Read Online The Swan Song of Doctor Malloy by Robert Power - Free Book Online Page A

gave it to me.’
    Then she presses the sharp point into her arm until the skin gives way and a small pearl of blood appears under the pressure. Maintaining the force, she pulls the edge of the mermaid tail against her yielding skin, opening a wound that oozes bright red blood. Lottie notes the swoon on her friend’s face, the release and peace in her eyes, and she wants it for herself. In the street outside, two drunks argue over something one of them thinks he has seen. A train rumbles by on the nearby track. But all Lottie hears is the low moaning sound from her new blood sister, like the purr of a cat in front of a warm open fire.
    Next morning after practising her flute, while her mother makes porridge in the kitchen, Lottie reaches up to the top shelf of the Welsh dresser in the dining room. There, behind rows of empty jam jars, she finds the small porcelain figure of the shepherd boy that has sat there all her life. Back in the solitude of her room, the breakfast smells filling the house, she breaks the head of the statue against her bedhead and hides the decapitated figure under her pillow.

4
    Views from the pier
    I love the train journey to Brighton. Leaving London, crossing the Thames, passing the funnels of the Battersea Power-Station and then all the way down the hill to the seaside, swooping and sweeping through the green, rolling countryside. It’s not the Great Ocean Road, nothing like it, but it’s the best you can get one-and-a-half hours from London.
    Of course, I know all about the bomb and its aftermath. Even someone like me, who from time to time hides away from the news, could not have missed it. It has been on every form of media, the talking point of the past week. The Prime Minister is still in a critical condition, or so we are told, with several members of her cabinet dead. Despite the doom and gloom of the media, Brighton looks the same as I walk along the esplanade towards my hotel. Inflated rubber rings flap from the doorways of gift shops, rollerbladers scythe through the pedestrians strolling towards Hove, and the Ferris wheel turns on the end of the pier. The only visible sign of disruption is the barrier cordoning off the bombed hotel, the scaffolding and plastic sheeting bandaging the shattered brickwork.
    I think of my sister Caitlin and the postcard she sent me. We care about each other and always keep in contact, but what with my work and her itinerant lifestyle, we haven’t met up for months. I’ve made a mental note to track her down while I’m in town, especially now this happy coincidence brings me to Brighton.
    I enter the lobby of the hotel. The man at the front desk is most apologetic. Sleepy seaside life has clearly been disrupted.
    â€˜Sorry for all the infernal noise. But ever since the bomb, it’s been chaos in this town.’
    The poor man looks exhausted, stressed to the limit, his tidy world turned upside down.
    â€˜Not to worry. I’m amazed you’re open at all,’ I try to reassure him.
    All the formalities have already been dealt with. I am handed a folded note with my key.
    Dear Dr Malloy, Hope you have a comfortable night. I’ll meet you outside the Conference Centre at 10am tomorrow morning. Best wishes, Dr Mary Foster.
    It is signed with a flourish. The image in my mind of this woman is the kind guaranteed to alert the attention of my therapist.
    The time is long past eleven as I settle into my room. After ignoring the lure of the mini bar – ‘You can’t get drunk if you don’t pick up the first drink’ – I fall into a deep sleep. The sound of waves crashing on the pebbled beach provides a soothing and rhythmic accompaniment to my dreams. The night takes me to a walled city, where my mother paces the ramparts, howling at the moon.
    Lottie is tired from practising the flute. She lies on her bed listening to the laughter coming from the bedroom below. Her mother laughs. Christine giggles. A door