by S E England
Isobel lunged for it, swung it wide and glared into the brightly lit room. “If you have a message for me, tell me what it is.”
Nothing.
“Is anyone here?”
The electric fire was cranking out heat, the light swaying slightly on the flex.
She switched both off. Then filled a hot water bottle and popped a couple of paracetamol. That should send her into oblivion for a while.
Another bad habit.
Yeah, well….
She stomped upstairs, determined to be normal and keep sane, to assert her right to live a peaceful life. Other mediums controlled this and so could she. Fear bred fear and even caused illusions in its image. That was all. That was all!
God, she was tired. She brushed her teeth and cleansed her face, resolutely not looking in the bathroom mirror; before climbing into bed under the full glare of the light, relishing the warmth of the hot water bottle.
Dear Lord, please protect me this night, please let me sleep through safely to morning. I promise to address the gift you have given me and to raise the courage to use it, but right now I really need to sleep because I’m exhausted. Please God, please keep the spirits away tonight. Thank you and amen.
They came to her in dreams.
The bed was soaked in blood. It poured out, draining her life force, staining the white sheets, spreading to the edge of the mattress and dripping onto the floor. It frothed and foamed, rippling in a tide towards the top of the stairs.
Oh, there were visitors down there…she had forgotten… people in fine clothing...people standing in the hallway clutching drinks, expressions filled with horror as looking up, they saw her crawling on her hands and knees towards the bannisters, peering through the gaps with her nightdress drenched crimson.
A baby screamed.
And Isobel jump-started awake.
Coated in sweat, her hair was matted against her forehead and her lower body ached badly. Frantically she reached for the bedside lamp and pushed back the covers to check for blood, initially relieved and then appalled. There wasn’t any blood, of course there wasn’t…but the stopper was no longer in the hot water bottle and the eiderdown was drenched. Fortunately the hot water hadn’t leaked onto her skin but...Puzzled she stared at what lay on the brown nylon carpet in a pool of lamplight. How the hell did the stopper get into the middle of the floor?
And on the back of that came the second thought. I had to switch on the lamp. But I left the lights on…Didn’t I?
Someone giggled, the sound ricocheting around the bedroom, and in the corner of her eye a shape – was it human – growled as it scampered across the floor. At the half way point, in the penumbra of the shadow, the creature paused and sat on its haunches, turning its head to look at her.
Then it broke a crooked smile, cracking a face withered to bone as it urinated all over the floor, the stink of hot uric acid cloying in the frigid air.
Isobel stared, near paralysed, her breath caught mid inhalation.
Then the image dissolved.
Christ! That was horrible. Evil.
Her breath was coming in rapid pants, tears burning her eyes. That was no spirit wanting to pass to the light, but the blank stare of pure malevolence and insanity.
Flopping back against the pillows she glanced at the time: 05:00 hours and still dark. There was something of a solemn sadness about the ashen-faced girl who had appeared in the lounge, though. Not all of this was evil. A girl drained of blood? Perhaps she had less strength to show herself and had come through dreams instead?
If only she wasn’t so alone with this. Mercy hadn’t been too keen to come here either, had she? Perhaps her belief wasn’t strong enough? Well, it was her darned job so it bloody well should be. Still, it wasn’t.
Branwen? What about Branwen?
Instantly she dismissed the thought. No, Branwen was a silly girl who liked dressing up and burning incense, fancied herself as a weird kind of artist. And besides, she was dangerous. She dabbled. More than that, she raised dark spirits.
Does she raise dark spirits? Why would you think that?
You know she does.
And who the fuck was speaking inside her head? Oh God, she could go mad out here on her own.
For a while, propped up with the lamp on, Isobel’s thoughts trailed along a myriad of different courses, eventually slipping into a fitful doze. Only to be re-awakened moments later by the sound of steady banging. Like that of a joiner nailing a coffin.
She flung the covers back.
Time for breakfast and a hot shower, then it would be a good idea to get out of this house for a while. Maybe the answers would come as she walked? It was often the way – pieces of the puzzle slotting in almost unawares, so that on coming home things that previously hadn’t made sense now did. One thing was certain though, she was here for a reason and everything endured to date – being ostracised, not fitting in, bordering insanity with terror – had led to this.
The only question was what? Because it seemed one hell of a preparation.
***
Chapter Fifteen
Flora
April, 1893
I am next. He is coming for me…But waiting, biding his time.
The danger grows insidiously, a living thing beginning to take form with each passing day. Of course, how could I have thought Diane was overweight when she either runs around in a state of great agitation or is so melancholy as to be rendered completely inert, unable even to lift a spoon to her mouth? That they loosened her dress to cover the bump is now obvious. Why had I not noticed? How could I have been so blind? Or perhaps the thought, being so utterly repugnant and unlikely, was never thought at all?
And so he waits. But on some instruction, perhaps for the right time? And they – all three – are complicit…A knot of deep unease twists into my stomach. Why have my letters not reached Amelia? What keeps her? Have, and dear God I hope this is not the case, our letters been intervened? Has she perhaps written but received no reply? Does she think me well? Why then would she not visit? It must be nearly May!
