Hidden Company

by S E England

  Flora

  Lavinia House, Summer 1893

  So here I find myself in the place no one leaves. This is where I thought I would never be - the Chronic Ward. These souls are lost to the world and tonight I am one of them.

  Since first arriving at Lavinia House I have always assumed the eerie moans and screams wailing through the house emanate from here - that this is where the most deranged creatures of all are kept, perhaps even chained. But that is not the case. Indeed, it appears there are further rooms above this one. An attic, perhaps? And the pitiful cries are coming from there. What kind of person could be more insane, more violent or sicker than here in this terrible ward? What wretched creatures reside up there, I wonder?

  It is a question, at least, which keeps my mind alert now that the blur of morphine is wearing off. I will die now, I think. This is where it will end.

  Eventually the blackness of night gives way to the ethereal blue of early dawn, and with it comes the emergence of my new companions…ash-skinned cadavers with hollow eyes and flesh rotted to the bone…their bare skulls and malignant sores a sickly sight to behold. Occasionally a macabre chuckling sounds from a wheezing chest, an occurrence quite disturbing from a creature dying in a pool of their own waste. One of these unfortunates has pushed back her covers to begin a perilous journey across the room, balancing on the tips of her toes, claw hands grasping at thin air like a spider feeling its way. She will fall, I am sure, as she stands swaying and twitching, arms flailing wildly.

  “You must go back to your bed, you will fall!”

  The poor creature turns, alarmed, and too late I realise she is blind, the retinas eaten away by disease, along with most of her nose and mouth. Feeling her way towards the sound of my voice she holds out her arms, quietly cackling to herself. And I realise my mistake.

  “No, no!”

  She is a bundle of sticks, the stench from her foul, but I rise and steer her back to her bed. I must. Even as she fingers my bare skin and breathes the rank, fetid stink of malignant lungs into my face.

  If only I had not done what I did back there in the village. If only I had closed my eyes and nose to the blood…

  How long will they leave me here - surrounded not only by those who are diseased, violent and insane, but contagious with consumption? These are the weak ones who did not survive the hard moral discipline and cold water treatments, those who now have the pallor of ghosts and cough blood. Spittoons sit on every cabinet, full, no doubt, of the warm, globular expulsions. Enough. Or I will surely retch.

  The air in here is cold and clammy. It is also utterly dark. Unlike the dormitory below there is no light in the centre of the ceiling and the windows, sealed shut, are considerably smaller. It is here we come to die, then? I wonder if my sister will ever know I passed? Will there be a grave? And of what will I die - smallpox or consumption? There are some here covered in pustules and scabs, the smell of carbolic lingering in the air. I think, perhaps, I would rather consumption. And yet I am alive still. My heart beats. My breath draws.

  How long? How long here?

  Til death?

  How long?

  They have a new plan for me, I feel it.

  Thumps and the pitter-patter of running feet sound from above. Another day is rising now, streaks of rose across the sky, a cacophony of birds in the eaves…God, how I envy them their freedom.

  Why did I do it? Oh God, the despair, the stupidity…And the only answer I can give myself is I don’t know. There was blood…blood spilling everywhere…splashing onto the cobbles, the sanguine tang of it…people shouting and laughing and grabbing at my hat, manhandling me…And then what… a flash, yes…the camera clicked to take a picture…

  Oh God, yes. It was then. In that single blinding flare that I saw what happened in the chamber…a curtain flung wide to reveal the scene…

  Alas, only to drop back once more.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Morning, Madam.” Gwilym’s rude gaze travels the length of my nightdress all the way down to the ankles and back up again. “Get up. The Master wants to see you.”

  How badly I need to ask why. A punishment is coming, but what?

  “First we’ll go to the bathroom, is it?”

  Humiliation and rage boil in my blood. What happened to the female attendants? How come this disgusting foul pig is allowed to witness my personal needs?

