What did she eat? Has she eaten anything different?
I gave her breakfast
.
What? You’re not supposed …
I thought …
She’s on a strict hypoglycaemic diet!
What? She wasn’t on that last time I was here!
It started right before you left. We were trying to keep her stable
.
Oh … Oh no … I’m sorry!
What were you thinking?
I didn’t know!
What kind of breakfast?
I don’t know … toast … honey … eggs
.
Did she eat the honey?
I … I think so …
(sighing)
Oh blazes, I made her a smoothie too … With the last of the bananas …
(sighs)
(more sighs)
(muttering)
Well, the worst is over. The sugar spike set her off … but …
I’ll stay and keep an eye on her
.
I’m so sorry …
Just ask next time, will you? You have to ask …
(sighing)
I’m sorry …
#
Everyone is angry with Dr Harrison except me. We are the bad guys. It feels good not to be the only one. She sneaks up to apologise for yesterday. ‘It’s okay,’ I tell her, ‘it wasn’t your fault.’
We talk quietly. Dr Harrison asks if I was trying to commit suicide when I jumped into the loch last week. I actually hadn’t considered this, and need a moment to decide.
‘No,’ I tell her.
Dr Harrison seems pleased.
‘Have you told them that?’
I shake my head. She urges me to tell them, because it’s the main reason they’ve got me so drugged up. I’m on suicide watch, she says. It’s the reason she came down here so fast.
‘Mm hmm,’ I reply. I have no intention of doing this, though.
‘I’ll try to get us a session tomorrow,’ says Dr Harrison. ‘I think I can convince them. As long as I don’t try to feed you again.’
We smile. She gets up.
‘Okay,’ I say.
Dr Harrison pauses at the door and presses her forehead to the door frame. When she speaks, her face is deadly serious.
‘Do you trust me, Katherine?’
Cautiously, I nod. It seems like the best option.
‘You see, there’s something that’s been puzzling me,’ she continues. ‘Something that’s written in your file.’
I sit up straight.
‘It’s about Magnus. I’m sorry. I know you don’t like to talk about that. But I need to know. What kind of accent did he have?’
I stare at Dr Harrison.
‘He’s from … Norway,’ I reply.
‘So he had a Norwegian accent?’
‘Well … yeah.’
‘You’re positive of this?’
‘Yes.’
Dr Harrison looks at her feet. She looks through the open door. Then she steps back inside, closes the door behind her and comes to sit on the bed.
‘A man called the police hotline,’ she says, quietly. ‘The same day you were found.’
I swallow. Dr Harrison’s eyes are harder now. More careful.
‘What did he say?’ I whisper.
Dr Harrison looks me in the eye for a second. Then looks away, as if regretting opening this can of worms.
‘He said … Well, he asked if you were still alive, and he called you Katherine. The police asked how he knew your name, because that information hadn’t been released yet, and he wouldn’t answer. He asked where you were being held, and when they wouldn’t tell him he got angry. He said to tell you he’ll be waiting. And he said these weird words. They tried to keep him on the line, of course, but he hung up. He was the only lead, back then. The only lead they ever had …’
I stiffen against the headboard. Suddenly my whole body feels like stone.
Hans …
‘What were the weird words?’ I ask.
Dr Harrison shakes her head. ‘It wasn’t any language I’m familiar with.’
A little sob escapes me. Dr Harrison shoots a hand out and puts it on my arm.
‘Look, I’m not saying this to scare you,’ she says. ‘You’re safe here, no matter what. But it would help us a great deal if you could tell us who that man was. You’ve been remembering things in therapy, and—’
‘It wouldn’t do any good,’ I whisper. Suddenly my plan to come clean about my past seems laughably naïve. Talking about my ex is one thing. But
Hans
is another completely.
‘You’re
safe
here,’ repeats Dr Harrison.
But this time I cannot find the words to answer. All I can do is shake my head.
March 10th, 2006.
A rustle in the dark stirs me out of sleep, and I open my eyes. For a moment, all is still. A faint glow comes from behind the curtains, indicating that the porch light is on. Then a shape moves across it – a shape that is in the room with me – and approaches the bed. I rocket backwards. Forgetting the knife. The shape comes closer.
‘Katty?’
