by C D Major
Was she listening? he wondered, staring up himself at the view beyond: the stretch of lawn, a man pruning the flowerbeds nearby.
‘I did talk to Doctor Malone about the possibility of seeing you myself for some sessions in the future,’ he admitted, hoping she would look at him, that he might make a connection.
‘I think I would like that,’ she said, her eyes not leaving the window.
Declan nodded, a small relief. ‘Right. Good, that’s good. I’ll set something up with Doctor Malone.’
Would the older doctor agree? Had he been too hasty to make the promise? He felt an ache in his thighs from crouching so long and went to stand up.
‘You won’t make me have the treatment, will you?’ She asked it in a rush, twisting around, her hand shooting out to grab hold of his arm.
He was startled by the strength of her grip. ‘No, I . . . no, Edith.’
‘Even if I said things . . . said the wrong things . . .’
Declan frowned at the words, looking at her hand on his arm, her creamy skin, tiny white dots on one nail. ‘I . . . no, Edith, no, you couldn’t say the wrong thing, there is never a wrong thing.’
The grip loosened slightly but she kept her hand there a fraction, on his arm. Declan paused before gently lifting it and placing it back on her armrest.
‘Oh good, that’s good,’ she said with a small sigh, nestling back in the chair once more.
Declan straightened as a green delivery cart trundled past the window, heading for the driveway to the main gate, the noise on the gravel making them both turn their heads to watch it pass.
‘I like it when they tidy up, make everything better,’ Edith said, pointing to the man pruning nearby. ‘They’re lovely, aren’t they? The grounds. Bernie and I would walk around them; I love the flowers.’
‘It’s a beautiful place,’ Declan said, knowing this was a half-truth. Seacliff was beautiful; it could be a castle from a fairy tale if you didn’t know it was an asylum. But something about its remote location, its removal from the rest of the world, sitting on this exposed cliff, the patients living so far from civilisation, had always given it a Gothic air. ‘You have a pleasant morning, Miss Garrett,’ Declan said, taking his leave.
‘Thank you, Doctor; you also.’
He felt a small glow as he moved away from her, gratified she seemed pleased at the thought of meeting with him. He must persuade Doctor Malone; he had made a commitment to her. Glancing back, he could see her staring once more out of the window, seemingly oblivious to the bustle of the asylum around her, curling a loose tendril of hair around a finger. He found his mind straying back to the details of her face and then he cleared his throat and moved back down the corridor in the direction of his office.
Chapter 8
NOW
From the window in his office Declan could just make out the charred edges of Ward Five. He was back there, reliving that night. A blackened shutter hung at an angle. He had a sudden image of Edith pushing her way out of a window, feeling the relief of the cool night air, taking a gulp of it. He reached for his coat and cast his eye over his diary. He was due to see a patient, a new arrival, in fifteen minutes. He had some time, he thought as he headed for the door, and this was important.
‘Come in,’ Doctor Malone called imperiously from inside his office.
The room was much larger than Declan’s own office but crammed full of filing cabinets, bookshelves, heavy wooden furniture and the man himself. Declan pulled at his collar. A stuffed bird, a breed of hawk perhaps, sat on a top shelf, casting its gaze around the room as if at any moment it might decide to leave its spot, swoop down and capture something soft in its claws. Declan stared at it as Doctor Malone cleared his throat, sitting back in his leather chair, his hands closed together in a steeple as he peered over them.
‘Take your time, Doctor Harris, please, it’s not like we are under immense pressure to keep this place running, to stop the police scurrying into every nook and cranny, calm the staff, stop the damn rumours and look after the patients.’
Declan started forward, hands up as he appealed to his superior. ‘My apologies, of course, thank you for seeing me. It’s a small matter, something I mentioned to you yesterday. I was hoping to arrange a time to see Edith, sir, and . . .’ He paused, reddening, realising he had forgotten the other patient’s name. ‘And M . . . M . . . the other survivor.’
Doctor Malone huffed, his moustache bristling, ‘Edith and Martha. No, no, Doctor Harris, I don’t think that is a good idea. Only this morning I saw Martha, who became extremely distressed after more questions; I had to recommend she be sedated, and Edith Garrett has been volatile in recent weeks. Matron sent me a most disturbing report about her recent violent behaviour . . .’