  And stand over me he does - while I use the pot and pull the nightdress off - leering at this naked body made wretched by starvation. And then come buckets of freezing water. It is to cool the temper, says he, tipping one after the other over my head. After that he hands over a new uniform for the summer, that of a long, flowery smocked dress. It goes on a wet, shivering body. No hat, no gloves. Just the attire of an asylum idiot for the lighter months.

  I will not meet his eyes and I will not speak, even as he turns me around, straps my arms to the sides with a bandage of cotton sheeting, and lets his hands wander all over me while he does it. Every muscle freezes rigid. I will not tremble. I will not show how repulsed I am. I will not say a word. But I will…oh, I will…see him in Hell for this.

  When he is done we walk unspeaking along another grim corridor that echoes with hollow laughter and the screams of madness; through locked double doors, down flights of stairs, more corridors, more doors… and finally into the central atrium and wood-panelled, carpeted hallway to Doctor Fox-Whately’s office.

  Gwilym raps on the door.

  It is strange how the knots in the wood hold no fascination for me now. I wonder, in fact, how they ever could have done, yet I recall it so vividly. How it was.

  “Come!”

  Seated at his desk, the doctor is again busy scribbling.

  Must Gwilym maintain a hold of my arm? I can hardly bolt for freedom. But I will not give him the satisfaction of a struggle he will win. Nor will I glance at the bald-headed, wild-eyed girl in the monstrous flowery dress reflected in the mirror.

  A dress was made for me when I turned eighteen…I can see it now…of white silk with stays tied in bows of violet blue. People said the ribbons matched my eyes. Another lifetime, another world, another person. Whatever did I do? It must have been a heinous thing for it to be buried so deeply, to flare and die, flare and die. Yet it hovers with such frustrating glints of clarity…Would it kill me to recall it? I must know. I must. It would make this punishment so much easier to bear.

  “So then, what a spectacle yesterday, Flora!”

  The man is speaking. I suppose I must respond.

  He nods to Gwilym, who finally relinquishes the squeeze on my arm. That pinch will bruise badly and ache for days.

  “We were preparing to allow you more freedom, but it seems you repaid our trust with one of your usual acts of violence. What say you?”

  I say nothing, you fool. I have nothing inside of me to say.

  His lopsided mouth glistens with the flicking of his tongue, the wiry whiskers on his face curling like those on pigskin.

  “I see. You are mute. In that case we must administer a course of isolation, a time for you to reflect on your behaviour. Nothing else, it seems, has had an effect on your temper.”

  My jaw is set so tight in its socket I can barely speak, and when I do it is with enormous effort. “Why have I had no letters from my sister?”

  “Perhaps she has chosen not to write?”

  “I know my own sister. I have written her. She would have written back.”

  Having picked up his infernal pen once more he puts it aside and sighs. “Had she written, you would have had the letters, would you not?”

  “I do not believe so.”

  His stare radiates that ill-kept fury. Oh, how close it is to the surface. “What fresh delusion is this?” says he. “That someone has perhaps stolen your letters?”

  “Yes.”

  “Flora, has it occurred to you that your family are perhaps a little disgraced by your conduct? That perhaps they are awaiting yo
ur full recovery before corresponding? We advise families that people who are very disturbed, such as yourself, often deteriorate with outside contact and in fact, regain their health more quickly without it. I would therefore put it to you that it is in your best interest to cooperate more fully with the regime here. That it would benefit you most greatly were you to do so.”

  Hatred consumes me. “You have them? You have her letters addressed to me?”

  He nods to Gwilym to remove me, and it is all I can do to affect meek acquiescence. His paper knife lies on the desk. How satisfying to rip it across his jugular. But as Gwilym lumbers over a look passes between them, an understanding. My friend was right. There is indeed some collaboration.

  “You will consider your conduct most carefully whilst in isolation,” he is saying. “You will eat what you are given and you will think deeply about what you have done. And then we will talk again. Good day.”