I scream. Then the shape moves faster and a familiar voice says, ‘Kathy! It’s me! It’s me!’
‘Jesus fucking Christ …’
I flump back down and click the lamp on.
‘Magnus, what are you doing here? How did you get in?’
‘Door was unlocked. Can I get in the bed? It’s freezing.’
I wipe the sleep from my eyes. ‘What time is it?’
‘Six thirty.’
‘What the fuck!’
He flops into bed, reeking of alcohol.
‘Me and Mathilde had a fight,’ he says in a broken voice. There are tears in his eyes. He tries to put his arms around me, and before shaking him off I realise he is trembling.
‘So?’
‘I came to see you.’ Then, in a bitter, fake-happy tone: ‘I brought party snacks!’
He jerks an arm sideways, to indicate a bottle of aquavit in the middle of the floor. Or rather, two-thirds of a bottle. I can only assume the rest of it is inside him. For a moment I am speechless. Magnus sways closer, almost headbutting me in the process, and folds me in his arms.
‘Warm me up,’ he blurts, and sinks coldly into me. Time drifts, and despite my shock at this situation I am thrilled to be close to him again. Almost as if the last year never happened.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers into my neck. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’
I lie here awhile – Magnus sprawled on me like an octopus – my eyes flicking round the ceiling. Then he whispers ‘I love you’ and an angry lump rises in my throat. Unlike me, he has not spent the last three hundred nights alone. There’s a different woman for him to curl up with, and he probably tells her those words every night. I think of him lying in bed with Mathilde. Stroking her face. Kissing her. Fucking her. Suddenly, this is all I can think of. I look into his scrunched-up face and feel that curious blend of rage and love. Then my eyes wander sideways and fix on his jacket, which lies draped on the kitchen counter. It’s the only item he seems to have brought, besides the alcohol. I imagine shredding that jacket with the knife beneath my pillow. So close to my hand. How long would it take for me to snatch it and get across the room? I think I could make it before he stopped me. Then I’d throw him out. Fucking parasite. Out of my bed. Out of my life. Back to Mathilde.
No
.
Fucking lunatic. How can you think such things? Stop it
.
I look at Magnus. The long black eyelashes. The cheekbones. That perfect, photogenic symmetry.
Look at him. Look at
me
! It’s a wonder he came to visit at all.
Mathilde is the mother of his children. His first true love. Her eyes are clear turquoise and untarnished by failure. The world is hers. Magnus is hers. It’s all fucking hers.
But I’m still here. I’m still here …
I drift sadly, wondering what to do, and cannot come up with an answer. Magnus snores snottily. Eventually I close my eyes.
#
I wake with a bitterness on my lips. The clock says 4 p.m., but that can’t possibly be right. My limbs are like lead, and my head even heavier. What happened? Strange visions crowd me, of Magnus showing up at my bedside. Of crying in the dark, and gritty-tasting water. Hauling myself outside, I find Magnus smoking on the veranda. In the snow, he has made a pile of cigarette butts. Dirty, grey, smoked down to the filters. When he sees me he takes a last, long drag and crushes the butt with his unlaced boot. His eyes are red. Part of me wants to hug him. Another part still wants to hit him. He hunches there, dead-faced, and stares at me as if he has no idea who I am.
‘Hangover?’ I ask, neutrally.
‘I shouldn’t have come here,’ he says, almost as if to himself, and his Adam’s apple bobs.
‘Why did you come?’
‘I had to,’ he says. A pause, then, ‘I had to see you.’
‘You’re a bit late,’ I jab.
But he doesn’t rise to this. Instead he takes out a fresh cigarette, lights it with a cooking match and takes a slow, squinting drag.
‘I still love you, you know,’ he says, without looking at me. ‘I always will.’
‘You’re going back to her. Aren’t you?’
He looks at me silently, blows out a cloud of smoke, and nods.
‘The kids,’ he says, and with these words a fat tear wobbles down his face. Behind him, dusk is already well underway. As we stand here the porch light blinks off and the snowy garden’s glow takes over, like a smooth, elegant ghost. Since last night, a fresh topcoat has fallen. We stand side by side and look at it.
‘Things are not good here, Magnus. I won’t stick around much longer.’
