The Other Girl

by C D Major

  ‘Edith,’ a voice called from behind her. Matron.

  Nurse Shaw stood just behind, two pink spots high on her cheeks.

  Edith wanted to smile at her; was it over? Had they found the key? Had Donna been moved off the ward?

  But Nurse Shaw wasn’t looking at her and Matron’s face was serious.

  Everyone was staring at Edith now.

  ‘You’d better come with us.’

  Chapter 15

  NOW

  The policeman was back. Both Martha and Edith had been summoned for second interviews and Declan was to sit in on them.

  Rounding the corner he could see Doctor Malone, head bent to hear the chief superintendent, currently gesturing to the door of the interview room. They failed to notice Declan as he moved down the corridor towards them, the superintendent speaking in a low, urgent voice, Doctor Malone, an earnest expression on his face as he listened, nodding intermittently.

  These days the superintendent was entirely caught up in the investigation of the fire, either down by the main gates answering questions from reporters or accompanying a variety of people across the grounds to inspect the buildings or instruct new work. One hand permanently cupped his neck, massaging the muscles.

  There was always something to do in a place this size; small things could be missed. Every inspection seemed to highlight a new crack or faulty wire. Only last week a large chunk of plaster had fallen from the ceiling of the concert hall, just missing the male attendant mopping the floor.

  The outbuilding that had caught had been made entirely of wood, its windows and doors locked from the outside; even the bell to raise the alarm had been under lock and key. Declan had heard rumours about meetings with Doctor Malone and other senior staff, a fear that the investigation might prove the fire could have been avoided. Would they would want an excuse that meant they weren’t at fault?

  ‘I understand,’ Doctor Malone nodded as Declan approached.

  Doctor Malone glanced up, choosing not to acknowledge him. The superintendent clamped his mouth shut. Declan loitered nearby, awaiting instructions, before the senior doctor looked up with an irritated twitch of his moustache.

  ‘Go on in, Doctor Harris,’ he said, ushering him quickly with one hand, a click of his tongue.

  ‘You’ll do what you can, then?’ Declan heard the superintendent say as he moved inside.

  ‘Absolutely, leave it with me,’ Doctor Malone replied as the door clicked closed.

  ‘Doctor,’ the policeman said from his stool in the middle of the room, not bothering to get up to shake his hand. ‘Matron’s fetching the girls,’ he added, thumbing through a pad in his lap, the material of his trousers stretched across meaty thighs.

  Declan clocked the sneer on the policeman’s face. What did he think had happened that night? What conclusion did the two men on the other side of the door want him to reach?

  Footsteps, talking outside and Martha appeared in the doorway, Matron directly behind her, shooing her inside like an errant child.

  Martha looked wan, shadows ringed beneath her eyes, limbs jutting under the thin material of her blouse. She didn’t return Declan’s sympathetic smile.

  Matron moved across to sit in a chair against the wall, a crossword poking out of the clipboard on her lap.

  Declan stayed perched against the countertop next to the medicine cabinet, watching as Martha sat on the stool in front of the policeman, pushing her hair behind her ears, flexing her ankle up, down, up, down.

  ‘Well, Miss Anderson, thank you for coming to see me again.’ The policeman bent forward, their knees almost touching.

  Martha whispered a reply that Declan couldn’t catch.

  The policeman cupped a hand behind one ear and in a too-loud voice, practically winking at Declan, he said, ‘Cat got your tongue. No matter.’ He leaned as far back as he could go without toppling the small wooden stool, his stomach seeming to balloon in front of him. ‘Well, Miss Anderson, Martha, you’ve now had time to collect yourself. I know you’re being well looked after here by the doctors and nurses. We are all very sympathetic to what you’ve been through but it’s been a good long while now, plenty of time to reflect . . .’

  The policeman left the sentence in the air between them.

  Martha shifted on her stool, scurf in the parting of her hair, dried skin on the backs of her hands.

