Greyfriars Reformatory

by Frazer Lee

  I swallow dryly and then yawn. The musical sound persists, and it sounds like it is coming from the corridor outside the dormitory. There is another sound too, and this one is fainter than the music. It sounds like a girl is sobbing. I assume it’s Victoria, until I look over to see her still lying asleep in her bed. All the other beds are still occupied, so who is it making that noise? I’m awake now, and too intrigued to go back to sleep, so I clamber out of bed to investigate.

  The eerie musical chimes continue as I steal out of the dormitory. And, as I emerge into the corridor, the plaintive sobbing grows louder too. The night sky beyond the high windows is pitch black. The only light comes from some eerily green emergency lighting at the far end of the corridor, where the sounds of the chimes and the sobbing are coming from. Then I see the shadow of a girl flit across the wall.

  I pursue her, following the corridor around to the left. The music and the moans lead me on until I’m walking through a longer corridor. I fight the instinct to call out to the mystery girl, for fear that I might alert Principal Quick to the fact that I’m out of bed and roaming the hallways.

  (Is that dream logic? I wonder. Am I still asleep after all?)

  I round another corner and see a dark shape set into the wall up ahead. As I get nearer, I see that it is the dark entrance to a stairwell. I hear echoing footfalls climbing the stairs, and a sharp sniffing sound before the mournful sobbing continues on. I look down at where the scant green glow of the emergency lighting gives way to the black shadow of the stairwell. I step across the shadow’s threshold and I’m engulfed in the darkness. Cool air washes over me from somewhere above.

  I climb the steps, each of which feels rough and cold beneath my feet. The darkness is almost impenetrable as I climb the stairs, and I have to feel my way around as the staircase spirals up to the next level. A cold breeze blows through my hair, giving me goosebumps, and all the while the chimes grow ever louder and more distorted. The sound makes me think of a child’s toy with the batteries running down, making the pained sobbing I can hear all the more disconcerting. A few more steps and I can see a little better thanks to a faint, silvery light at the summit of the staircase. I push on and reach the top. Holding on to the side of the open brick doorway, I pause to catch my breath.

  And then I realize the sounds have stopped.

  I enter the room and take in my surroundings. The reverse side of a large clockface is to my right and the moon is shining right through it – the source of the silvery light that guided me to the summit. The stairs have led me right the way up to the freaking clock tower. A chill breeze blows through open arches on each side of the clockface, making me shiver. The clock mechanism ticks rhythmically, a counterpoint to the ebb and flow of the wind. The clock’s hands are a minute before seven o’clock. That strikes me as strange. How can it still be so damn dark if it’s almost seven?

  I feel both exposed and enclosed up here, somehow. The tower room smells musty. Dust, debris and an old, gray blanket litter the floor. The breeze lifts the blanket and for a moment I feel a chill as it looks like someone might be lying there, underneath it. I blink away the illusion – but then I hear something.

  The sobbing sounds break the quiet. I look to the source of the sound and feel a shock of surprise to see a girl standing on the precipice in one of the open archways. How she got there, I can’t explain. The clock tower was definitely empty when I entered. No way I wouldn’t have noticed if she’d come up the stairs behind me. I feel more gooseflesh pricking my arms as the girl turns my way. She’s clad in a dirty, gray reformatory uniform. Her dark, tousled hair hides her facial features. She looks strangely lifeless standing there in the archway – a shadow-person. But her shoulders convulse as she sobs uncontrollably, betraying her humanity. She turns her back on me and teeters on the edge.

  I reach out my hand to her on instinct, though I’m still a few meters away. No, I try to yell, but I can’t speak. Then the girl just drops suddenly. One moment she was there, standing in the archway, and the next she’s gone. I rush to the side of the precipice and, placing my hands on the cold brickwork of the archway, I peer over the edge and down at the ground. But there’s no sign of the girl who fell. I lean, carefully, a little further over the edge, scanning the recreation yard below for the shape of her body. Nothing. Just the skeletal shape of a dead tree.

