The Other Girl

by C D Major

  ‘Edith slept on the floor below her,’ Declan continued, his voice rising, some people at a nearby table looking round. ‘How could Martha possibly have seen her do anything?’

  Nurse Shaw raised an eyebrow and Declan felt a momentary flash of embarrassment that he seemed to know so much about where Edith had slept.

  Her next words were slow. ‘It does seem odd. They were all locked in their rooms, but Martha was insistent.’

  Declan recalled what Edith had told him about a key. That patients had moved around the ward. He had promised her he wouldn’t tell anyone. He searched for anything else to say, not wanting to make things worse. ‘There’ve been fires before, the foundations have moved, rats could have bitten through the wires: any number of things.’

  Nurse Shaw was chewing her lip as he went on. He tried to lower his voice; others at a nearby table were peering round, watching their exchange. More whispers would follow, he was sure.

  ‘Well, I’m just passing on what I heard,’ Nurse Shaw said, going to move away. ‘You should be happy, Doctor. Martha’s getting out. Doctor Malone has said she can go home; she’ll raise her son.’

  Martha was going home.

  As Nurse Shaw walked off Declan threw down his knife, a loud clatter as it landed on the table.

  ‘Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three . . .’

  Voices from behind him. They were counting the cutlery back in, Deputy Matron ticking off every knife and fork as they did after every meal. Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six. The numbers always a reminder of where they all were. What the dangers were.

  Declan left the dining room, heading down the stairs, fumbling to find the right key to open one of the many doors. He was in a familiar corridor heading back to the ward, past the nurses’ station and around the corner towards his office.

  In the distance he could hear a raised female voice, and his walk sped up. He recognised that voice. Rounding the corner he saw an attendant pushing a patient lying restrained on a trolley, as if his imaginings were coming to life right in front of him. Was this it? Was it too late? He felt sweat bead his hairline, his hands clammy. Edith was shouting, please and no, begging, all the muscles in her neck popping, her fingers grabbing at the air.

  He wanted to call out but instead he followed the trolley, watching as she was wheeled around the corner, watching her back buck, her curly hair mussed, mouth wide, the words bouncing off the walls and making him flinch. He wanted to run over the flagstones, unbuckle the straps, release her wrists, carry her away from there. The door ahead was already open and the attendant pushed the trolley through; one wheel stuck for a moment, so he swore as he bruised his hip on the steel. Then they were moving again and Declan was wondering if he should stop him, fabricate an excuse, distract the attendant. But then what? What could he possibly do next?

  He thought back to her sitting in the chair under the window, her expression calm, the slow smile as she turned and caught him kneeling next to her. That moment seemed a lifetime ago. What might have happened if he’d been able to see her for another day?

  How could they wonder at her agitation if they had accused her of things she would never have done? She wasn’t violent or volatile. In fact, after what he’d discovered, he knew with an absolute clarity that she wasn’t any of the things they had accused her of being. A sour taste rose in his mouth as he thought then of everything she’d been put through, and what was waiting for her now. The trolley turned at an angle, about to push through to the treatment room.

  Doctor Malone appeared in the doorway, looking back down the corridor towards Declan. He disappeared briefly as the attendant pushed the trolley inside. And then, once the attendant had left, walking away in the opposite direction, he looked straight back at Declan, tipped his head slightly, before slamming the door to the treatment room behind him.

  Chapter 31

  BEFORE

  The dreams come almost every night now.

  I was there in the darkness, in the cold and the damp and no one knew where to find me. The sound of the sea nearby, the tide coming in, was getting louder and soon it would cover me and no one would be able to get in. The heavy weight wasn’t just on top of me but was all around; I was trapped from the sides. I couldn’t move my arms or legs and he was putting more weight on me. My head hurt, I knew it was bad and I knew I needed to get Mother, to tell her what he’d done and get her to help me. But she wouldn’t come: she didn’t know where I was. No one would come. Ever.

  I wake in the dark, my skin sticky, hair stuck to my face, my mouth a large ‘O’, screaming. I’m not by the water, I’m in the big soft bed I now sleep in, Mrs Periwinkle at the end watching me, my slippers laid next to the stool of my dressing table, the pink lampshade on top. I’m in my bedroom and my mother is here now, asking me what’s wrong as I cry out.

