Suddenly it was the voices, not the pictures, which were jostling for position in her head. Sometimes she could identify them, work out who was talking, but sometimes she couldn’t.
Lie absolutely still, if you move you’re a goner! for example. Who was saying that? It was a man, there was no doubt about that, she could hear it, an abrasive sort of voice that seemed a long way off, and it didn’t sound as bad as it had first seemed. It was more like advice he was trying to give her: she was to stay put, or something along those lines.
I’m so tired, Anna, you’ll have to take Marek to nursery today, I’ve been throwing up all night! That was her mum, of course. Come on, hurry up, they’re going on an outing today, he’s got to be there in fifteen minutes! And after a short pause for her to light a cigarette: I know I’ve had a bit too much to drink, Anna, but we’ve got to sit down and talk. Your father isn’t a good person, I hate having to say it, but it’s a fact. Keep away from him.
Yes, there was a lot her mother had to say to her and she was perpetually on that fine knife-edge between pleading and threatening. No, not threatening, that was something else, it was more that you never really knew who was the one that needed looking after.
And you knew it would all end badly, you could absolutely depend on that. It was just a matter of time.
But Valdemar’s voice was there, too. Little Anna, how nice you’ve made it look. Where did you learn to play so beautifully? Haste is a concept God didn’t see fit to create, let’s have a nap. With Valdemar it sounded more like an old radio play. He was playing the good dad, or even granddad, while she took the role of . . . well, she never heard her own voice, but maybe she was just the good, silent daughter, or maybe she wasn’t even in the play but just listening to the radio.
And Steffo. She wanted to put her hands over her ears whenever Steffo started up, and she assumed she actually did, too, trying to press her head into the pillow and make herself deaf, but it didn’t help because the voices came from within her, not from outside.
You’re mine, he said, Steffo. No one else’s. Now get your clothes off and show me that tattoo, it’s your birthday present and I paid for it.
Yes, Steffo was as distinct as he was evil, but who was it she could hear saying: You’ve given away your heart, Anna, and anyone who gives away their heart is lost?
And: We have weighed you on these scales, but the needle registers nothing. How do you explain that?
She didn’t know. Even though exactly the same voices and exactly the same words kept coming back, over and over again. But gradually it all got messier, the voices jumbled together, talking over each other, squabbling and jockeying to have their say. Even though none of them actually shouted out their message, they somehow upped the tempo, spoke ever faster and ever more insistently as if they were not only competing for her attention but also demanding some sort of answer from her, and even Valdemar sounded irritable. In the end, someone shouted: My name’s not Hitler, my name’s not Hitler, I’m a good person! and that was probably what woke her up.
But the boundary between dream and waking felt blurred and viscous. She opened her eyes and stared at a bedside table with a clock radio and a window with the blinds down, but the voices didn’t fade away entirely as she did so. They were still there, murmuring away quietly at the back of her head, and when it dawned on her that she was awake and dreaming at the same time, she was scared. Hearing voices? A sort of ice-cold, goosebumpy fear came over her because she realized, of course, that it was Death making his presence felt again, but this time he wasn’t gentle and kindly, but ominous and terrifying.
But where was she to find the strength to resist him? For he had to be resisted, there was no question of doing anything else. Her head was aching as usual – a dull, nagging ache – and her right arm was numb, also as usual. A vague queasiness was starting to develop and suddenly there was another voice that didn’t sound at all like the others; it was located somewhere deep inside her chest and after a while it dawned on her that it was her own.
Find a way out of this room, it said. You have to get to a hospital. You are dying. And it wouldn’t shut up. Find a way out of this room. You have to get to a hospital. You are . . .
She decided to obey it – almost instantly she decided that, but it wasn’t the easiest thing to do. Even just easing herself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed took quite a while. When she tried to stand up she almost fainted, and covering the few metres of floor between her and the door felt like running a marathon. Her exhaustion was like a multi-ton weight, it was a rucksack packed full of paving slabs and horror and lead and anxiety, and she had to shout orders at her legs to get them to move at all.
She had hoped to emerge into a corridor or something like that, to the extent she had hoped anything at all . . . at least a room in which there were people, but instead it was a parking area. The wind seized hold of her and she staggered before she realized with gritted teeth that she had to go on a bit further. She had to. She stood there with her hand still gripping the cold door handle, as if trying to draw strength from it in some absurd way, and looked at the cars lined up with their muzzles pointing in her direction, like hungry animals – one blue, one red, another red one and a kind of camper van – and beyond the cars a big road – she could hear the traffic roaring past – and beyond that, improbably, a greenish-yellow strip of forest and some birds flying around beneath a windswept sky. Where am I? she thought. How did I get here? Are these the heron mirages taking flight again? Which way should I go?
But then the voice resumed inside her chest. You have to get to a hospital. You are dying.
Well then, she thought, taking as much air into her lungs as she possibly could. Well then . . .
She let go of the handle and took a step forwards.
By the time she opened the door to the hotel reception area – a low little room just a few square metres in size with a counter, two glaringly red plastic chairs and a small display rack for leaflets – her strength was all gone. She fell diagonally forwards, hit her head on the display rack, started to bleed from a gash above her right eyebrow and landed between the chairs like quarry that had just taken a bullet.
The one-eyed woman behind the counter rose halfway to her feet, put her hand to her mouth and stubbed out her cigarette.
Then she picked up the phone and rang for an ambulance.