by S E England
The knowledge is there in the tight smiles of Ivy Payne and Myra Strickland. There too, in the smirk on Gwilym Ash’s face. I can smell it on them - the salty tang of fresh foetal blood. Oh, death is too good for these abominations of nature. For them I wish eternal hell, in this life and the next and for every vermin they spawn from their poisonous loins. Loathing for them blackens my heart until I am twisted and sick with it inside, and must keep my eyes downcast lest they see it festering there.
And now for church. God, dear God, are you there? Are you there for Diane, for me? Indeed, for any of these poor wretches?
They have us walk to the village in a troupe while Doctor Fox-Whately and his wife ride inside a horse-drawn carriage at the helm. There are but twelve of us, and astonishingly half are men. All this time I have never seen a male person here, such is the skill at keeping us apart. These men though, are hardly a threat to womankind, walking ahead in a motley pack, two so hunched and warped they cannot properly see the lane ahead. Behind them, trailing by several feet in order to continuously glance back at the women is Gwilym. Another reason to keep my head down and eyes averted.
It is a tragedy to be so stricken with despair on a morning such as this. Yet all this burgeoning life serves only to deepen my misery, a reminder that this world full of beauty is not for me; and never was or will be again for Diane. Somewhere other people are laughing or falling in love or dipping their toes in a fresh, cool mountain stream…maybe watching sunshine glint on a harbour bobbing with fishing boats. Somewhere, somewhere….people have joy in their hearts.
And the walk is both long and painful, my legs unused to such a distance buckling at intervals. Ivy Payne shoves me in the back. “Get a move on, Madam!”
She and Nesta are white about the gills today, their breath rank with alcohol. Out here in the stark light Ivy looks more sallow and gaunt than ever, the gouged rivulets around her lips and eyes deeply etched. She catches my swift assessment and her eyes harden to flint. That was a mistake. A big one. It is she who metes out the treatments, who sees fit to take us to the edge of existence each day. Casualties are many and only to be expected. And I must not forget the leech application is due when the good doctor deems me well enough, and it would be easy for her to extract the leeches with suckers still in the veins, or worse - leave them to burrow inside my nose or mouth. She would do so too, without a qualm.
At last the village comes into view, such that it is - a dank, overshadowed cluster of cottages either side of a cobbled square. But to my horror a crowd has gathered. Clearly in excitable spirits already, the jostling, jeering mob begins to clap and shout. We are the carnival of fools, the idiots on display for entertainment, and one or two of the more vacuous in our troupe appear to enjoy the attention, grinning and witless.
Taunts and insults are levied, the bravest leaping into our faces with ghastly screeches. Alas, in such a dialect it is difficult to, as dear Diane would have said, fathom the gist. I am in no doubt they are calling us dumb and imbecilic or cursed with demons, and what a good thing it is we are kept locked up so they can sleep safely in their beds.
I am glad for the hat hiding my face, and the fear I know will be marked for all to see. This public parading of the asylum inmates is perhaps the most galling of all - the most utterly humiliating experience imaginable, and a great swell of tears drop down my cheeks. For now. For this moment. And for Diane, who will never again hold my hand in the darkest hours and tell me to keep living, keep fighting. For what though, Diane? For what? For this? Or even to be a free woman again and return to life as it was? For that can never be so. This will forever scar my soul. I am much changed and will never again be Flora George. I am losing hope now. All that she instilled…I am losing.
Help me God, please, for I am losing my will…
The church service at least, save for those constantly turning around to nudge each other and snigger, is a time and place of peaceful respite. Sunshine streams through the stained glass windows, illuminating the vaulted building with what can only be described as exalting divinity. It strikes such an intense emotion within me that the sermon passes in a blur of words; the only ones I actually recall being so paradoxical the irony almost makes me cry.
For behold, the winter is past; the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come.