  ‘I have to get out . . . he hit me, he’s gone now, I have to . . .’

  Father appears in the doorway in his dressing gown, a lamp in his hand, showing up the netting over his moustache. ‘What’s she saying?’

  Mother sits on my bed, stroking my hair back, holding me to her; I feel the hard bump of her stomach with the baby inside. ‘Nothing, it’s just a bad dream, she isn’t saying anything.’

  I can’t help it, though. I’m crying and I want my mother and I want to go home and tell her where I am and that she needs to find me.

  ‘I want Mother.’

  ‘I’m here.’

  The big sobs make my chest go up and down, tears falling on my nightdress. ‘I want Mother. I need to go to her.’

  ‘I’m here, I’m here . . .’

  ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head left to right, left to right. ‘Not you. I want my other mother. She won’t be able to find me. She won’t know where I am. She’ll think I’ve gone.’

  ‘You’re here, you’re here with me, Edith.’

  I push her arm away, feel my fingers in my hair. ‘He hit me. He hit me on the head.’

  ‘Edith,’ Mother repeats.

  Father takes a step into the room, his voice like a hiss through his teeth. ‘She can’t keep saying these things, Eileen. People will talk.’

  The lamp jerks as the words come and Mother’s hand stops on my forehead. ‘Edith, please,’ she says in a low voice. ‘Please stop.’

  I can’t stop, the dream is too real to stop. ‘He hit me, he hit me hard, it hurt. She doesn’t know where I am, she won’t be able to find me . . .’

  ‘Edith.’

  ‘I’m not Edith.’ I push her hand away. ‘I don’t want to stay there, it’s dark and it’s wet, I don’t want to stay . . .’

  ‘I know you don’t,’ Mother says, stroking my head as she pulls me to her, then twisting so that she is looking at Father. ‘It’s just a dream, she doesn’t know what she’s saying.’

  ‘It hurts, it hurts, I don’t want to stay here, it’s dark . . .’ The tears leak out of me, water falling.

  Father’s voice somewhere. ‘This can’t carry on. I can’t have her saying these things.’

  Mother is whispering quickly, ‘I know, I know.’

  I’m wild, a new thought entering. ‘He might touch Mary,’ I gasp. ‘I can’t let him touch Mary.’

  ‘Eileen.’

  I think Mother has started to cry, too.

  ‘Don’t you . . . Eileen, come away from her . . .’

  When I hear that I reach out, suddenly needing to feel her. ‘Don’t go.’

  Mother rises from the bed as my hand swipes at her.

  ‘Don’t leave me, please, please . . . they won’t find me . . .’

  ‘Edith, I’m sorry, I can’t . . . your father. It’s just a dream, a dream . . .’

  ‘Eileen.’

  Mother stands, chewing her lip as our eyes meet. ‘Yes, I’m . . .’

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ I whisper.

  ‘Eileen.’ The lamp flickers. ‘We have to do something. This can’t carry on.’

  Chapter 32

  NOW

  D
eclan spent the rest of the afternoon staring out on to the grounds. The site of the fire was almost clear now; he could no longer see the ruined edge of the old building. Men were raking the ground and Declan wondered what they would do in the space: could anyone truly forget?

  He saw deliveries arrive and leave, light rain spatter the windowpanes. He couldn’t concentrate on the notes in front of him, ink droplets falling on to the blotting pad as he stared into the distance. He got up, finding excuses to move around the corridors, found his way back to the treatment rooms: he needed gloves, he was looking for a medical pad, he thought he had left his stethoscope somewhere. The door remained closed and when he did see it open it was clear Edith was still unconscious, a grey-haired nurse he didn’t recognise moving inside to check on her. Could he ask what had happened to Edith? Would she wake not knowing her own name?

  He shivered, heading quickly to his office, bile in his throat. He knew he needed to pull himself together, was seeing Tom Barton next whose notes stated he could be volatile at the best of times; he had a history of exposing himself to women. Reason for committal: ‘masturbation’. He needed to concentrate – a new patient always meant Declan needed to build up trust, and yet his mind couldn’t help returning to that tiny room with the inert woman inside. He had failed her.