Dawn rises now in shades of silvery grey, the chatter of birds incongruously wild and merry beneath the eaves; and Diane drifts away to the shadows, muttering to herself about seeing the devil. Time and again my thoughts return to this devil of hers – the one with the lit cigarette at the peephole in the door. Is Gwilym Ash the father of her second child? Is it he or some other? And why would the women help him to conceal such acts? They clean up his mess…
Is the doctor aware? It beggars belief a woman can be delivered of child and him not know!
Round and round the questions swirl until quite suddenly it is light. I must have drifted off. How strangely the unconscious mind works. Stark and cold as always, the room is today, however, bright with the tilting axis of summer promise, woolly clouds scooting freely beyond the bars. By ill contrast, the wailing and screeching of fetid madness wakes the dormitory to its dreary routine. Ada, now blinded in one eye, and still bandaged from the attack, is being held down while the wadding to her oozing sores is changed. Her screams pierce the ear drums, while Nesta and Ivy curse her to keep still. The stench of pus, soiled beds and fear is rancid; the hopeless imprisonment deeply depressing.
When God’s earth is so disturbingly beautiful, the stark juxtaposition of human filth and degradation is both painful and sickening. How can it be so ugly, so badly wrong, with these poor souls left to suffer as they do?
Diane lies atop her bed, cold as waxwork, staring at silhouettes of shivery boughs and iron slats stealing across the walls. Her eyes are doll wide and fixed, lips working silently, as if these sliding shapes have arrived just for her this morning. She is lost to me now, for a while. I only hope she can be persuaded to come with me when I find a way out of here, and that it will be in time, before her next child is taken.
Thus, to all intents, I must remain of calm countenance in order to convince Dr Edgar to assess me with favour, to see I am quite well and must now
be allowed home. Surely I have endured enough harsh treatments? That I am still alive is testament only to my will power and nothing to do with his care. This has gone on for long enough and whatever qualms my family have regarding my mental health, they must surely see I am quite recovered.
Ada’s squeals are finally abating to the pathetic whimpers of a whipped dog. Nesta and Ivy are moving onto another of the women, one who was pushed out of bed during the night, doubtless by Cora. Of course, she likes nothing better than to scamper across the darkened floor in the dead of night, leap onto a bed and shove the occupant out. Or violently assault them with the leather of her shoe. This particular lady has just been discovered lying comatose on the floor between the metal frame and the wall, with a swelling the size of a lemon on her temple. Some of the women are shrieking, others hiding, one laughing hysterically. Amid the pandemonium Myra is called for and soon other attendants hurry in to help remove the victim by stretcher. I wonder if she will be taken to the chronic block upstairs, and if we will see her again, poor soul.
As the entourage passes it is clear she is close to death. Her eyes are closed, the lids bruised and swollen, and a trickle of blood congeals at the corner of her mouth. As frail as a bag of bird bones, she was a blue-toned woman who blended into the walls unnoticed - quite it seemed, without the power of speech.
Many have clamoured to watch her departure, huddling in a babbling group of concern. And it is among these that the silent watcher now stands – raising her eyes to meet mine with a steady somewhat disconcerting stare. I say disconcerting because her eyes are blinded with cataracts and yet she sees. I recall her quietly watching me in the early days and weeks, very gently shaking her head when I shouted or questioned what was happening. Diane said her daughter-in-law had her admitted because she held séances, that Violet is a spiritual medium able to stream voices of the dead through her body. Well now, she and I exchange a look, and there is indeed something of the darkness about her, some secret knowledge. Something which causes me to quickly turn away, cheeks aflame. It is as if she sees deep inside…as if she knows…
Around us the morning routine has fallen into disarray, the shrieking panic of Bedlam as the London madhouse has come to be known. And for once I am heartily glad when Ivy Payne finally yanks me to my feet for the washroom.
“Come on, look sharp and get dressed, Madam. You’re seeing the doctor this morning, so be on your best behaviour, is it?”
***
They keep me waiting for such a long time as to be unnatural. Indeed hours pass, the metronome tick of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece the only sound in this, the room referred to as the admissions room. On and on the click-clock-click-clock…until eventually the light dips to that of forthcoming rain, another day is spent, and evening shadows lengthen over the fields.
Within the rest of the house, however, the atmosphere seems fractious and has done so all day. Screams echo from high in the house, ghostly wails floating down chimney flues and along pipes. And all the while pounding footsteps rush up and down stairs, keys jangle and doors click open and shut. Perhaps this is some kind of test for the nerves? To see how long it takes me to start hammering on the door pleading to get out.
At one point my pulse quickens. Is that the sound of horses and carriage outside? Are my family here at long last to collect me? Am I, in fact, waiting to be taken home? Oh, God please let it be so!
But how could that be - still dressed as I am in the disgrace of an asylum uniform with identity tags sewn clearly on the outside? They would most certainly have made me presentable and covered my scalp with a bonnet. No, no… they would not permit a patient to be discharged like this. And after a while my poor heart squeezes with disappointment at the knowledge others possessed all along…that no one is coming…and the horses now clatter away, having only perhaps brought the mailman or some such delivery.
