The Other Girl

by C D Major

  ‘I will try everything in my power to stop that,’ Declan said, feeling the strength in his own voice and trying to transmit it to her.

  ‘Would I . . . would I ever be allowed to leave?’ The smallest flicker of something appeared in her eyes.

  Declan recognised it as hope. He didn’t want to make promises he couldn’t keep. ‘I hope so, Edith. I really hope so.’

  She clasped his hands then, quickly, Declan surprised by how cold her skin was, the strength of her grip. ‘Thank you, Doctor, thank you for helping me,’ she said. ‘Bernie always told me you were kind. I knew you were kind, that you would help me if you could.’

  She let his hands go and headed back along the corridor towards the dayroom. Declan watched her leave, her feet light on the flagstones. He knew he still had a fight left to go and he needed to ready himself for it.

  The chief superintendent offered to drive Mary back to Oamaru and Declan walked them back to the foyer; so much had changed since that morning. It had started to spit outside, the lengthy gable-lined windows of the foyer dotted with rain.

  Mary moved towards him, her head down, confusion etched on her features. Then, as if deciding, she reached for him quickly, hugged him tightly to her. ‘I always knew she would never do that . . .’ she said near his ear, then drew back, held him at arm’s length. ‘That she wouldn’t have gone without saying goodbye.’

  She blew her nose and stepped away, under a black umbrella the chief superintendent was proffering just outside the entranceway. They disappeared into his motorcar. Declan remained in the open doorway, leaning against the frame, one hand up as the vehicle moved down the driveway spitting up stones as it went, until it turned through the main gate and disappeared.

  He knew what he needed to do now.

  Chapter 44

  THEN

  It was Visitors’ Day. Some patients were combing their hair, straightening clothing. Bernie was lying on her back on her bed in the dormitory, the blanket beneath the bed empty, a flattened space where Misty had lain.

  Edith swallowed.

  The moment the darkness faded that morning she’d seen Misty under the bed, pushed there, eyes glassy, blood dried; the smell worse, filling the small space, forcing Edith to cover her mouth and nose with her scrunched-up nightdress as she wondered what to do with her.

  When Edith approached, Bernie tucked her knees up, a small ball on the iron bed. Edith sat on the mattress next to her. Should she tell her?

  Further along the row of beds was Joan, who didn’t speak at all. She was reading a book from the library. Her hands were always a deep shade of red from working in the laundry. Rosa was in the corner bed, rubbing something into the bow of her violin, utterly oblivious to anything else as she wiped, wiped, wiped.

  Edith fiddled with the collar of her blouse, her fingers still remembering the fur, her hands the cold, stiff weight as she’d stuffed the body under the staircase.

  ‘Bernadette,’ Nurse Ritchie called from the doorway, her voice bored-sounding. ‘Visitors for you.’

  Bernie didn’t react at first; then, in a whirlwind, she unclenched, sat up, eyes wide as she reached for her comb, pulled it through her hair.

  ‘They’re waiting,’ Nurse Ritchie said, tutting as she did so, muttering something Edith couldn’t make out.

  They were here. Edith felt a flash of something, imagined herself hearing the same words, combing her curly hair for visitors who she could tell things to, who might talk to the doctors. Bernie was smiling, pulling on her cardigan, straightening the collar of her blouse.

  ‘Edie, will you?’ She held out a ribbon.

  It felt slippery in Edith’s fingers as she went to tie it to the end of Bernie’s plait.

  ‘I can’t believe it. They came, I thought . . .’ Bernie tailed away. ‘Come on.’ She was on her feet.

  Edith didn’t want to go, but she didn’t want to be alone either. So she followed.

  They walked through the dormitory out into the corridor, past the nurses’ station and into the dayroom. Bernie wavered in the doorway, her eyes on two figures, backs facing the door; both stood next to an empty table looking out of the window at the sweep of lawn, neatly mown in front of them. Bernie approached them shyly, the man turning and holding out a hand for her to shake. She almost bobbed into a curtsy as she took it. Her mother stayed looking out at the lawn for the longest time before joining them both at the table.