  Then I feel a freezing chill at the nape of my neck.

  A hand grips my shoulder tight.

  I whirl around to see the girl, her face hidden in hair and shadow. But her eyes are just visible through the veil of hair. And they are brimming with hatred. Her fingernails dig into my shoulder painfully and I try to cry out, but again no sound will come.

  I try to lift my hands, to fight back, but they dangle numbly at my sides. My ears begin to ring, as though the music box chimes have become a single, discordant note burrowing through my ears and into my brain. Her hateful eyes narrow to spiteful slits, and she shoves me hard. I fall back from the archway, my arms and legs feeling as distant from me as the tower becomes with my descent.

  My heart beats faster.

  The wind blasts my back as I plummet toward the ground.

  I try to scream, but all I can hear is that terrible ringing, on and on in my ears.

  * * *

  I wake with a jolt. My bedcovers are tangled around my wrists and legs. I sit up and wriggle free. Saffy’s face is the first that I see, unfortunately. She’s already dressed in her uniform, and is wearing that trademarked, shit-eating smirk of hers. A couple of the other girls are getting dressed, and I hear running water coming from the bathroom.

  I blink away the last remnants of my nightmare and prepare to hit the shower.

  I hope the water’s hot because I feel so damn cold.

  * * *

  Principal Quick is waiting for us when we arrive at the refectory door. She stands with her back to the door. As she eyeballs each of us, I notice her caressing the bunch of keys she holds in her right hand. She has a leather-bound book tucked under her left arm.

  “At Greyfriars, we earn our meals. You will follow me.”

  With that, she’s off, and we each have to walk fast to keep up with her. I’m just guessing, you understand, but I suspect Principal Quick may have already earned her breakfast. I bet she eats like a queen, somewhere, while we’re all still in bed. Stomachs gurgling audibly, we each line up in the exercise yard under Quick’s instruction, our backs to the far wall. The sky looms gray overhead, and there’s a damp smell in the air. I look down at the ground and see that the concrete at my feet has green patches on it where moss and mold have taken hold.

  (Hey, that rhymes!)

  “Jogging detail. Single file. Saffron Chassay, you will lead.”

  I can barely contain myself, hearing her call Saffy by her full name again. It’ll never get old – unlike me, stuck in this rotten, depressing place.

  “Emily Drake! Step in line.”

  Principal Quick’s command goes straight to my feet and I follow the rabble around the courtyard. I hear the jangling of keys behind me and, as I round the courtyard, I see that the principal has pocketed them. She has a cigarette between her lips, which she lights. She exhales a plume of smoke into the morning air like the dragon she really is. We all have to jog through her secondhand smoke. If I was at all cynical, I’d think she had planned it that way. Reminding us that we have no privileges. Surely not though. The principal glances at us as we pass, then takes the book from beneath her left arm, opens it and begins to recite.

  On and on she drones, turning the pages as we each huff and puff our incarcerated asses around the exercise yard. We begin to bunch together, and I can feel the heat of other bodies around me. It’s not an unpleasant sensation in the cool damp of the morning air. Then Saffy’s voice cuts through in a harsh whisper, and I feel like running faster to put some distance between us.

  “Be
good to know where she keeps her stash of smokes, eh girls?”

  Quick continues reading, oblivious.

  “Well?” Saffy says, and I realize she’s right beside me.

  “What?” You have to agree, it’s a fair question.

  “Where does she keep ’em?” Saffy whispers.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, sure you don’t. Like you don’t know a thing about the mysterious other inmate. Allow me to jog your memory.”

  Before I can react, I feel Saffy’s hand on my elbow. She shoves me hard, and I lose my footing. I crash into Victoria, who tumbles to the ground as I half run, half jump over her falling body. I have a split second to avoid smashing into the wall. I put my hands out in front of me and come to a standstill.

  Saffy and the other girls have stopped jogging too and are standing around Victoria, shrieking with laughter.