  He paused outside the dayroom, hearing the usual hubbub from inside. He pushed open the door, a woman in a dressing gown turning towards the sound before looking away. Declan’s eyes roved the room until he found the armchair Edith had been sitting in, the seat cushion flattened, empty now. His gaze lingered before he pulled his eyes away, making a show of getting a biscuit from the tray, as if that was what had pulled him there.

  As he leant over the tin he noticed Martha sitting at a round table beyond, beneath the portrait of King George VI. She was still surrounded by people, as if she were a planet and the other patients her moons, circling her, moving closer to hear more. She was talking to them, small gestures at their wide-eyed faces. Then, as if she could feel his eyes on her, she looked up at him, saw him searching her face. Her expression morphed into something else; a flash of guilt, he imagined, and then her eyes narrowed and she gave a defiant tilt of her chin. He felt the biscuit sticking in his throat. Martha was going home to her son. Edith was going nowhere.

  He had to do something. Was he too late?

  He found his way back to her at the end of the day. No marks on her; no sign of the new operation. He hadn’t realised he had been clenching every muscle until he almost collapsed on to the stool beside her bed. She didn’t wake. Declan should have been back in his room by now; it was long past his shift, but he found he couldn’t leave her in there alone.

  Nurse Ritchie appeared, her thin mouth set in a line when she saw him sitting there, one hand resting on the sheet next to Edith’s hand, so close he could have stretched out his fingers and touched her.

  Declan snatched his hand away, stood up quickly, disorientated in the windowless room, wondering how much time had passed.

  Nurse Ritchie stepped forward, indicating the bed. ‘I was going to take her back to the ward now.’

  ‘I was . . .’

  Nurse Ritchie raised an eyebrow. ‘Doctor Malone told me to wake her if she wasn’t awake by 7 p.m.’ She pulled the small clock from a chain pinned to her dress and looked at it. ‘And it’s 7 p.m.’ She was nothing if not a stickler for timings.

  Their voices caused Edith to stir. She moaned softly, her arm automatically lifting before the leather restraints forced it back down.

  Declan felt a thrumming in his chest. He coughed. ‘I would just like to check that she has come around all right after the insulin we gave her.’ He wracked his brains for something that might take her a while. ‘Could you fetch her a tray of food?’

  Nurse Ritchie opened her mouth. ‘I’m not sure the . . .’

  ‘I’m sure you can rustle up something. I think it is important she eats,’ he said, cutting across her, hoping he sounded as authoritative as he needed to be.

  ‘We normally bring them a tray on the ward,’ she started again. Then, perhaps noting Declan’s determined expression, she continued, ‘But I can go and see if Chef has some soup and bread.’

  Declan nodded curtly, pulling on his stethoscope as if he was about to examine Edith. Nurse Ritchie left, and Declan felt his body droop with temporary relief. He sat back on the stool, leaning over the bed slightly.

  ‘Edith,’ he whispered.

  She had closed her eyes again. He hoped she hadn’t lost consciousness. He had seen some patients drift in and out, barely lucid after the treatments, their memories affected, everything sluggish and distorted.

  ‘Edith,’ he repeated.

  She opened her eyes slowly, turning her head slightly, clearly struggling to focus on him.

  ‘You’ve had treatment,’ he began. ‘Can you remember anything?’

  Tears sprang into Edith’s eyes. ‘I don’t . . . I can’t remem . . . It hurts,’ she said finally, trying to lift a hand but again finding herself restrained. She lowered her eyes down her body, jerking both hands at the same time. Then she dropped back on the pillow, staring up at the ceiling with a resigned expression.

  Declan lingered, knowing he didn’t have long until Nurse Ritchie returned with her lemony expression, smell of bleach and tray of food. He had so many questions for her, but in that moment he didn’t know what to say. She looked so tiny in the iron bed, drained against the white sheets.

  ‘I thought . . . I thought it was all over,’ she whispered. ‘That this wouldn’t happen any more . . .’