  The room filled and Edith sat on a hard bench, the only person not in a group. She stared round at the walls, noticing the mark in the plaster where Patricia had thrown the chair, the smear on the glass of the nurses’ station, the white plimsolls that Nurse Ritchie always wore, the laces double-tied, looped over a hook.

  Then she saw her. Donna was sitting at a table by the barred window in the corner, her legs twisted together, ankle over shin, as if she was in knots. Her face was pale, her eyes narrowed underneath the wonky fringe, the tic evident as she glared at the person in the seat opposite. Edith felt her insides freeze as she thought back to the night before: the feel of Donna’s legs clamped round her.

  Donna wasn’t focused on her now, though, and Edith realised that she had a visitor for the first time. The woman opposite her had newly washed grey hair, the ends curling on her collar. She was holding her hand out to Donna and talking in a low voice; Edith couldn’t make out any words. The more she spoke, the more Donna hunched her shoulders, folding into her seat. Edith couldn’t seem to look away as, unbelievably, she saw tears leak out of her eyes. She watched her face slowly collapse, as if she were a building they were demolishing.

  Edith was distracted then by noise at Bernie’s table. A gleeful squeak, Bernie launching herself across the table at her mother.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you . . .’

  Her father watched, patting worriedly at the pink spot on the top of his head.

  A nurse stepped forward, realised there was no problem, encouraged Bernie back into her seat.

  Bernie’s smile was so wide as she turned to grin at Edith. Her mother produced a handkerchief from her handbag as she dabbed at her eyes, a leaky smile at her husband.

  Edith flicked her eyes back across to Donna who was furiously wiping at her own face as the lady with the grey curled hair continued to talk. Donna scraped back her chair in one violent move and stood up. Edith had never seen that expression on her face before. She looked like a child, younger than Bernie in that moment, hopelessly lost in the cavernous dayroom. Tears streaked down her face and the sleeve of her cardigan couldn’t wipe them dry.

  Where was this Donna last night?

  Then, as if she could feel Edith watching, Donna looked up and across at her. Her expression shifted the moment she laid eyes on her, her chin up, eyes small slits. She walked away as the grey-haired woman continued to speak. She didn’t look back. Straight past the nurses’ station and out of the door.

  Bernie’s parents left soon afterwards, too, and Bernie moved across the room wordlessly, holding something small in her hand that her mother had given her before they left.

  ‘They’re taking me home. Doctor Harris wrote to them, Edie, Doctor Harris told them I was better . . .’

  Edith’s head was swimming as she took in the words.

  ‘In a week or so, I’m leaving . . .’

  Edith couldn’t answer. Bernie was leaving. She would stay.

  ‘Mother gave me this. To keep me company while they arrange things. Isn’t that kind, Edie? It’s a little cat like Misty . . .’

  She opened her fist; a small porcelain cat sat on her palm.

  Edith blinked and looked at Bernie, trying to remember what she should say. She moved away, down the corridor, back to the ward, Bernie trailing her.

  She wasn’t concentrating, hadn’t realised how Donna would react. She should have thought about it. Donna was waiting for them both when they returned, standing right next to the dormitory door, slamming it when they were inside. The other girls melted away, Rosa lingering to watch
from a safe distance on the other side of the room. Joan had put her book down, turned her back to them as she lay on her bed. Joyce started slapping the walls. Donna told her to shut it. Martha and Shirley stood nearby, ready to be summoned.

  Edith jumped as Donna pushed her back against the wall. ‘No visitors of your own? Just want to watch?’

  Edith swallowed, trying to think of something she could say to stop this. She didn’t want to be any trouble; she knew where trouble led. An image of the white room flashed into her mind. She swallowed again.

  Donna stepped backwards, her chest rising and falling, the tic in her eye more pronounced as she looked at her. ‘Who’d visit you, anyway?’

  Bernie was silent, looking over her shoulder, aware of Martha and Shirley standing to the side. There was a hush in the room as Edith tried to think of an answer that would slow Donna’s fast breathing, calm things down.

  ‘I . . . please, Donna, I didn’t mean to see. I . . .’

  She hadn’t expected it, halfway through, her hands out wide to reason, Donna launched herself. Edith put her hands up as she came. A fist winded her. She bent over, pain shooting through her as a hand slapped the side of her head.