And now the gloom of impending rain collects in balls of angry clouds, spitting against the window and gusting down the chimney. There is not a sound in this house save my own breathing and the fluttering of a bird’s wings against the leaded pane. Poor thing, he has flown into the glass. And soon enough, predictably, his small body plummets to the ground with a soft thud.
A death omen.
Still no one comes. Are they to leave me here all night?
Then it occurs to me. I have been placed firmly out of the way – left on chair inside a locked room. All day…
Diane!
This makes sense. All at once I see this is the case. Something is happening today and they wanted me out of the way. Yes, he saw Diane and I last night, observed us talking, reported back…So they know about our friendship! Despite the fact we kept it secret in the shadows and hushes of pre-dawn. They know.
Gwilym. The puppet…the tell-tale…
Suddenly footsteps clatter down the corridor and the door flings wide.
Ivy Payne and Nesta Winters walk smartly in with towels, a bowl of hot water and a razor.
My eyes must be wide as a frightened pony’s. Immediately I shut them tight. No one will see my fear. No one. Especially not these two.
The towel goes around my shoulders with ne’er a word, and one of them sets to work scrubbing my scalp with detergent. Then without any explanation but plenty of chat between themselves, what remains of my cropped hair is shaved to the bone with little care taken not to nick the skin.
I am trying not to cry. Truly - not so much as a whimper. I will not ask. I will endure this. I will endure it but make no mistake, when I die I will haunt these bitches to the end of their damn days, so help me God.
“Be quick now,” says Ivy, quite deliberately in English. “Bend her head down, get the neck done.”
“Why don’t we leave a strand of it, you know – just to remind her of what she had?”
And so they do – an odd length of curl an inch or so behind the left ear, just to make me look even more peculiar.
Back to their local tongue, the chatter quickens now along with their fingers. They want to leave as soon as possible, their urgency palpable. I wish I could understand. It is a difficult language to learn and they talk rapidly in heavy dialect. Thanks to Diane and the habit of listening to their morning gossip though, a few words stick. Enough, as Diane would say, to fathom the gist.
They speak of a child…and a lake – specifically Llyn Mynachlog – the one behind the house. So much is flying over my head at such speed and with such an unusual level of vehemence it is clear they want the working day to be done. ‘Nos,’‘nos calan,’ and other words I do not understand but which are oft repeated, must be committed to memory - ‘coelcerth,’ ‘calan mai,’ ‘mochyn’ and, ‘eglwys.’ That last word, I am sure, is ‘church’. And ‘nos’ means ‘night’. So something to do with a child at the lake at night? In a church?
It makes little sense and is most frustrating. Diane would know, but Diane might not be lucid by the time I return to the dormitory, and I have a feeling that what is being said is about tonight - that something is going to happen imminently. If only there was someone else who understood both Welsh and English. Maybe Violet, the one who is spiritual? I wonder if she does? Alas, she seems quite mute.
The towel is now whipped away.
“There’s lovely,” says Ivy Payne. “All ready for your treatment.”
“She having it done in here, is she?”
“The doctor said to leave her here. Anyhow, we’ll be off now, M’ Lady. Important day tomorrow - you’re going to the village church.”
Nesta laughs. “She’s going to look lovely in the photographs, is it?”
Treatment? What treatment?
***
Chapter Sixteen
It is dusk when he arrives. The room remains unlit, swaying boughs brushstroke the walls with shadows, and leaves scratch at the window. Occasionally soot blows down the flue and spews across the hearth. The whole house is most curiously silent.
He does not bring with him a gaslight or candle, b
ut instead sets on the table beside me a small glass jar. And in the semi-dark it is clear what lurks inside.
Two black leeches are probing their surroundings, and the very sight of their shimmering, pulsating bodies with suckers shortly to bury into my veins, sets within me a lurch of sickly panic. Perhaps he hopes to bleed out my madness? But why shave my hair? Not…oh, not… please God in heaven, no…he cannot mean to place them to my head?
I must urgently persuade him of my sanity, yet without giving cause to diagnose hysteria - hold his gaze quite steadily and inform him that…
“And how are you this evening, Flora?”
I should dearly like to say I would feel better had I not been starved, attacked by fellow patients, repeatedly drowned to the point of death, manacled and strapped into a straitjacket. I would also feel happier were I not facing two black slugs ready to drink my blood. Alas, I am lightheaded, faint with hunger and eager for this rare interview to produce my release.
“I am well, sir.”
“I am glad to hear it. Perhaps then, a little tea and beef would be in order this evening?”
“Thank you, sir.”
He nods, observing me in a most disquieting manner, the eyes so without colour as to be made of glass. “We must first assess your fitness for church tomorrow. It is an important day in the village and we at Lavinia House must show our support.”
“I have no calendar, sir. Is it Easter?”
“Easter has passed. No, tomorrow is the first of May, and whilst we do not condone or participate in the unseemly revelry, the erm…festival…the villagers request our presence and there are few well enough to attend.”
“Yes sir.”
“You will be presentable enough I think, if you are able to convince me you will not go about screaming or becoming violent, which you are wont to do.”
I hold my tongue. Would he not be violent if he had been stripped of his liberty and subjected to such torture?