Later, hanging over the toilet bowl, exhausted – I don’t want your damn money, woman! You castrating bitch! Not a penny of it! – I hear her in conversation with the rabbit. If the rabbit responds – as I’m sure that it will, that it must – its replies are tragically indecipherable (to my ears at least).

16

Miss Carla Hahn

I had one of my special dreams – could you call it a nightmare? – one of my special, terrible, Orla dreams. It’s been a while now since I’ve dreamed about her. Was it the smell of eucalyptus that set it off? Did it awaken something hidden – suspended – deep within my synapses?

I was at Mulberry Cottage – in my dream – and I was in the garden gathering the fallen leaves from the old tree (the long defunct old mulberry tree). I was raking them up, anxiously. And there was fruit, too. A host of fat, purple berries. They were dropping from the branches overhead. Soft, ripe fruit. And as I gathered the berries up and crammed them into the pockets of my coat, I noticed that my hands were stained – all red. From the juices. And I felt an encroaching sense of panic – a strong resistance. An urge to hide, to flee. Then the fruit started to fall more heavily, like hail. It hit me, like hail. And it left red welts where it landed, but I couldn’t tell – wasn’t certain – whether they were real wounds or just remnants of pulp. It didn’t hurt. There was no pain.

I blinked, in the dream, and I was transported inside the cottage. I was still gathering leaves, on my knees, from the floorboards, but these were eucalyptus leaves, and I was fearful, because I remembered that I am allergic to these leaves, that my hands would blister if they made contact. And so I looked down at my hands. I held out my hands – which only seconds ago had been a vicious shade of puce – and they were clean; healed! A pure, milky white!

Then Orla spoke to me. Orla was there. She was among the leaves. She is the leaves.

‘Gather them up for me, Carla,’ she whispers, her voice just a gentle rustling. ‘Don’t be scared. Gather them up for me, please.’

And she held out her little arms. ‘It is time, meine Carla,’ she says.

‘Watch out for the mulberries!’ I warn her. Because although I’m inside, I’m still afraid of the mulberries, and I can’t be certain they won’t harm her. And I’m right to be afraid, because her skin is suddenly marked by a series of crimson spots – like she’s been peppered by shotgun pellets. But she is still holding out her arms. Her tiny arms. And I can’t lift myself from my knees, I can’t help her. There is nothing I can do to help her. But I can gather up the leaves for her. So I start gathering them together, crying, helplessly, my face a mess of tears and snot. And the more I gather them the more there are. And every time I clear a section, a gust of wind hits the little pile I’ve amassed and sends them flying. I am muttering something under my breath: 4004. Four thousand and four what? Leaves? Yes. 4004. I am counting the leaves; one, two, three, four … Counting the leaves, anxiously. And I need to reach the total, very precise number. 4004. I am muttering it obsessively: ‘4004. Orla’s number.’