#
Day number six an’ Rhona is still missin’. Iss gettin’ hard to think of ways to fill my days. I spend most of the day sittin’ by my bedroom window. The pane is thicker in some parts than others, an’ this makes the world outside look wonky. If I move my head around, it makes stuff move. A bird crossin’ the sky might jump forwards by an inch, or a ripple might pass through the hillside. Before, it was fun to play with this superpower, but today is not one of those days. Sittin’ perfectly still, I watch the long red gravel driveway. The path to the outside world. Rhona is out there somewhere.
Golds an’ greens fleet across the moor. Clouds march from left to right, shiftin’ in colour an’ thickness an’ shape. Faraway mountains step from the mist, then vanish again like ghosts. Once or twice I hear footsteps, but no one ever stops or knocks on my door. I haven’t spoken to anyone all day, not even the cook, cos I’ve got too scared to leave my room. This is not good for me, an’ I know it. How dare Rhona leave me for so long? I feel myself shrinkin’. All the skills I’d learnt are slidin’ backwards, an’ the ugly bits of me they’d covered are right back out in the open. It doesn’t matter that I’ve spent three months amongst these people. Suddenly iss back to me an’ them, an’ the thought of havin’ to talk to anyone makes my skin fizz cold.
The day passes slowly, like yesterday, an’ the day before, an’ the day before that. But this is a new kind of slowness, that I haven’t felt before. Like I’ve fallen into a load of warm, sug’ry syrup an’ been cut off from the world. Stuff is goin’ on out there, I know that, but iss like those things don’t matter any more. In here, they can’t reach me an’ I can’t reach them. All I have left is myself.
Time gets stuck. I close my eyes.
#
Coldness wakes me, an’ my eyes open into blackness. Neck hurts. Was I dreamin’? I push myself upright, an’ the coldness sucks at my forehead.
Right. The window.
I’m on the window seat.
Pinpricks of light trickle down, an’ I understand I am lookin’ at the stars. My hand reaches out for the windowsill. Solid, an’ cold, an’ very real. My head doesn’t feel good. Across the room, the clock’s swallowed in shadow. Clutchin’ my jumper to my throat, I get up.
Wait … Uh …
My knees buckle an’ I fall onto the chair, almost missin’ it in the darkness. Silence drills into my head. Gatherin’ momentum, makin’ me giddy. I shut my eyes against it. My heart squirms. Then, quite softly, things start to move.
What … What’s … …
Uh …
Oh no …
No … … … …
Flakes lift an’ drift. Up, up. Into my nose, makin’ me sneeze. Zoomin’ faster. Stronger. Sharper. They blaze an’ froth an’ multiply. A million lurid eyes, peeled inwards. Through my ears, through my nose, through my teeth an’ my lungs an’ my gulpin’ tongue. Crowdin’ like wolves upon a single dense atom. My heart swings out of control. They are in me. Behind my eyes. In my veins. Rushin’. Squealin’. Whippin’. So many pictures, so many feelin’s. So fast. I can’t stop it. I gasp. Gasp again. Jerk my mouth open. Then my eyes. I am grippin’ my collar. Shocked, I let go, an’ the blood floods back into my hand.
Breathe … …
… … … … ….
… … … …
There. There …
… …
…
Breathe …
Iss over … …
Breathe … … …
Fizziness crawlin’ up my neck … my face … …
Iss okay. Iss okay. Iss okay …
Curlin’ sideways, I let my weight pull me off the chair. Here, I’m safe. I shrink as I stroke my neck, an’ smell the flow’ry Shake n’Vac. Iss over. Iss okay. Iss okay.
… … … … … … … ..
I drift back, an’ realise I’ve been singin’.
That song. I recognise it. Of course. My song.
My
song …
… … ….
I retreat into cold, fresh light. And I know I am outside. For a moment I don’t recognise myself, because my hair is white. Then I see my breath has turned it that way. Freezing clouds, coming from my mouth. My fringe a deathly skeleton. And beneath me, my clothes have frozen to the suitcase.
This place is like something off a postcard. Rickety wooden houses overhang the street. Lemon-yellow and brick-red and sage-green. Twisty gateways with hand-painted signs, and fat blue candles at every doorway, melting holes through the ice. A man-sized snowdrift hulks over me, banded with layers of grit. In the middle, a child’s glove. Fingers sticking out, as if beckoning for help.
Come on.
Please …
My new lingerie feels tight beneath my clothes. I wish I hadn’t put it on for him.