  ‘I wanted to ask you a few questions, nothing distressing mind, about that night. And we want some answers this time, eh, Martha?’ The policeman’s laugh was empty, forced. He went to place a hand on her knee before thinking better of it. Martha jerked backwards, watching the hand as he placed it back in his lap.

  ‘So I’ll begin, then,’ he said, licking a fat finger and turning a page in his pad. ‘I’ve been informed the nurses made regular checks on you all that evening, as they do every evening.’

  There was a pause, the smell of disinfectant, the sounds of the room fading as Declan watched her, wondering whether she would sit in silence again. She nodded once. Perhaps she hoped if she answered the questions this time, the latest round of treatment would stop?

  ‘That’s a yes, is it? Could you possibly confirm things verbally – it really helps us,’ the policeman added, giving a crooked smile.

  ‘Yes,’ Martha said, her voice catching on the syllable.

  ‘And you told one of the doctors that although you didn’t remember when the last check was, there had definitely been one that evening.’

  Matron stopped what she was doing, her pencil hovering as she looked up. ‘Because of the war we are a little stretched these days, but we still check, sir, we take the checks very seriously.’

  The policeman’s gaze flicked upwards, barely disguising his annoyance at being interrupted. ‘Thank you, Nurse . . .’

  Matron bristled in her seat.

  ‘And is it true, Martha, that all the patients were in their beds by ten o’clock?’

  Martha moved a hand to her throat, scratched at her skin. ‘Yes, I think so.’

  The policeman was leading her somewhere; Declan watched the man spin his web.

  ‘You think so or you are certain? We have to be clear.’

  ‘I’m certain. I didn’t see anyone out of their bed.’

  The policeman noted something on his pad. ‘Were most of the patients sleeping?’

  ‘I . . . it was quiet.’

  ‘So you weren’t asleep?’

  Declan frowned as Martha’s voice seemed to get louder, quicker. She tucked her hair behind her ears again. ‘I woke up when there was all the smoke.’

  ‘So you had been sleeping?’

  ‘I . . . I . . . yes.’ Martha’s foot tapped more insistently on the floor.

  ‘You’ve been reported as talking about the cause of the fire with one of the patients. Do you think you know what happened, Martha?’ The policeman switched tack, the tone of his voice now low and urgent.

  Martha looked across at Declan, who tried to set his face into a neutral expression. What had she said? Did she know something? Was it not the state of the building after all, but something more sinister?

  ‘I didn’t. That is’ – Martha rubbed at the backs of her hand – ‘everyone’s talking and Doctor Malone asked me . . .’

  ‘You had a theory,’ the policeman said loudly, both eyebrows raised in encouragement, pad poised.

  ‘Not a theory so much as a . . . a thought.’ Martha glanced across at Matron, who had abandoned her crossword to listen, face pinched.

  ‘A thought?’

  ‘Yes,’ Martha said, her fingers still rubbing at the same spot. ‘Doctor Malone thought it was worth mentioning.’

  ‘You knew how someone might have started the fire, was that it?’ the policeman said, his gaze intense as he leaned towards her once more.

  Declan couldn’t remove his own eyes from the woman.

  ‘No, I just said, we’d all seen the matches.’ She licked her lips, swallowed. ‘All of us, not just me . . .’

 
‘Matches?’

  ‘They were scattered on the floor of the dayroom. Anyone could have picked one up.’

  ‘From what I’ve heard, patients can get hold of most things. You yourself smoke, do you not?’

  This last question caused Martha to start, her head snapping up to meet his eyes.

  ‘Oops, didn’t know people knew? I’ve been told some of you are rather canny at what you can get hold of . . .’ the man said, his chin tilting in a challenge.

  Martha’s mouth pinched together. ‘Doctor Malone told me . . .’ She faded away and Declan was left to wonder what that had been.

  The policeman leant forward, slowly this time, his stomach bulging as he did so. ‘How was it that you came to find yourself in Seacliff originally, Martha?’

  ‘Me?’ Martha licked at her dry lips, as if she hadn’t been expecting the question, as if the conversation wasn’t going how she had planned.

  ‘Why were you committed?’

  Matron was watching the exchange with a half-open mouth. Declan was straining to listen closely.

