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

slams. Muffled shrieks and howls. Silence. Then giggles. She runs her fingers along the holes in her flute, counting them one by one ‘… four, five, six …’ then back to the beginning. ‘One, two, three …’ The rhythmic sound of her counting stifles the noise from the bedroom below. She focuses on a crack in the ceiling and follows its meandering path to the far corner of the room.
    â€˜One, two, three, four,’ she counts, the cold metal of her flute pressed to her cheek.
    Downstairs, there is a thud and then more laughter. Without moving her head, Lottie leans back and takes the shepherd boy from beneath her pillow. She holds it in front of her face, turning it around, feeling its smooth texture. She puts the flute close to the shepherd boy, placing it where the lips might be if the statue still had a head.
    â€˜Tootle-too,’ she whistles, moving the flute to the music of her mouth. Then she runs the jagged neck of the ornament along the inside of her lip.
    â€˜Four, five, six …’ she counts and presses the sharp point into her soft skin. A droplet of blood appears and she licks it with her tongue. She tastes the sweetness of her own blood.
    â€˜One, two, three …’ she continues, fingering each hole of her flute as she counts. The yelps and sighs from downstairs become more heightened and Lottie lets the flute drop from her grasp and fall to the floor.
    Lying still on her bed, imagining the crack in the ceiling is an earthquake that will swallow her up, she makes short slashing movements with the sharp edge of the shepherd boy into the yielding flesh of her forearm.
    â€˜One, two, three …’ she recites as each cut is opened, as each incision sighs a silent note and the blood drops onto the shiny chrome of her sleeping flute.
    The next morning is clear and bright. Walking along the esplanade I feel the sea breeze clearing the muddle in my head, the disorientation I still sometimes feel from the absence of whiskey, of cocaine. It is especially strongest first thing in the morning when the lack of a hangover sets alarm bells ringing somewhere deep in the neurological department. Once again I pass the battered frontage of the bombed hotel. It looks as if someone wanted to blast a tunnel through a rock face. A little further along the road are the sharp lines and glimmering glass of the conference centre. It is just before ten. People are already making their way into the building. And then, there she is, waiting on the concourse. I sense it is her, even from a short distance. She exudes a confidence and style missing from the other delegates as they enter through the automatic doors leading to the lobby. She sees me coming and smiles.
    â€˜You must be Mary Foster.’
    â€˜You guessed?’
    â€˜I just thought it would be you.’
    â€˜A good start.’
    She is tall and slim and elegant. Somewhere in her late thirties. Her hair is long and dark and groomed. Her tailored jacket and skirted suit are immaculate, but the ruby-red lipstick smacks of sensuality.
    â€˜You had a comfortable journey and night?’ she enquires.
    â€˜I did indeed. On both counts, thank you.’
    A woman pushing a pram asks to be excused. We stand apart to let her through. Behind her follow two men, with short haircuts, each carrying identical black briefcases under their arms. They smile beatific smiles at us as they pass through the doors.
    â€˜Jehovah’s Witnesses?’ I say to Mary as we walk into the foyer.
    â€˜No, I think you’ll find they’re Mormons.’
    I look around the reception area. No sign of anything remotely pharmaceutical. The banners above the stalls dotted around the walls quote the Bible and other words of wisdom or doom. ‘Resurrection’ and ‘Judgement’ feature prominently, as do short-haired, clean-shaven men in suits, and women with lots of small children. The nearest we get to science is a sign