The time of singing. I hardly think so. I doubt I will ever sing again. If I open my mouth to do so absolutely nothing comes forth, and the pious explanation of the Bible lesson serves only to sour my heart further. What God do they worship? What crippling messages of servitude! We are all sinners. Yes indeed, except for the sanctimonious self-righteous persons in the front pews.
Afterwards, Doctor Fox-Whately shakes hands with the minister, and as the congregation spills outside into hazy sunshine, local men doff their caps to him and his wife. What good work they are doing. The people shake their heads in wonder, admiring all they do for people like us. Truly, they are Christians carrying out God’s work.
During the hour we have been in the church, however, much has awakened in the village – the other half of the village, that is. These are the wild folk, and as such have arrived from far and wide for the festivity. A birch maypole takes centre stage on the village green. Girls in white dresses with flowers adorning their hair are preparing to thread the ribbons in a merry dance, and musicians tune fiddles and flutes in readiness.
Screeching cockerels have been packed in adjacent cages close enough to bait and taunt, and the square has filled with throngs of peasants already tanked with ale, their faces ruddy, spirits bawdy and high. These people are of the honest and straight forward ilk but are raw and brittle with it, raucous humour perilously close to cracking into blood lust at any given moment. And in the ensuing chaos, our group becomes separated, a huddle of us suddenly several yards behind the others.
The mob now pushes and swells, rearing into our faces with garish masks, hurling abuse, goading each other. A prancing jester leaps around us like a mischievous collie herding sheep as we struggle to make our way across the square. Panic grips each one of us in a contagion as we struggle to hold onto our hats and keep our clothes about us. Ahead the doctor’s carriage has stopped at the inn on the corner, and the male patients are being lined up for a camera man. The photographer gesticulates with instructions, neck craning over the crowd for the female contingent.
Lord in Heaven we are to be photographed. Pray this will be the final indignity of the day. At least there will always be the memory of the light in the church - the way the rays shone in a prism of colour for the spirit of my one true friend – a treasure to hold onto. Besides, I suppose this is one last thing. We are almost done here, soon away and forgotten.
This is what I am fixed upon, this thought that the whole ordeal is nearly over. Which is why what happens next takes me so badly by surprise.
It happens all at once. A feast is being prepared, a spit roast, a fire lit beneath it. Sparks from the dry wood crack and spit. A little parade of ponies and carts arrives carrying the May Queen, turning the corner in a blare of trumpets and drums. The crowd roars forwards. And a hobby horse covered in a sheet jumps into the throng with a troupe of jingling dancers and merrymakers, its head that of a real horse’s skull, the eyes made of glass, a mane of ribbons and a mechanical jaw that snaps and neighs. Children scream. And then quite without warning it turns its mischievous attentions to me, trying to nudge the hat from my head.
“No, no, please!”
The children are laughing, urging the horrible thing to get the hat, to force me to walk through the village as a bald freak. Perhaps they don’t know I have no hair? I have to assume it is innocent, a joke. Alas, their determination is escalating alarmingly.
And then above all the shouting and high jinks, Ivy Payne hisses behind her hand, “Grab her arms, Nesta, so they can get it off her!”
At the same moment, a cockerel breaks loose from its cage and a sudden high-pitched squealin
g has everyone swinging around. A huge bloated sow is being led into the square. Bound in ropes she is screaming for her life but in less than a second is wrestled to the floor and her throat is slashed.
Blood sprays the cobbles, instantly pooling into a dark lake that ripples outwards in a crimson tide - an ocean of thick, hot syrup.
The world stutters and stops.
The chamber is dark.
A heavy sash window slams shut. A hollow-eyed woman looks into the shadows of her bedroom mirror at what she has done. And there is not a drop of air. Only the sensation of blood draining away, saturating the mattress, dripping onto the floorboards and flowing under the door…
“Grab her arms, Ivy, I can’t…”
“Hold her, will you? Shout for the doctor…why you little bitch…”
“Get a hold of her! Hold her!”