  Quick looks angrily at Victoria, then snaps her book closed. “Am I interrupting you? Get to your feet, clumsy girl.”

  Victoria gets to her feet, rubbing at her badly grazed hands. She glares at me like it’s somehow my fault. Saffy, I can’t help but notice, looks delighted. For one, brief moment, I feel something burning in my chest. It’s the truth about what happened, trying to get out. It’s tempting, I have to admit, the idea of landing Saffy in hot water by telling Principal Quick how she shoved me into Victoria and made her fall. But I swallow the truth down inside of me and let it dissipate.

  “Back to it, girls.” Principal Quick finds her page again, unfortunately, and continues reading aloud.

  No sooner have we passed by the principal, than Saffy draws alongside me again.

  “Good to know you’re a team player,” she whispers, and I realize it was maybe another of her weirdly ritualistic tests like when she offered her hand for me to shake. “I’m going to be running a tight ship here, don’t forget it. You’re either with me, or….” Saffy clams up as we jog past Principal Quick.

  The principal finishes her cigarette and stubs it out beneath the heel of her shoe. She raises her head and has a faraway look in her eyes. I glance upward too and see that her eyes are fixed on the clock tower above the courtyard.

  I cast my gaze back down at the courtyard and feel a chill pass right through me as I jog under the tower’s shadow.

  * * *

  After exercise detail, we had breakfast. Well, I say breakfast, but in reality I don’t know what it actually was that Principal Quick served up. I think it was supposed to be porridge, but the absence of any discernable flavor would make it anyone’s guess. Rest assured, it satisfied no major food group requirements. I can still feel it, heavy in my stomach, as I sit at my desk in the classroom.

  Principal Quick stands at the head of the class and her back is to all of us as she’s writing something on the chalkboard. She finishes what she’s scrawling with a flourish and steps back from the chalkboard before turning to face us.

  The heading reads: PERSONAL DEVELOPMENT – THE SEVEN VIRTUES.

  The look on her sharp face is one of immense pride. She clearly feels a sense of accomplishment when writing things, especially when using chalk.

  (You go girl, too.)

  “You will learn the seven virtues,” she announces. “You will embrace and embody them. Only through this learning can you hope to salvage something from your lives.”

  Principal Quick turns her back on us and begins writing on the board again. Beneath the heading, in immaculate handwriting, she is writing a list:

  Humility. Chastity. Temperance.

  Oh good, I do love a list. Everyone does, don’t they? Wow, her handwriting is really neat though, I’ll give her that. And while she’s writing, I glance carefully at the other girls. Victoria looks even more fucked up than she did yesterday, like she hasn’t slept. I see her idly rubbing at her wrist, which looks red raw from her fall in the exercise yard. Saffy sits bolt upright, her posture perfect, wearing her power-smirk. Annie appears to be looking for a window that isn’t there to stare out of. Lena slouches over her desk, absentmindedly picking her nose.

  (Atta girl.)

  Principal Quick turns back to face the class and I snap back to attention again. She takes a couple of steps forward to address us, revealing the rest of her beautifully rendered list:

  Mercy. Kindness. Charity.

  “The first step in your rehabilitation will require?”

  It’s a rhetorical question, obvs. I stare at the blank page of my notebook. None of the others makes a sound. Well, all except for Lena, who yawns. I look up at the sound and my eyes meet Principal Quick’s. She scowls, then finishes adding a final word to her list:

  Diligence.

  The principal turns from the blackboard and stares at me. I don’t really know how to react. Does she expect me to say something? It’s like her gaze is burrowing into my brain and poking around in there for anything of use.

  Good luck with that, I think.

  And the burrowing becomes a burning sensation, like I’m burning on the inside, and then the ringing in my ears starts up and I feel numb at my extremities, like I’m falling but not falling and just hanging there, an empty vessel being carved out hollow from the inside until there’s nothing left of me but a shell and even that is tenuous, I mean I’m hardly even there at all and—

  * * *

  The ringing echoes out and my seat feels softer beneath me than it did in the classroom. And the room’s darker, too. I blink and then, lowering my hands flat either side of me, I find the springs of a mattress pushing back. The echoes fade away and I’m in the dormitory. Around me, the other girls are getting ready for bed. I see Lena keeping watch again by the door.