  ‘They moved me here.’

  ‘Moved you?’ The policeman feigned innocence.

  Martha cleared her throat. ‘They moved me from the prison,’ she said, her voice steady. She looked up at the policeman, a cold expression on her face, and he flinched a little under her gaze. Declan felt the room breathe in and out with them all. Matron’s pencil fell to the floor with a light tinkle.

  Declan remembered reading Martha’s file, remembered the court records.

  ‘And why had you been put in prison?’

  ‘Is it not in my notes?’ Her eyes met his, a hint of challenge in her voice.

  ‘I’d like to hear it from you,’ the policeman said, resting back again, legs spread wide.

  Martha’s body stilled, her voice low. ‘I killed my husband.’

  Declan knew Martha had been serving a sentence for murder, later reduced to an insanity charge; he hadn’t read the reasons why.

  ‘You burnt his body.’

  The surprise of this last statement caused Declan’s eyebrows to shoot higher.

  Martha’s mouth dropped open a fraction before she snapped it shut. ‘I . . . that wasn’t exactly . . .’

  ‘You burnt the house down with him inside. You told the police he was dead: smothered. Was he still alive when the fire started, I wonder?’ the policeman asked, the confidence returned to his voice, his gaze steady on her.

  Martha’s fingers pinched the flesh between her thumb and forefinger. ‘He was dead.’

  ‘How did you know what to use – to start the fire, that is?’

  Declan couldn’t help staring at Martha too, waiting for a reply. She stared resolutely over the shoulder of the policeman, her gaze fixed.

  ‘Did you enjoy watching the flames?’

  ‘Officer, I’m not sure that is an appropriate question . . .’ Declan stepped forward, a hand up, his voice not as loud as he imagined in his mind.

  The policeman ignored him.

  Martha remained completely silent, her tongue darting out of her mouth, over her lips as the silence stretched on.

  The policeman leant forward, moved close, his face invading the space in front of her. ‘So you burnt your husband. Did you want to burn others? Was that what it was?’

  Matron was completely still. Declan dithered, wondering what he should now do. He knew he should stop the interview but he found himself waiting for more.

  ‘How was it that you got out of the building? Terribly lucky . . .’ the policeman said, voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘I was speaking to the chief superintendent and he tells me you have a little boy, I understand? He’s allowed to visit you here, isn’t he? Terrible shame if that were to end.’

  Martha stirred on her stool, smoothing her skirt. She glanced quickly across at Matron.

  ‘We need you to cooperate now, Martha . . .’

  ‘I am,’ she whispered. ‘I just told you.’

  Declan hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath.

  ‘Enjoyed it the first time round, did you? Wanted to do it all again? All those women . . .’ The policeman’s voice goading.

  Martha’s expression changed, eyes panicked. ‘No. I didn’t. I couldn’t . . .’

  ‘It would be right to confess, wouldn’t it, the moral thing to do . . .’ the policeman said. He reached across the space between them and placed a fleshy hand on her thigh. ‘If not, I might be forced to tell the doctors here those little visits from your boy should end . . .’

  No one had time to stop her: she reacted almost immediately, pushing his hand away, launching herself at him.

  It took all Declan’s strength to haul her backwards; both wooden stools lying on their sides, the grunts of the policeman, a livid red scratch just below his right eye. Matron stood, seizing Martha’s other arm as her chest heaved.

  The policeman clutched at his face. ‘Shame not to see your son again, Miss Anderson, wouldn’t it?’

  Martha started to scream expletives at him, straining in their grip. It was a few seconds before they all realised the door had opened and Doctor Malone had stepped inside. Everyone turned to stare at him.

  Martha appealed to him. ‘I told him, about the matches, Doctor, I told him . . .’

  It was like she hadn’t spoken. Doctor Malone stared at Matron, her grip tight on Martha’s arm. ‘Best get her back to the ward, Matron,’ he said.

  Martha sagged still in that second. Declan released her, watching as Matron hustled her outside.