***
Chapter Twenty-One
Isobel
Present Day
Isobel waited for the rest of the day and into the evening, busying herself with hanging clothes and then answering emails. Once again the fog lay heavily in the valley, and through windows blurred with drizzle the ghost of her reflection stared back. Why hadn’t Branwen come? It was she who had insisted.
It didn’t make sense - why would she not turn up after all she’d said? There were things she should know apparently, and people to watch out for. Terrible danger, she was in…Presumably she was referring to Rhys Payne and his wife, Cath? Well, they were just aggressive types, weren’t they? The human equivalent of guard dogs trained to snarl and chase, especially if the quarry was on its own and defenceless.
With another cup of coffee to hand and the little electric fire on full pelt, she scrolled through her inbox. Ah, finally here was one from Nina. Brilliant.
‘Hi Issy! It sounds amazing where you are – just what you needed – there’s nothing like the beauty of nature to recharge your batteries, is there? And that village! You had me in stitches. I was thinking about the League of Gentlemen. Any isolated place and there are always some odd reactions to strangers, it’s age old psychology so don’t take it too personally. I am sure you’ll soon be accepted and settle in. And at least The Gatehouse was just the lodge and not the actual asylum – somehow I don’t think that would have worked out for you too well. On that subject, though, I was having a look at the history of Victorian asylums, which you’re probably already au fait with because you worked in one once, didn’t you? But there really are some nightmare stories of people wrongly incarcerated because family members wanted them out of the way; or they were simply deaf or had epilepsy. I imagine that Lavinia House has some tales to tell? Didn’t you say one of your patients had been institutionalised her whole life because she got pregnant out of wedlock? Honestly, it beggars belief. And it really wasn’t that long ago!
Anyway, all is well here and I hope you’ll keep in touch and tell me how things are going? Remember what I said – I will be there at the drop of a hat if you need me.
Love Nina x’
Nina, bless her, always made her feel that bit less alone in the world - that bit less abnormal. She’d reply straight away...
The vision came with startling clarity - a gloved hand reaching for a door bell.
Someone was here.
She gasped, but no sooner had the image appeared than an old-fashioned clang resounded through the house and she nearly jumped clean off of the chair. Bloody hell, that was loud enough to wake the dead. An unfortunate phrase, she thought, having spilled coffee everywhere. Still, hopefully this would be Branwen? In fact, yes, she knew it was Branwen. Part of her gift was to accept it and have confidence. It was pretty helpful, after all, to know who would be on the other side of the door.
Swinging the door open however, the smile died on her face.
“Right, one thing we need to get straight,” said Lorna Fox-Whately. “Mrs Lee, isn’t it?”
Behind her a Volvo estate had been left with the engine running, two dogs barking themselves into a frenzy on the back seat. With the light behind her, it was impossible to be sure, but it did look as if there was another person in the car. Was that her husband, the GP?
Trying to recover her composure, Isobel spluttered, “Yes–”
“You were seen again, for the second time in as many days, walking across our grounds at Lavinia House. Now I thought I’d made myself quite clear? We do not permit trespassing. Your rights as a tenant here are categorically restricted to this house and the immediate garden. That is all. Do you understand? Quite frankly, if you don’t stick to the agreement we will have no option but to terminate the contract and you jolly well won’t be getting a refund, either. I really am astonished, quite frankly, that I should have to tell you twice!”
Isobel’s heart was beating so fast it almost tripped into fibrillation. Her entire neck and face flushed deep red and her legs began to shake. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise how close to the border I was. I’d become lost in the woods and–”
Lorna’s eyes lasered into hers. “I don’t give a tinker’s cuss about excuses, just don’t let it happen again or I will - and make no mistake I will do it - contact the agent and issue a formal complaint.”
“Right.”
After she’d closed the door, she slumped onto the bottom stair and found she could do nothing but stare blankly. Jeez, what was her problem? What a fucking mare!