  Declan felt an ache for this woman who had lived here all these years, had to undergo these treatments. There was a faint smell of burnt hair, as if she had been singed in the process.

  Edith suddenly angled her head towards him. ‘But Martha told them. Told them I did it. And now I have to have more treatment.’ She licked her dry lips. ‘You have to get me out, Doctor. I want to leave.’

  ‘You’re going to get some food; you’ll be going back to the ward.’

  She started shaking her head quickly from side to side. He could see marks where the pads had been placed on her head, red and swollen slightly. ‘No, no, no.’ Her voice grew louder.

  ‘Edith, Edith.’ Declan leaned over her, a hand out on her forehead, trying to calm her.

  ‘No, no. Seacliff. I need to leave Seacliff. I need to leave this place. No more of this.’

  Declan paused, not wanting to respond straight away, not knowing what he could promise. She was still shaking her head, muttering no, softly, over and over. He could feel her move below his hand and he removed it and stood feeling foolish by the side of the bed.

  Her eyes were drooping again as she tried to keep talking to him. ‘I thought it was over. Now I have to leave. I was always telling the truth, but I got treatment. Now when I lie I get treatment . . . and Martha told them I did it . . .’ The words were confused, sentences running into each other, Declan struggling to keep up with her meaning.

  She shook her head again, getting herself worked up, as if trying to rouse herself, to fight against the desire to drop off again. ‘No, no, leave . . . I have . . . Doctor . . . please.’

  ‘Edith, Edith.’ He tried to get her to stop. His voice was gentle, coaxing. He thought he heard footsteps outside. ‘Edith I can try, I can . . .’

  She stopped, closed her eyes, and was listening to him.

  ‘I’m going to see what I can do,’ he said, not wanting to embellish more. Did she know what he knew? Did she know about the list?

  ‘Do you promise?’ she whispered at last.

  ‘I . . .’ He couldn’t say the words, remembered all the times he had tried and failed since the fire. He swallowed. ‘I promise.’

  She opened both eyes then, the smallest flicker as if she was trying to smile. ‘Thank you, Doctor. Thank you.’

  Nurse Ritchie pushed inside, her bottom on the door, bustling backwards, carrying a tray with a bowl of thin soup a
nd a chunk of bread, a glass of water. Edith closed her eyes again, seeming to be asleep, and Declan ushered the nurse outside, her huffing as he gently closed the door behind them both.

  Chapter 33

  NOW

  Nurse Shaw was standing outside his office as he approached. He barely saw her, completely lost in the past hour.

  She coughed slightly when he was a little way off, still turning over the promise he had made, wondering how he could help her best. If he could prove she didn’t start the fire, that her diagnosis was wrong, they would have to listen to him . . .

  He dragged his eyes up. Nurse Shaw was standing in front of his office door.

  ‘Hello there,’ she said with a small laugh.

  ‘Oh, hello again.’

  ‘You look rather glum,’ she said, her voice light.

  Declan rubbed at his eyes. ‘Do I? I–I’ve just seen a patient, she’s . . . well, it’s no matter. How can I help you, Nurse?’

  He watched a flicker of confusion cross her face. ‘A patient?’ She looked down the corridor the way he had come; the doors to the treatment rooms were at the other end. ‘Edith,’ she repeated, the name dull.

  ‘Can I help?’ he repeated, wanting to be in his office or in his room; wanting to be alone.

  ‘I’m off out, can’t you tell?’ she asked, both arms flung out at her sides as if she was about to spin on the spot.

  He only noticed it then. She looked different: a slick of lipstick on her mouth, her hair pinned up, no sign of the large white hat they all wore.

  ‘You look lovely,’ he said, a beat too late.

  Her arms dropped to her sides and she fiddled with the pocket of her cardigan. ‘I was wondering, well . . .’ She swallowed.

  It dawned on him slowly: her standing so close to him the evening before, her expression as he pulled her into the billiard room. She was about to ask him out.

  ‘I wondered if you would like an evening away from this place? From the loonies?’ she said it with a laugh, but the word sounded harsh anyway.