He turns sharply.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I tried to tell you on the phone.’ I look behind me and lower my voice. ‘It’s not
safe
here …’
Magnus looks hard into my face, and for a second I think I detect concern. Then he tips his head back and says, scornfully, ‘Are you still talking about
that
?’
‘I can’t take it any more. I’m going back.’
‘Back?’
‘To the UK.’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know. In a few days. Maybe a week.’
‘You can’t!’
‘Why not? You’re already back with Mathilde. There’s nothing left for me here. Even Bobble’s gone.’
‘Bobble?’
‘Fucksake, Magnus. I told you a hundred times. My cat.’ I look over my shoulder and hiss, ‘I think
he
did something to her.’
‘Don’t be stupid!’
‘Shhhh!’ I stuff my hand to Magnus’s mouth. But he takes this opportunity to throw both arms around my waist and pulls me to him.
‘Don’t go,’ he croons.
‘Are you crazy?’
‘I love you,’ he sobs into my neck. ‘You’ve got to believe me …’
I hang in his arms, confused by these mixed signals. I want to hit him and get angry. To tell him there’s not a chance in hell. That he blew his chance with me a long time ago. But it’s no good. I can’t extinguish that flame.
‘You’re killing me,’ I gasp.
He buries his face deep in my hair, and together we sway in the darkening twilight. Tears leak down my face. By the time Magnus says, ‘Let’s get drunk,’ the world around us feels unreal. Wearily, I nod, and he leads me inside.
#
By six o’clock we’ve emptied a good chunk of the bottle. Magnus plays music at full volume and sits on the floor, singing along. Though the aquavit has loosened my nerves, I’m still not as smashed as Magnus, and the commotion from the radio makes me uneasy. I turn down the volume several times, but Magnus turns it back when I go to the toilet. Bit by bit he stops singing and just sits, staring at the blaring radio. On one occasion, I come back to find tears on his face.
‘Not much left,’ he says, holding up the bottle.
I reach to take a swig, but Magnus grabs it back.
‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Let’s drink this like my mother used to.’
‘What?’
‘The Danish way.’
‘What’s the Danish way?’
‘Colder!’
‘I don’t have a fridge.’
‘Uff,’ says Magnus. ‘Then we’ll put it in the snow.’
Just for a moment his smile reminds me of our first, crazy night in Newcastle, and it softens me.
‘All right,’ I smile.
Magnus holds the bottle out and measures with his fingers how much is left.
‘Little more shots first,’ he says, and hands the bottle to me. Wincing, I take a swig. It burns my mouth.
‘I fucking hate aquavit,’ I say.
‘I know,’ he says, and we laugh.
There’s not much left in the bottle by the time we go outside. Magnus gives me a piggyback round the veranda, his feet leaving thick holes in the snow.
‘Shhh,’ I hiss. ‘Hans will hear us!’ And I giggle some more.
We stop at the top of the steps, and I touch the veranda ceiling to steady myself.
‘Down there!’ I say, pointing at the garden, and wordlessly Magnus starts downwards. The steps are encased in ice, and at first I’m impressed by his sure-footedness. But this lasts all of three seconds. Magnus jolts forwards, grabs for the hand-rail, and I fall right over his shoulders. I reach my arms out, catch a shoulder on the bottom step and wallop head first into the undergrowth. Blackness punches into me, and for a second I don’t know where I am. Then I look sideways and see Magnus halfway down the steps.
‘Sorry,’ he winces. In front of him, a trail of broken glass. The last remains of the aquavit.
A dull pain gnaws my ribs. I rock myself forwards, and as I turn to look at the hollow my body has made in the snow, I notice a twisted brown object, half hidden from sight. That must be what I landed on. But what is it? It doesn’t look like a rock …
‘Looks like the party’s over,’ says Magnus as he reaches for my hand. His serious face is back.
‘Wait.’
‘What?’
‘There’s something down here.’
I lean forwards and tug the lump out of the snow. It’s spongy and greasy, with hard bits inside. I poke at it, and a smell like rotten eggs fills the air. Then I see the eyeball.
‘Oh!’ I cry, and drop it.
‘What?’
I kneel where I have fallen, looking at the body, and a horrible feeling suddenly grips me. That this is not a wild animal. That it’s … It’s …