  Isolation.

  Back we go to the second floor, through to the bottle green corridor once more – this time, however, passing the Chronic Ward, stopping at the very end by an iron door. A prison. This is a prison cell.

  “In here you little bitch.”

  No window. Padded walls. A stained mattress on the floorboards.

  I was screaming and screaming, choking on the vomit and blood was pouring out, but they kept pulling it and pulling it…

  Wait! I cannot see the outside. I cannot see daylight or night time or trees or sky. And as this realisation is sinking in, he wings me around and fastens on a leather straitjacket. I cannot see, cannot move, cannot get out. Oh, God, no… for how long? My throat constricts in a soundless scream as pushing me down onto the mattress, he then walks smartly out, shoots a series of bolts into place and turns the key.

  Christ! I cannot survive this. I cannot…

  His receding footsteps click along the corridor, the double doors clatter open, slam shut…and then they too are locked.

  Silence. Utter silence. Not even the inhuman wailing from the attic rooms. There is nothing.

  Hours pass in a blur of white noise, with no way of telling the time of day, or week, or season. I could refuse the tray of food left at the door but they would only force it down by tube. I could bang my head against the wall in the hope my neck will break, as I have seen others do, but there burns inside of me still the faintest flicker of hope. This will end. They feed me, so this will end.

  Meals are delivered by a gruff, heavy-set woman, who is also the one who takes me to the bathroom. And the food is much improved – there is tea and beef, bread with butter, suet pudding and fruit. First strawberries, now cherries. So then, it must be June? Or July? Months are passing…months…still with no sign of release. Yet they nourish me well.

  On one trip to the bathroom, an indigo sky glitters through a gap in the stones and there is an itch on my upper palate from the sting of pollen. This female attendant - a coarse, red-faced woman clearly employed to manhandle the more difficult patients - stands with her arms folded. She has been a farm or laundry worker perhaps, her hands calloused and rough.

  “Summer?” I say, feeling the strange roll of words form on my tongue.

  She nods. “Lammas.”

  It is the first time anyone has spoken to me other than to snap orders in three months. I thank God she understands English.

  “First of August?”

  “Aye.”

  I’m not sure why my pulse quickens but it does. There is a charge to the atmosphere as at Beltane, a feeling the staff are off to merriment of some sort…And this woman is alone up here. Yes, she is quite alone. And that makes her nervous.

  Although decidedly weighty of stature with forearms as thick as trees and legs just as stout, her countenance suggests one who has fallen on hard times, and therefore she has little choice but to carry out instructions without question. I would hazard a guess she is not as shrewd as Ivy Payne or Myra Strickland either, and has few wits about her.

  “What is your name?”

  She has been my attendant for many months and I have not spoken before. Perhaps she will trust me a little? All the same there is fear in her simple face. Checking over her shoulder repeatedly, which is patently ridiculous since anyone following her would have to jangle keys and therefore could not creep up silently behind, she mutters, “Never you mind about that. Have you finished washing?”

  She has a strong Shropshire burr to her accent. Yes, I’d hazard a guess she was in farming but lost her job, or the family lost their farm.

  “Sorry, I have not spoken in so long. I simply wished to speak, to form words–”

  She nods. “You don’t tell them nothing mind, or we’ll both be for it?”

  “No, of course not. Do you think I trust any of them?”

  An expression of confusion passes over her features. “My name’s Mary but you’ll keep that to yourself. Have you done now?”

  It is the time of year when dusk lingers, and each time Mary checks over her shoulder it’s possible to flick another glance around the walls. There is another door at the end and it stands ajar. A cupboard. Stacked with towels and linen. An oblong of milky light falls across the floor. From a window. Most probably the window needs to be opened in order to be aired. So not bolted! I must keep this pulse of excitement in check.