Declan wondered again at the unassuming girl in the armchair: volatile, violent? He had seen no evidence of that in his dealings with her. It made him all the keener to meet with her. He wondered then whether to admit what he had read in her notes, that she was being considered for the leucotomy.
‘I wouldn’t want to distress them further, sir, I was just hoping to be of some help, to offer assistance after the ordeal they have lived through . . .’
Doctor Malone’s moustache twitched with impatience. ‘There’s no need. You stick with your own patients, Doctor, leave those two to me.’ He went straight back to scribbling at his desk, the upside-down inky scrawl illegible, as if he didn’t expect a response at all.
He looked up one more time, Declan just standing there uselessly. ‘Yes, Doctor?’
‘I . . .’
‘What would be worse, Doctor Harris, do you think – if there was some evidence the building was unsafe, or arson?’
‘I . . .’ Declan repeated, unable to concentrate on the question, reeling from the blunt rejection of his request. He had promised her.
‘No matter. Neither outcome is desirable.’ Malone was back to scribbling. ‘But arson makes more sense, does it not? These patients, unstable at the best of times, and the superintendent is concerned that the enquiry might conclude that the building, the staff are at fault and we can’t have that . . .’ Malone seemed to be almost mumbling to himself at the end.
Declan pushed a hand through his hair. What was Malone hinting at? Arson was a serious crime; did he imagine a disgruntled member of staff? An accident? A patient?
Doctor Malone looked up at him and sighed. ‘I can see you are still loitering, Doctor Harris. I really am incredibly busy, as you must surely be too, and I would kindly remind you we have all experienced a terrible tragedy and need to get on with things, keep up our normal routines. It won’t do to be late or upsetting arrangements.’
‘No, absolutely, sir, I do understand that, it’s just . . .’ Declan found the request sticking in his throat. He thought back to Edith sitting in the dusty pink armchair, remembered her voice lifting when he had offered his help.
He opened his mouth and, as if Doctor Malone had known, was instantly cut short. ‘If that’s all, then best be getting on.’
‘Just one session perhaps, to run alongside your own time with h . . .’ The words were quiet and tailed away as Doctor Malone dropped his pen, leaving drops of ink on the page.
The older man’s voice was ice-cold. ‘Doctor Harris, I have expressed my reasoning to you and I don’t feel the need to repeat myself. It is a no; my patients will stay under my supervision and you will continue to go about your day, seeing the patients that have been assigned to you. Do I make myself clear?’
Declan took a breath, trying to summon courage from somewhere inside him.
‘I would hate to have to report to your father that we’ve started off on such a dreadful footing,’ Doctor Malone added, still not looking up, the words intended to sting.
Declan had always wondered how he had got the job at Seacliff, whether it had been down to him or his father’s reputation, his acquaintance with Doctor Malone.
‘I . . .’
‘Have a productive day, Docto
r Harris.’
The sentence was final. Doctor Malone picked up his pen and then, after a moment, took the paper he was writing on and balled it into his fist. ‘I’ll be starting it again,’ he said, an angry glare towards Declan.
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ The words tumbled out; Declan was already backing towards the door, a hand reaching behind him for the handle.
He felt a momentary swell of relief as he found himself back in the corridor, and then shame stole over him as he retraced the route back to his office. Where was his fight?
Perhaps he was wrong to think he could help, he reasoned; he was only out of medical school a few months. Doctor Malone had years of experience. He tried to push away the doubts in his head, remembering the note in Edith’s file, the course that Doctor Malone had set for her, a feeling of unease nudging him. Volatile. Violent.
If only he hadn’t seen her that morning; if only he hadn’t promised. He cursed ever stopping by that faded armchair.
He was staring at nothing when there was a knock at his door and Nurse Shaw blushed as she stepped into his room. ‘Charlotte’s waiting outside, Doctor,’ she said.
He stared at her, nodding dumbly, not really taking in the words.
‘I’ll tell her to come in, shall I?’ Nurse Shaw asked him, with a small frown.