  She stumbled, tried to find her feet, her balance. She felt Donna’s grip loosen; someone started to scream and Donna looked over her shoulder at the noise. Edith saw her chance then: her nails, cut by Nurse Shaw the week before, were blunt on her face but she was raking, felt skin beneath her fingers, not caring what she was clawing at, just wanting to get her to stop.

  Bernie was leaving.

  The weight on her chest: fur, liquid. That smell.

  Donna stumbled backwards and she realised she was winning. She felt a surge of something as she grabbed at a clump of her hair, pulled hard, listened to Donna scream out. There were more people calling, bodies around them, eyes everywhere, faces blurred as Edith felt blood pound in her head, the whole room indistinct and unreal.

  Legs clamping her tight in the dark: the key turning in the lock.

  Then she felt two hands underneath her armpits, someone pulling her off, Bernie planted in front of her, mouth wide open, another pair of hands around hers as they prised her fingers, one by one, from the hair she was clutching until she was dragged backwards, only thin strands left in her closed fist, Donna holding her head as Edith realised Shirley and Martha had hold of her. They didn’t do anything, waited, held her tightly as she writhed and bucked, as Donna looked on. Her face shifted into a smile and she blew at her fringe as she stood up.

  ‘Hold her still,’ she said as she aimed a kick at Edith’s sides, and she groaned as she felt Donna’s foot crunch against her ribs.

  Edith looked up, at Bernie a few feet away, just watching; saw as the porcelain cat slipped from her hands on to the floor: a small tink as she cried out. Edith thrashed anew, twisting her whole body, shaking her head, feeling the snap of her ponytail on her cheek.

  Martha lost her grip and with her free hand Edith flailed and scratched, not letting them hold her. Then suddenly both hands were free. She didn’t hesitate, not thinking, not caring, just launching herself on to Donna with a snarl, shouting every unpleasant thing over the pounding in her own head.

  Stale smoke on her face: kneeling over her in the dark.

  Maybe there was a call from nearby, a new voice, but all she could see was Donna, her aching body thrashing and fighting and wanting to hurt, barely acknowledging that Donna wasn’t reacting, was letting her do it. Then suddenly there were more hands all over her, lifting her right up so her legs circled pointlessly in the air. She saw their uniforms, saw Donna being held down too as she felt the cold, sharp jab of a needle.

  Then the room swam and she fell to the floor; a crunch, something sharp, her head hitting the floor, a tiny porcelain head severed from its small body: a grey cat like Misty, broken in two.

  Chapter 45

  NOW

  Doctor Malone had clearly been watching the motorcar leave, too, was standing with his back to the door in his office, all his muscles tense. Declan stood in the open doorway, swallowing as he almost changed his mind. Then Doctor Malone turned, face purple when he saw who it was, his whole body quivering, his Adam’s apple moving up and down.

  ‘Doctor Malone . . .’ he began, starting forward.

  ‘Don’t you dare.’

  Declan had never heard him shout so loud; the whole room seemed to shake with the sound.

  ‘I need to speak with you.’ Declan focused on keeping his voice calm, refused to be intimidated by the older man.

  ‘I don’t give a damn what you need to do. I have never been more humiliated in my life: to be ambushed like that, to have my practices questioned, to have the whole institution brought into disrepute by a nobody, by someone with minimal experience, almost a teenager. To think I allowed you to stay on here when I should have wiped my hands of you the moment I had the chance . . .’

  Declan stood, body still, hands held behind him, waiting for the diatribe to end.

  Doctor Malone was pacing, spitting words out. Then, gradually, when he had started to run out of steam, when he had not incited a reaction, he faded, the sentences shorter, until eventually they petered out and he was left, hands clutching the back of his chair, staring Declan down.

  Declan didn’t flinch, although the expression was so hate-filled he wondered he didn’t drop down from the look alone. But he had been used to loud, angry men all his life. He thought of his father, the teachers he’d had over the years; he would not cower in the face of it any more.

  Feet planted in the middle of the room, Declan spoke as clearly as he could. ‘I will be leaving this office to write to a number of publications, medical journals, newspapers and suchlike, with details of this case. I am planning to make numerous claims about the way in which Edith’s case was originally handled and the treatment she has suffered at your hands . . .’

