April 2021, Edinburgh
Janet keeps her eyes wide open. Sees clouds where there is no sky. Fingers where there are no hands. Liquid where is no container. Janet studies these oddities not with surprise, but with intent. They are telling her something important, she just needs to learn the code.
Janet knows her carrot soup from her stewed apple. Feels the cold of the vanilla ice-cream and the heat of the minced beef and tatties. But the swathes of material on and around her are incomprehensible. She plucks and scratches and writhes and undresses herself several times a day. They have tied her up. They have kidnapped her and they won’t let her go.
Janet knows her left from her right. Understands up and down. She is also clear that one foot is lucky and one is not. On weekdays she must set off on her ten steps an hour from the left foot. On weekends, she must start with the right. She hasn’t told the physiotherapist this. This is one of her secret weapons. And no one gets to know.
Janet knows the name of each fidgeting fairy that tiptoes along the table beside her bed. Can recognise the one with the limp, the one with the itchy back, the one that likes to cover her face with a perfect starling feather fan. The fairies don’t talk to Janet. There’s no need. They communicate with facial expressions, or a crooked finger, or the raising of an arm. Speaking is too dangerous. They all agree on that.
A woman in a red trouser suit with tangerine lips and green sludge above her eyes turns up with small machines and pens and notebooks and lays them out in front of Janet on a tray. Asks Janet if she can record the sessions. Asks Janet to pick up her pen. That she should write her memories down. Janet knows this woman is a secret agent. This woman has been sent to trick her. Janet lets the pen roll loose in her hand. Sometimes she draws a cloud the way a child would. A cloud that would be a sheep if four short lines were added. Janet doesn’t add the four short lines. Janet is not going to give the woman in red a single clue. Especially not about the sheep.
Through the long, never dark enough, nights, Janet knows the voice from deep within her mattress is different to that one in the ceiling, and that coming up the pipes and into the hand basin. Janet knows these voices have a pecking order, that the voice in the ceiling is in charge, that the one in the mattress is still finding its way with pronouns and adverbs and complex nouns. The voices speak to each other more than they speak to Janet. Sing song voices that only she and they can hear. Janet never looks in the direction of the voices. She knows not to give the game away.
Janet has stopped asking Sergi where she is and why can’t she leave. Sergi seemed to struggle with such questions. But Janet knows Sergi isn’t as stupid as he looks. Sergi is monitoring her. And she, Janet, must never lower her guard. Janet relaxes when Sergi enters the room. Leans back on her pillows or into the chair and opens her eyes slowly.
Ah, Sergi, she says. It’s you. Could you close the blinds a little. The sun is terribly bright. There are no blinds to close, but Sergi goes through the motions. And the smallest of crinkles crease around Janet’s eyes.
To be continued
SANDERLINGS 