  After a while Mary and I walk back to the cell in silence. My thoughts are scattering in all directions. Some duping of this woman will be necessary - something to distract her on a night when the other, more cunning ones, are not in Lavinia House. Pagans all, they honour the four cornerstones of traditional celebrations it seems - but how are they to be known when I cannot count the days?

  Later, when staring sightlessly into the dark, the unmistakeable smell of sulphur stifles the air and Diane appears to me as clear as if it were yesterday. Prickles goose up and down my spine. Her presence is all around. Her face is vividly in my mind and will not fade, quite as if she is imprinted there. Something is amiss or about to happen.

  The attendants were off celebrating and you were removed…I was alone…

  With him! Of course, she was here in this very room…on the eve of Beltane… Nos Calan…

  There is such a silence in this house tonight. No thudding of feet or clanking of keys. It is quite different. And the conviction grows and grows that something is to happen…

  How long ago that flare of a lit cigarette at the dormitory door and the feeling I was next?

  Beltane?

  And now it is Lammas…

  Nor did they want me dead when the chance came.

  Hours pass…hours and hours…Until quite suddenly the jangle of keys on an iron ring followed by the heavy stomp of boots signals his arrival. He has been waiting. Waiting and waiting…for tonight.

  The iron door clunks open and there stands a man.

  “Now it’s your turn,” he says. “Open your legs.”

  What? Him? No! I thought…

  Instinctively I shrink into a ball, head between my knees, holding onto both ankles.

  He has to unfurl my limbs with such force they must surely snap as twigs. “I said lie on your back and open your legs, you stuck up little bitch!”

  Something cracks - a bone - as he rams back my head and unstraps himself.

  It happens fast now, seconds, and in a shockwave of disbelief. His knees weight the insides of my thighs, and both arms are pinned over my head with one great hand. His breath makes me retch, then great shards of white pain sear through my body. And all thoughts black out.

  Sulphur chokes the air. Blood flows into the mattress, flooding over the sides, draining away in a froth of crimson. The sash window slams down…Slam! Slam! Slam!

  Flora, look - look at the door…I saw the devil, Flora, I saw the devil at dawn…look…

  A tiny pinprick of red light flares into the darkness.

  Keep awake, Flora! There is a peephole in the door. The red light is in the peephole….look at it, Flora, look at it.

  Diane’s d
evil. There watching. Just watching. So, the puppet master and the puppet…

  Alas, I can think no more. In the dark swirl of semi-consciousness, Diane is holding something out to me – a bundle of blood-sodden towels - but her face has changed, its countenance darkened now with confusion and distress… there is something badly wrong with this baby, she is saying.

  And he is mine.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Isobel

  Present Day, The Gatehouse

  Isobel kept her eyes firmly closed, resolutely picturing a column of white light streaming through her body, breathing in and out, in and out, just concentrating on that. It was extremely important not to feel or show fear…but something menacing was creeping into the room…like an oil slick under the door… and it was so hard not to. Oh God, dear Lord protect us. Dear Lord, I can’t go through this again, I just can’t…

  “Who is with us?” Branwen asked again. “I know you’re here. Speak to me. Show yourself.”

  Upstairs the banging noises resumed, the same thud- thud- thud that had woken her on the first night.

  “All right,” Branwen said. “We have more than one presence in the house. But whoever you are – you’re in this room with us. We haven’t come to hurt or alarm you but to ask why you’re still here - why you’re earthbound and what message you have for us.”

  The candle flames flickered wildly, sending shadows leaping around the walls, and what sounded like a large dog pitter-pattered across the floorboards.

  “Fuck!” said Branwen. “That’s not supposed to happen.”

  Isobel’s heart nearly catapulted into her throat. For Christ’s sake, wasn’t Branwen in control of this?

  “Oh, I see, okay. You had me going then. I thought for a minute… Okay, why are you taking the form of a dog? Why do you show yourself like a beast? Are you trying to scare us?”

  The scampering stopped, but instead of a panting dog the creature began to cackle and chuckle.