  He could see the whites of Doctor Malone’s knuckles as he spoke; a vein was pulsing in his neck. He wondered that he didn’t combust.

  ‘I don’t have to do these things,’ Declan added, slowly and quietly, feeling for the second time that day that everything hinged on what happened next. This had to work. He thought back to Edith earlier, reaching to clasp his hands. He had planned this; he knew he could do it. He just needed to hold his nerve. ‘On one condition.’

  Doctor Malone opened his mouth, shut it again. Had he heard Declan? He removed his hands from the back of the chair and stood up straighter. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked slowly, eyes narrowed, waiting for the trick.

  Declan took a breath. This was it. ‘I won’t tell a soul about what has happened here if you agree to cancel the leucotomy on Edith Garrett immediately and sign release papers for her, make proper arrangements to ensure she will be allowed back into the community . . .’

  Doctor Malone looked across at him with an expression of utter disgust. ‘Impossible,’ he scoffed, moving around from behind his desk. ‘Need I remind you, Doctor Harris, that Edith Garrett has been a patient here for fifteen years.’

  Declan interjected, his voice firm, refusing to move as Doctor Malone stood in front of him, inches away. ‘And she was committed for simply telling people – telling you, Doctor – the truth.’

  ‘The truth is preposterous, it’s . . .’ Doctor Malone was almost talking to himself, pacing in front of Declan as he spoke. ‘How did she know? How is it possible . . .?’

  Declan spoke quietly over him until the older man was silent. ‘We might never know. When things are calmer I would be happy to show you the research I have found on the matter. There have been other cases, Doctor, where children appear to have been able to recall past lives, violent deaths.’

  ‘Absurd,’ Malone sputtered, his jowls wobbling, his face reddening.

  ‘Be that as it may, it was the truth,’ Declan stressed. ‘You heard it yourself. Yet she was told she had multiple personality disorder, schizophrenia. Underwent extensive treatments, had God knows how many dr
ugs.’

  Doctor Malone stopped, the stuffed hawk on a shelf above his head. ‘But we can’t just let her go. It would be admitting . . . no, no, we could never.’ He was flailing now. ‘And how can you even entertain this? Children have fanciful thoughts, they say fanciful things. How can you be certain this wasn’t a story she was told, that she hadn’t visited the town? What you’re suggesting beggars belief.’ He was gabbling. ‘She can be manipulative. She can be emotional, unpredictable . . . violent.’ His eyes wild, he scanned the room as if for answers.

  Declan felt a flash of anger at the man’s selfish desperation, his nostrils flaring as he stepped forward. ‘If you can’t see your way to doing this,’ he said, emphasising every syllable, ‘I will be writing up this case. I will state that Edith, a five-year-old child at the time, was simply telling people truthful things. That she was taken from her parents under your recommendation, that no enquiries were ever made to follow up what she was saying. That you deliberately mis-diagnosed a child to keep her in the asylum. That a body has been found. I will ensure that Seacliff, and you personally, are utterly humiliated.’ He had crossed off each sentence on a finger, his voice clear and strong. Then he waited.

  ‘I’ll refute it,’ Doctor Malone said, his voice thin, his energy fading.

  ‘I have the notes detailing the case: all of the notes.’ Declan stressed the last part.

  Doctor Malone didn’t say anything, his whole body still, hands dropped to his sides as Declan stood there, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling, trying to swallow down the fear inside him, that he would be caught out, that Doctor Malone would never agree.

  ‘You . . . you wouldn’t . . .’ Doctor Malone began in the smallest voice, barely a whisper.

  ‘I have already made enquiries,’ Declan lied, ‘and have received some very real interest, I assure you.’ He hoped the bluster would distract Doctor Malone from checking the facts.

  Doctor Malone didn’t speak. Declan waited for him to react, to pace once more, to throw his arms around, to shout, to swipe at objects in the room. Instead, after a few full minutes of silence had passed, he saw the older man droop, his shoulders rounded as all the anger melted out of him. He nodded slowly, stepped back across to the chair behind his desk and almost fell into it, his head in his hands.