  I wonder how much time has passed since I began to completely zone out this time. A taste, like mashed potatoes, on my tongue. That heavy feeling in my stomach again, only different from the breakfast gruel. It must be after dinner, because they’re all getting ready for bed. Saffy is sprawled on her bed, fiddling with her blonde hair. She’s already in her nightclothes.

  “Let’s play a game, ladies,” she says.

  (Oh, please, let’s not.)

  “What kind of game?” Annie asks. She’s sitting cross-legged on her bed.

  “Why are you in here?”

  Lena snorts. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she says from her vantage point by the door.

  “Yes, I would, matter of fact,” Saffy snaps back. “And that’s why you’re going first. Well volunteered.”

  “Screw you,” Lena says.

  “Screw me? Ugh. I knew it would be dyke-related.” Saffy wrinkles her nose theatrically.

  Lena flips her the bird, which only encourages Saffy to play to the room all the more.

  Victoria pads over to her bed, then places her toiletries into her bedside locker.

  Saffy watches her with the attitude of a bored predator. “How about you, retard?” Saffy asks.

  But Victoria pretends not to have heard.

  “Earth calling retard,” Saffy says, louder this time. “I said how about you?”

  Victoria pulls back her covers. Her face falls as she pulls out another toilet roll from beneath her bedcovers. She tosses the toilet roll out onto the floor and then climbs into bed. She grits her teeth in apparent anger and frustration before pulling her covers over her head.

  Saffy laughs and the others do too. I don’t find it that funny, to be honest with you. They’ve made that lame joke before. Maybe they need a new one. Then Saffy looks at me with a cruel smirk on her face and I wonder if I’m going to be their new joke.

  “Hey, bitches,” Lena says, “Principal Quick’s coming.”

  Saved by the principal. Hallelujah.

  Saffy gives Victoria a parting shot. “I’ll get it out of you, I always do,” she says, before getting into bed.

  “Lights out, girls.” I hear Princi
pal Quick flicking the light switch. She pulls the door shut, and then I hear the heels of the principal’s shoes beat a tattoo as she walks away down the corridor. I lie awake in the near-darkness and, after Principal Quick’s footfalls die away, I listen to the mournful sobs coming from Victoria’s bed.

  Chapter Four

  Victoria

  Victoria slept fitfully, as she always did. It was a source of consternation to her mother that she always had dark circles under her eyes.

  “Your bedroom is as pink as the womb,” her mom had told her. “I don’t know why you can’t sleep through.”

  Victoria knew why. And she wondered if her mother knew too, but chose to ignore it. Ignorance is bliss. Wasn’t that how the saying went? Even now, Victoria was drifting out of sleep and back into wakefulness. Her nose wrinkled at the persistent smell of something. And the something awakened her.

  She sat up in bed, all pink pastel and plush throw cushions. All her gender-stereotyped belongings, neatly laid out on cerise shelves. The little alarm clock, also pink, told her it was still nighttime. Just before one a.m.

  Confused by the strange smell, and half-asleep, she pulled on a robe and drifted out of the room. Holding on to the handrail because she was feeling so woozy, Victoria yawned her way downstairs and headed for the kitchen. She passed the line of framed photo portraits on the wall. A half-dozen versions of herself, pictured through the years from fat-faced kid to young adult. Smiling. But not really smiling.

  Victoria entered the kitchen. The lights had been left on, their reflections gleaming off the polished tile floor. Squeaky clean, just how Mom liked it. But instead of the quiet of the hour, Victoria could hear an intense hissing sound. As she moved into the domestic space, she saw her mother sitting on a breakfast stool. Her upper body lay slumped across the kitchen island, with a near-empty liquor bottle next to her. She appeared to be unconscious.