  ‘I hope she helped you with your enquiries,’ Doctor Malone said to the policeman. ‘Doctor Harris here will take a look at that scratch.’

  The policeman lifted a hand to his face. ‘Fucking nutcase,’ he muttered, dabbing at it gently.

  Doctor Malone left the room, the tiniest smile on his face.

  Chapter 16

  BEFORE

  Mrs Clark brings through the meat for Father to slice, the vegetables in a big bowl, sits the gravy jug in front of me. I can see myself in its surface – I look all wonky and I laugh. Mother looks across at me, a finger to her lips.

  I place my hands in my lap and look down. I don’t eat with Father and Mother; normally I eat with Mrs Clark in the parlour, but I like being in this room with the big padded chairs that I have to be lifted on to reach. I sit on a cushion which is a bit scratchy but I don’t wiggle and Mother tells me that I have to use the fork and knife like a proper lady. I want to get it right, I see Mother watching me.

  Father stands at the head of the table and says grace. I close one eye but watch out of the other, the candles making his face glow orange; everything smells of herbs and the fire is popping in the corner. We say ‘Amen’ and I feel the bubbles in my tummy as he cuts into the meat.

  ‘Mrs Clark always seems to cook chicken to perfection,’ Mother says, sipping at her glass that has thick red liquid in it.

  Father doesn’t look up but smiles as he holds out her plate.

  ‘We had chickens before,’ I say, wanting him to smile at me too. ‘It was my job to collect the eggs. They were warm.’

  Mother’s hand freezes, her eyes on me. Father frowns before Mother apologises and takes the plate from him.

  ‘My favourite was called Silky.’

  Both my parents are looking at me and something in Mother’s face makes me stop. Is this like the other time, when I wasn’t allowed to talk about before?

  ‘Edith, your father doesn’t want to hear your stories.’

  ‘They’re not.’ I feel a stinging in my eyes. Mother knows they’re not stories. She’s asked me before. She asked me how I knew some of the big words, if an adult had told me, but I used to use them when I was the bigger girl.

  ‘What is this about, Eileen?’ Father isn’t smiling now, the big sharp silver knife and fork in his hands. I can see the inside of the chicken.

  ‘It’s nothing, you know children, their imaginations can be . . .’ The red liquid wobbles, makes red dots on the w
hite tablecloth.

  I don’t understand why it matters that we used to have chickens.

  ‘Silky was all white like a small cloud.’ My voice is higher, faster; I’m not telling stories. ‘And she would let me pick her up and I could always feel her heart through her feathers.’ I had forgotten that until now, but suddenly I am back there, in the corner of the garden behind the wire that kept them in, holding Silky, my hands bigger than they are now. I had held her still for Mary to stroke. Mary had been frightened at first – she had been a lot younger than me.

  ‘Edith, please . . .’ Mother looks as if she might start crying; there is water along the bottom of her eyes.

  Father’s face changes; he lowers the big sharp knife on to the table. I want him to slice the chicken for me, I want a plate like Mother’s.

  ‘When was this, Edith?’ Father asks, a sudden pop from the fire making Mother jump.

  ‘It was when I was here before, Father, when I was a big girl.’

  ‘She doesn’t know what she’s saying, Michael. I’ve told her not to . . .’

  Father raises a hand and Mother stops talking immediately.

  I feel as if the fire is in me now, all hot because I do know what I’m saying and Mother always tells me to shh and Father has asked me. ‘It’s true,’ I say. ‘When I was big, when I lived with my other mother, we had chickens. But then he hit me in the cave and I must have died, and then I came here.’

  Father leans right forward across the table to me and it makes me stop. The only sound in the room is the cracking wood, and something in his eyes makes my skin go bumpy.

  ‘What are you saying, child?’

  I swallow, feeling my face scrunch up tight. Is he asking because he wants to know? ‘He hit me in the cave. I died, but I’m here now.’

  Father sits back, his cheeks getting redder. ‘You will not talk like this,’ he says.

  ‘I’m sorry, maybe it’s best if Edith eats elsewhere,’ Mother says, scraping back her own chair.