No. Don’t think of that.
Close your eyes.
Stop.
Just another one.
Why did you come?
Why did you bother coming?
No.
Why did you even bother coming?
I punch Håkon’s jeering lip. Blood spills over my hand. He looks up.
Why …
The spray hits my eyes.
Come at me, then!
One more of his sluts.
No!
Why did you come?
Come on, you bastard!
The room is pale. Risin’ on one hip, I blink the sleep from my eyes. Is that an envelope, pushed under the door? Maybe iss from someone outside. I wonder about Mrs McRae.
No one woke me. Again. That means Rhona’s not back.
I swing my legs round an’ hop onto the cold floorboards. I’m wearin’ my nightie with the strawberry on the front, an’ that scares me cos I don’t remember puttin’ it on. When I pick up the letter I see iss tucked, not sealed. No postmark on the front, or an address. Jus’
Katherine
in nice curly handwriting.
Dear Kathy,
As I’m sure you know by now, I have had to take a leave of absence. My mother’s condition has worsened and the doctors doubt she’ll make it to the end of the week. I’d only planned to be gone for the weekend, but I’m sorry to say circumstances have changed. Joyce will take over my duties for now, and I urge you to cooperate with her. As for your private psychiatric sessions … I know how you hate them, and how much support you need afterwards, so Vera has agreed to leave your next one until after my return. Having said that, please feel free to speak to someone if you need to. Vera, Joyce and Caroline are all there should you need them, and have been informed of the situation. Your group sessions will continue as normal.
Take care, dearest, and I’ll see you very soon,
Rhona
X
I squash the letter to my chest an’ try to get my breath. Suddenly I badly want a hug, but Rhona’s the only one who can hug me, an’ she’s not here. I wipe my eyes on the back of my hand an’ get back in bed.
Joyce can fuck right off. I’m not talkin’ to Joyce.
Is this some sort of trick? Maybe Rhona made up the whole thing so she can go work somewhere else. The envelope wasn’t sealed … That means anyone could have read it. Maybe they’re
all
in on it …
What’s the time? I peek over the bedcovers. Quarter to twelve says the clock. It’ll be lunchtime soon.
If they give me a new case worker, will that person be allowed in my room? What if Joyce walks in at twelve on the dot an’ forces me out of bed? Rhona never tried to push me past my limits. But Joyce doesn’t know about my limits. What if she sends me downstairs before I’m prop’ly washed or dressed? Imagine! Chokin’ down lunch in my nightie, with the others all pointin’. What if she asks me about private stuff? Magnus? Denmark? No! She doesn’t get into my life that easily! She can’t take Rhona’s place! Not jus’ like that! What is this? Musical chairs?
No …
Suddenly my head is full of Joyce, an’ I can’t get her out again. I picture the door opening. Joyce’s bony face appearin’, instead of Rhona’s. Her voice rappin’ on me like a fist. As the clock ticks the minutes off to lunchtime, I stare at the doorknob. Waitin’ for it to twist. Waitin’ for the loose floorboard on the landin’. Footsteps on the rug. A bossy voice callin’ my name.
No!
Rhona wouldn’t trick me like that. She jus’ wouldn’t. An’ anyway, iss true about her mother bein’ sick. She told me herself, ages ago.
The tears stay in my eyes, but a sort of hardness creeps in to join them. A coldness. Each time I swallow, it moves further in. Pressin’ on my heart. Curlin’ my hands into claws. I push myself into the dark, polished headboard. Beside me, the curtains are closed, but I can tell iss bad weather, from the light.
Damn Rhona’s mother. Why did she have to get sick? An’ damn Rhona, for lovin’ her mother more than me.
By two o’clock I’m starvin’, so I sneak downstairs. There’s no one around, an’ no food in the dinin’ room. But the door to Mrs Laird’s sittin’ room is open, so I grab a banana from her fruit bowl an’ slip out the back porch onto the moor. The air is super-still outside, like the sky’s holdin’ its breath. My shoes schlopp loudly through the mud, spittin’ dirt up my legs, but I don’t stop runnin’ till I’m safely behind the outhouses. Here, I’m hidden from Gille Dubh. Across the hillside, a dark, lumpy bank rises up, an’ I remember Rhona sayin’ that’s where the farmers cut out bricks of peat. It looks funny from here, like a giant mouth has swooped down an’ taken a chomp. There’s a bitter, fresh smell, like somethin’ alive.
