … She’s not …
‘Come on,’ says Mrs Laird.
‘What’s …
she
doing here?’ I manage. Halfway through the door, Joyce turns to glare at me. But it’s Mrs Laird who meets her eyes. For a moment Joyce looks like she’ll say something nasty, but Mrs Laird raises a hand in the air an’ Joyce’s mouth snaps shut. I can’t stop shaking as I watch her go out the door.
‘Now now, dear,’ says Mrs Laird. ‘It’s only right that she should come.’
‘Keep her
away
from me,’ I splutter.
Mrs Laird rubs my back.
‘It’s okay, dearie. No one’s going to hurt you.’
‘It’s not right … It’s—’
‘No one’s going to hurt—’
‘She killed Mary!’
Mrs Laird’s eyes turn sharp. But all she says is, ‘Shush now.’
I search my pocket for the heart-shaped counter.
I’m sorry, Mary … I’m so sorry …
Mrs Laird walks me outside, where a red minibus is waiting. The wind smacks us around as Mrs Laird struggles to open the door. Gaily-coloured figures huddle within, like people trapped in a washing machine. Suddenly another thought strikes me.
‘Where’s the vicar?’ I ask.
‘A vicar?’
‘There was meant to be a vicar!’
‘Oh. No, dearie. Who told you that?’
‘Who’ll say the prayers?’
‘We will, silly.’
I stare at Mrs Laird.
‘Get in,’ she says.
As we pass through the perimeter gate I hold my breath. I know I’ve been out here before, but … Well, that was
before
… Suddenly I’m grateful for the limited visibility. The world is too big to swallow in one go.
Wind chases us down the track, pushing the bus from side to side. Caroline hunches over the wheel, an’ I’m amazed she can see anything at all. The windscreen wipers slosh from side to side, shoving sheets of water to the left and right. Rusty leaves splat down and get stuck. It takes a good ten minutes to reach the sea, and during that time no one speaks to each other.
#
The boat is smaller than I’d expected, an’ much shabbier. The name on its side is
Elspeth
, and we board her across a rough plank bridge. The skipper has to drag us across the last bit cos there’s no handrail, but judging by the horror everyone greets this with, I think they’d rather just have fallen in. On board, I hear Mrs Bell asking about life jackets.
‘It’s okay,’ Mrs Laird tells her, ‘we booked in advance.’
‘No, the life preservers.’
‘Well, it’s a cruise boat, so it’s fully equipped,’ says Mrs Laird. She tries to walk away, but Mrs Bell makes a fuss an’ demands to have a life jacket before we leave the harbour. When it’s brought out, Mrs Shaw decides she wants one too. Then Aggie, an’ Muriel, an’ Mrs Smith. The skipper decides to give everyone one, then, so we all end up clad in neon.
Though the wind has lessened since we left the house, it looks pretty biblical out there. We chug out of the harbour, clutching our seats like terrified puffins. Suddenly this whole idea seems like madness. Freezing sea spray blends with the rain, stinging my face as the boat enters the bigger waves. I dig my hands in my armpits and try not to be scared. This is Mary’s day. Not mine.
The
Elspeth
climbs a particularly large wave, and everyone’s attention shoots towards the prow. Up we go. Up. Up. Then the horizon shifts an’ we crash down into a glossy black pit. I try to see the harbour over my shoulder, but the mist has closed in, an’ we’re alone out here.
Mrs Laird totters round with a demented smile. ‘Isn’t this
fun
!’ she shrieks to Jess and Aggie. They agree that it is. I look away in disgust.
We travel for what seems like hours, pitching further and further into the grey. At one point the water is full of slippery, bobbing heads, which the skipper says are seals. Then we chug past the mouth of a huge cave, and everyone reaches out to touch the rock. By the time we stop, the winds have calmed considerably. The skipper cuts the engine and the background sounds drift back. The gentler, simpler sounds, which the shrieking of the motor had hidden. I fill my lungs deeply with sea air. Water gurgles and laps. A beam of sunshine stabs the clouds.
‘Gather round, ladies,’ says Mrs Laird, and starts handing out the programmes. Obediently, people follow her to the front of the boat. Nobody chatters. Surprised by this orderliness, I take my copy and join them. Photocopied onto the paper is a picture of Mary’s face.
M. Wishart. Rest in peace
, it says. Inside there are two prayers and the lyrics to ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’.