‘Right . . .’
Nurse Shaw took a step forward. ‘Is everything satisfactory, Doctor?’
Declan inhaled loudly through his nose, brought himself back to the small square of room, taking in Nurse Shaw, her concern, the smell of antiseptic, the tick of the clock. ‘I’m sorry, of course it is. Charlotte. Absolutely. I’ll see her now.’
Nurse Shaw nodded. ‘Very good, Doctor,’ she said, turning to leave. She had a hand on the smudged brass doorknob. ‘And I just wanted to thank you, Doctor, for yesterday. I’ll return your handkerchief, of course.’
Declan didn’t register the words, still lost in thought.
‘Doctor.’ She hesitated.
‘Yes, good.’ He didn’t mean to sound so curt.
He saw her shoulders fall. ‘I’ll fetch Charlotte, then.’
Declan reached for the folder on the desk in front of him, opened it on the first page, scanning all the information about the woman he was about to see. He tried to read her notes, familiarise himself with her case, but the photograph secured with a paperclip to the front page blurred. Her face swam before him: her straight hair suddenly curly, her bare neck suddenly sporting a mole just below her ear, her brown eyes deep and warm. He slammed the folder shut as someone stepped inside the room, as Charlotte moved to sit in the seat in front of him. He rolled his shoulders, coughed, forced himself to concentrate; to do his job.
Chapter 9
THEN
The dormitory was practically empty; only Bernie and her, and Deputy Matron sat on a stool at the other end of the room with Joyce, lying still in her bed, back from treatment. Joyce went to the white room a lot; they didn’t like her slapping the walls with her fists, but even when they got angry and shouted at her to stop she didn’t, so they took her away. Joyce was next on the list. She had heard Deputy Matron tell Nurse Shaw. Deputy Matron nodded at Edith but she looked away quickly, not sure what the nod meant.
Bernie was straightening her sheets; she did that often, so Edith was lying on the floor. Bernie’s grey cat Misty was curled up in a box underneath the bed and Edith was lying on her stomach looking at her, staring at the small black mark on her ear.
‘Do you think cats have dreams?’ she asked.
Bernie continued to smooth and pat the pillow. ‘Perhaps.’
Edith twisted her head to look at her. ‘What do you think they dream about?’
Bernie paused, the corner of a sheet bunched in her hand. ‘Fish and mice and someone tickling their stomach.’
Edith twisted back, cupping her face with a hand. ‘I’d like to be a cat,’ she announced. Misty looked well fed and content. And Misty could leave rooms whenever she wanted.
Bernie stopped again, smoothing her pillow with one hand. ‘I wouldn’t.’
‘Why not?’ Edith sat up.
Bernie blushed a little. ‘Cats are always alone.’
Edith didn’t answer. That didn’t seem a terrible price to pay. Cats were safe, so it was all right to be alone.
‘You can sit here now,’ Bernie said shyly, as she looked down at Edith on the floor.
Edith scrambled up and dusted herself off before sitting. Bernie stood watching her as she got comfortable, two of her fingers tapping at something imaginary on her leg.
‘Come on,’ Edith said, holding out two hands. ‘You too.’
It was relief on her face as she took them and sat down next to Edith, as if she had needed permission.
‘Give me Misty,’ Bernie said.
Edith looked at her dumbly, then remembered Misty was the cat’s name. For ages, months, they’d called her ‘Cat’, but then Bernie had shouted that everyone should have a name and it was wrong. So they called her Misty.
Edith scooped her up from beneath the bed, fur tickling her arms as she handed her across. Bernie held her against her chest, rubbed behind her ears. There were loads of cats in the building and they always belonged to someone somewhere. Malcolm told Edith they’d got rid of them all once, but the mice had come back and so now they let them stay. Not that Misty seemed capable of catching a mouse; she spent most of her days nuzzling Bernie, winding herself round her legs, purring on top of the bed.
Edith wondered where Misty had come from, if Misty had anyone who missed her. Or if she was like them.
It was only when she looked up and noticed Deputy Matron wasn’t there that she felt a swilling feeling in her tummy. They were alone. Bernie hadn’t noticed yet but Edith was already up on her feet again. ‘We need to go.’