I’ve never gone so far in this direction. Partly cos the ground gets dodgy to walk on. Wet in some places an’ hard in others, an’ never in the bits you expect. I try walkin’ on the high bits, but iss hard to see the ground through the bracken, an’ half the time I end up fallin’ into holes. Flowerless thistles jab my knees. Clumps of black lichen sink me, bubblin’, into mud.
I come to a sticky-out bit of land an’ stop to eat my banana. Below me, there’s a dip filled with heather, an’ right in the middle of that there’s a dark space, like a hole. What’s that? I go closer an’ find a perfectly circular pit, maybe ten metres wide, jam-packed with thorn bushes. Like the peat field, it looks like a bite mark. Only this one is long-healed. I lean over an’ try to see the bottom. Birds dip an’ flit through the bushes, too busy to bother themselves with me.
My legs are cold as I gaze downhill. Half a mile away, the perimeter fence cuts the hill in two. A long grey arm, holdin’ me firmly inside. I stare at it with tears in my eyes. Then, socks squelchin’, I climb back to the sticky-out bit. The roof of Gille Dubh creeps back over the horizon, an’ I have a little chuckle to myself at how innocent the place looks from here. Who’d believe a bunch of nutters lived inside? Wind makes the bracken rush around my knees. I close my eyes an’ it sounds like water. The sun pushes gently on my shoulders.
This will be my private place, I decide.
#
My back hurts. I sit at a wooden table in front of a window. Around me there is noise, like voices, but I cannot turn my head to see where this comes from. Outside, the sky is deep black. I sip from a hot cup, and blink my eyes, and feel the exhaustion. There are lights outside. Across the road. A factory … no … a wood mill … I watch the smoke rise. Calm. Vertical. I sip from the cup. I put down the cup. In the gloom between the window and the mill, a bus is parked. One sad street light looks down on it, and I see the name on its side. Then I know the bus is where I have come from. I am travelling on it, and will continue to.
The voices clatter on. More distinct now.
Bang bang bang. Bang bang bang
. And I try to turn around …
Was that my door … ?
Someone is …
Bang bang bang!
I gasp an’ shoot backwards, bangin’ my head on the headboard. My heart rattles hard as I stare into the dark. The bedclothes are swamped with sweat.
‘Who’s there?’ I hiss.
A
swoosh
. I wait. Then the ash tree groans. Out there, on the other side of the house. A gust like a human voice pushes the window, but I’ve already lowered my guard. There’s no need to be scared. Iss jus’ the wind. Iss jus’ the tree.
I’m at Gille Dubh.
The bus fades away, leavin’ a sense of great sadness in its wake. I sit up in bed, absorbin’ this feelin’. The bus is nothin’ new. Iss not the first time I have remembered the bus.
Rhona would have loved to hear about the bus …
It scares me when these bits of memory come out. Why can’t they stay where they are? I don’t like it, cos when they come out iss like they’re real again. Crowdin’ round me, blockin’ me in. Rhona says that’s the whole point of my therapy. To pull all those little bits from my head, stick em’ together an’ look at the full picture. After that, she says, I’ll start gettin’ better. But iss not as simple as that. I know there’s some pretty nasty stuff still inside me. Stuff not even Rhona can protect me from. I never told Rhona this, but I don’t think I
want
to let those things out. If I try really hard they might stay where they are. Then I won’t have to be scared any more. This stopped-clock life is good enough for me.
The window beyond my curtains is a plain black square pasted onto a blacker, denser square. My eyes are used to the dark, but no matter how wide I open them I can’t see more than the shape around the window. I wonder what the weather’s like where Rhona is. Is she awake, like me, lis’nin’ to the wind? Then I wonder, like I did all day yesterday, if she’s forgotten me. Outside, the ash tree cracks an’ swirls. It squeals an’ prods the roof.
I wrap myself tightly in the sheets, but my sweat has turned ’em thin an’ useless. Fear grows in me, slow an’ dull. What if I freeze to death when I fall asleep? Without ever wakin’ up? Is that possible?
I lie very still, wantin’ to cry, but the ash tree never stops an’ the cold never lifts from my bones. My shoulder is icy against the wooden headboard. I roll off the bed, draggin’ the covers with me, an’ thump slowly down onto the rug. There. I pull my knees to my chest. That’s better, somehow. I doze, aware of shapes dustin’ my eyelids. Fuzziness prickles through me, an’ in little grey footsteps the bedroom retreats.