She’d been badly wrong-footed there as well. Bloody woman! If she’d known it was her she wouldn’t have answered. It was hardly a heinous crime anyway was it – a ten minute walk across the far border of a field? What was it with her? She hadn’t hurt anyone, hadn’t been anywhere near the house or…
Frantic rapping on the front door interrupted her thoughts.
God, I feel sick. If that isn’t Branwen this time, I… She opened it an inch, keeping the chain on.
“Fuck me, I’m bloody soaked – it’s rank out there,” said Branwen, throwing back a long hooded cape. “I see you had a visit from the village bitch, then?”
“I’m still shaking actually. Come in. I don’t suppose you’ve brought any wine, have you? Or anything – I’m not fussy. I’m trying not to drink but I really could do with one, and I don’t fancy going to Delyth’s–”
“Oh, Delyth’s not that bad. It’s not her you’ve got to watch.” She pulled a dark brown glass bottle from a pocket inside the cape. “Here we go – how about a lovely bit of mead to warm us up?”
“Brilliant, you’re a life saver. Come through to the back room, Branwen, I’ve got the fire on in there. I’ll fetch some glasses and–”
“Bloody hell, it’s freezing in here. Hey, hang on a minute – stop a second, will you?”
“What? What is it?”
Branwen was standing by the parlour door.
“What is it?”
“Well, I didn’t know that! And I was born and bred in this village too. I’ve never been in this house before, though.”
“What? What didn’t you–”
Branwen held up her hand. With her head cocked slightly to one side she seemed to have tranced out. Then suddenly snapped to. “Did you know this house was used as a morgue?”
***
Chapter Twenty-Two
Branwen unscrewed the bottle of mead and poured them both a glass. “Here’s to a new friendship! Knock it back, lovely.”
Isobel didn’t need telling twice. The impact, mind, was a powerful one - the after-burn a furnace that took her breath. She gripped the mantelpiece. “Fuck me! What’s in it?”
“Best not to ask. Here, have a top up.”
“Thanks. Take a seat, Branwen.”
Was it her imagination or was she a bit drunk? She plonked onto the opposite chair rather too abruptly. Surely not! It would take a lot more than a glass of mead to do that. Even so, her face was aflame and not a single coherent thought would form. And after a second glass her voice sounded as loud as a party bore and she couldn’t stop talking.
She slumped
against the back of the chair, dazed.
“Good bit of stuff, isn’t it? Thing is, you’ll see more clearly now–”
“See what more clearly? But I don’t want to…”
“Hold on now and let me do some grounding work. There are dark spirits in here as I think you know” Branwen closed her eyes. “Just relax, lovely.”
Her reply came out slurred. “Yesh…I don’t want to see, though…”
She must have dozed. Then suddenly jolted awake. Had she slept? Had time passed? She looked at the clock. A couple of minutes at most….Yet the atmosphere was different, the furniture leaping out as if from a 3D picture, Branwen’s eyes a startlingly vivid green, and there was the strangest feeling of being outdoors, of smoke in the air.
“There, that’s done. You know it’s funny none of us have been in this house before. I know they had Gwyn do the cleaning, but according to Delyth she was keen to finish, said she felt someone hovering behind her all the time… And even then I never guessed it had been a morgue. Well I never…Mind you, one or two things make a bit more sense come to think of it.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, Lorna and Mervyn hired all the contractors from out of town and I can tell you they were glad to leave. Some of them had funny turns, got ill and went home sick - wouldn’t come back here again, either. To be honest, I’m not surprised you’ve had it bad.”
“How do yer know I’ve ’ad it bad?” Her empty glass slipped softly from her fingers, landing on the carpet with a dull thud, the hollow feeling inside expanding with the shock of being outed. Branwen could see right through her… what she was, who she was…
“The fear clings to you, to be honest, like swirling black shapes that sometimes take form. Imagine a candle smoking with herbs and all those dark tendrils coiling into the air… kind of like that.”