It was too late. She saw the shadows on the corridor wall through the thick pane of glass in the door. She knew it was them.
They stood in the doorway, silhouetted. Bernie looked up, made a noise. Misty fell from her lap and scampered beneath the bed as if she had picked up the change in her mistress’s mood. Edith darted her eyes left to right, hoping Deputy Matron might be back soon. Joyce was still sleeping. You always slept a lot after treatment, so long it was as if you might have dreamt it all.
Bernie started to hum; she did that a lot now around Donna.
Edith sat down, resting a hand on Bernie’s leg. ‘Stop,’ she whispered.
Bernie didn’t stop humming but it was quieter, much quieter, like she was trying to keep it only in her head.
Donna stepped into the room; a quick glance around and then a look as if she couldn’t believe her luck. Her left eye opened and shut quickly as she moved inside, calling over her shoulder at Shirley and Martha, who followed her.
‘I thought I could smell piss and I was right.’ She held her nose deliberately and Shirley and Martha copied her, laughing, their voices filling the room. No one came.
Donna paused by Joyce’s bed, looked down at her, lifted the edge of her blanket. ‘Poor little Joycie,’ she said in a babyish voice.
Shirley and Martha clucked next to her. For a moment Edith thought they’d lose interest, choose Joyce instead. Once they’d cornered Joyce in the toilets, made her lean right in, flushed her head, telling her that might clean her out. Now, though, Joyce didn’t stir and Donna dropped the blanket. Edith felt her whole body clench.
Donna crossed the room now. Edith could feel her close, could smell her: old cigarette smoke, acrid breath.
‘Look at me,’ Donna said quietly. ‘Come on, pretty girl, look at me.’
Edith was looking at her fingers as she clutched her hands together. Bernie was still humming next to her, impossibly quiet.
‘Oi,’ Donna whispered.
The word forced Edith to swallow; she couldn’t ignore her any more. She licked her lips and slowly looked up. Donna’s eye twitched, and Edith noticed one pupil got bigger for a moment. She had the same dark-brown eyes as he
r hair, with tiny flecks of green in them; yellow teeth. Her short wonky fringe was sticking to her forehead.
Donna’s voice changed again, louder now, directed half over her shoulder, a performance. ‘Why’re you staring?’
Edith wasn’t sure what the right answer was. She kept looking at her, not able to blink, to move.
‘You like me, don’t you?’ Donna suddenly grabbed at Edith’s right hand, tugged it towards the space between her legs. ‘Hey, Martha – she likes me.’ She pressed herself against Edith’s hand, made moaning noises as Martha laughed, before turning her eyes back on her. ‘Ugh, what are you doing, don’t touch me.’ She pushed Edith’s hand away as if she had been the one to reach for her. Laughter: spittle landed on Edith’s top lip, but she didn’t reach up to wipe it away. Martha made a low whistle, like Edith had heard one of the attendants do when Nurse Shaw walked by. Nurse Shaw had very long legs and a pretty pink mouth. Edith could feel Bernie shifting next to her on the bed.
The other two women stood in the small gap between the beds, blocking the view from the door of the dormitory. Edith looked sideways, saw Shirley’s hand reach into her pocket, pull out a handkerchief. Shirley was enormous, about twice the size of Martha. She was always dabbing at the back of her neck, the short curly hair damp when she climbed upstairs or walked from the dayroom to the dormitory. She hadn’t always been fat. Edith heard Nurse Hall, who left to get married to a man in the kitchen, tell Nurse Shaw that Shirley had once been thin but then she started to eat everything, even the paper in the dunny. Her skin was tightened out; she didn’t have wrinkles like Donna, but Edith thought they were about the same age.
Donna leant down so her face was on the same level. Edith could make out the dots on her nose, the tiny pores in her skin. She was staring so hard she could feel her eyes crossing, Donna’s face blurring, her nose and cheeks merging in front of her. Edith was holding her breath, trying not to notice the stale, wet warmth on her face as Donna deliberately inhaled, exhaled, enjoying the closeness. She snapped her teeth together suddenly and laughed as Edith flinched.