by Frazer Lee
Except for Jessica.
She didn’t seem to be dying, and that troubled Quick. She marched over to the apparently hysterical girl and saw that her porridge was untouched. Her eating disorder – of course. Quick grabbed hold of Jessica’s hair and wrapped it around her fist, pulling down hard until the deceitful little bitch opened her useless mouth wide.
She wasted no time, then.
Scooping up porridge in the spoon, Quick rammed it into Jessica’s protesting mouth. She tilted the spoon, ensuring the mixture went down. Quick refilled the spoon and this time, Jessica tried to close her mouth. Quick heard the girl’s teeth shatter as she rammed the metal spoon between them and right down her throat. Jessica’s scream died in her throat and Quick released the girl’s hair from her grip.
Quick then took a seat opposite the girl as she continued choking, spittle and porridge slicked around her lips – and watched her die.
She left them all there, slumped over the dining tables. No burial for the likes of them.
Afterward, Quick’s closet door had not remained shut.
Violently drunk, Quick set about completing her case notes, adding an imagined cause of death for each girl. The contents of her clipboard had become a ledger of the damned. But when she got to Emily’s case file, she faltered. With a sigh, she accepted that it would remain unfinished, just like her manuscript.
Quick rose from her seat, swaying uneasily from so much vodka. She took the framed picture down from the wall, kissed William Drake’s slit mouth goodbye, and placed it facedown in the desk drawer. She took the crumpled music box from her pocket and placed it inside the drawer, too. Then she slid the drawer closed before emptying the remaining bottle of pills she had taken from the med store into her hand. She shoveled them into her mouth and drank them down with hit after hit of vodka, straight from the bottle. A fire began to rage in her throat, mirroring the one in her heart. Soon enough, she had run out of pills. Moments before she fell unconscious, she glimpsed something in the shadowy corner of her office.
It looked like a girl.
Her skin was a pallid gray color. Quick could not make out the girl’s face because her hair had fallen over it.
“Emily?” she asked, her voice sounding distant through her inebriation.
And then everything went black.
* * *
Principal Quick awoke as if rising to the surface of a fathomless nightmare.
The foul aftertaste of liquor and narcotics coated her throat. She coughed, which only made it taste worse. Daylight flooded the office through the window to the recreation yard. She must have been out for the count all night. Quick almost knocked the vodka bottle over as she staggered to her feet. She had to lean against the desk for support. A surge of bile hit the back of her throat and she had to swallow hard to prevent herself from throwing up all over her manuscript.
The manuscript.
Oh, yes. She would have to finish it someday. But first, she had work to attend to. She straightened herself out as best she could, then picked up the keys from her desk. She left the office and locked the door behind her. Her heels clicked against the hard surface of the reformatory corridor floor as she made her way to the main entrance. She hit the button that would release the main gates and set about unlocking the front door.
Stepping out into the cold daylight, Principal Quick watched the prisoner transport bus drive between the gateposts before it circled around and drew up in front of the steps.
She carried her clipboard over to the bus, ready to greet her inmates.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
You Will Learn
I’m on the prisoner transport bus again and the sky outside the window looks as gray as I feel.
I say ‘again’ because, well, I’ve been institutionalized a few times. All my adult life actually. I’ve had a few problems, shall we say. But before you ask, my meds are so strong I can’t remember what any of my problems were, or are. I guess that kind of makes me an unreliable narrator? If that bothers you then look away. I know I would. Or at least, I think I would.
The four other girls on the bus have been real quiet since we crossed the county line into Dustbowl, Nowheresville. Not that any of them spoke to me at all in the first place, you understand. I’m not what you’d call the approachable type. A couple of them whispered to each other, some nonsense about ‘making a break for it during the pee break’. Yeah, good luck with that in your handcuffs and leg irons, ladies. Probably just trying to style it out before they realized for sure that they were going to be banged up like the rest of us. No special cases here, just a bunch of head cases.
I glance at a couple of the other girls, and find myself wondering what they might be hiding. And then again I don’t wonder at all. I mean, what’s the point in trying to figure that out anyway? We’re all hiding something. That’s partly why we’re here.
I glance out the window and try to decipher where ‘here’ is, exactly. The window is almost as grimy as the sky, making me doubly separated from the landscape as it smears across my vision. I can see the skeletal forms of trees, clinging to the wind-battered hillsides. The country road begins to twist and turn, as if coiling in on itself to keep us moving into its spiral.
The driver makes a bad gear change as the road gets rougher. The torturous sound of the grinding gearshift gives way to a burst of static on the bus radio. The signal is weak, probably because of the mountainous terrain on either side of us, but I can hear a few faint bars of a song coming through the tinny speakers. The lyrics say something about ghosts, and regret, and about not saying sorry. Soon enough, the song becomes lost in another crackle of static and I turn my attention back to the window.
“Turn the fucking thing off if it’s not working properly.” The voice from the back of the bus is petulant, and clipped with indignation. I look around, on instinct, and my eyes meet the baby blues of the tall blonde who decided to take the entire back row for herself. She gives off that vibe, you know, where she’s just daring you to sit near her so she can make a scene. Best ignored, those types. Which makes it all the more unfortunate that I made eye contact with her I guess.
“Would you like a fucking selfie with that?” she says.
I break eye contact. Then I go over what I saw, but in my mind’s eye. It’s a thing I do. A thing I have to do, to try and make sense of whether or not what I’m seeing is real. Unreliable, like I said. One thing’s for sure, that blonde girl wears her entitlement like a swipe card. She groans theatrically, and I think I’m in for an earful from her. But then I see the apparent source of her disappointment, looming dark beyond the small clear section of driver’s window that isn’t caked with dirt.
The building is solid looking, hunkered down into the landscape like it knows more bad weather is coming. A clock tower is the only vertical part of the structure, looming darkly at the center of the building. The bus swerves and the road narrows further as we approach the brick perimeter wall and wrought-iron gates. Lichen casts a rusty glow over the weathered bricks, and thick black paint is peeling from the iron railings. There’s a sign next to the gate, the painted letters almost destroyed by the elements. It reads ‘Greyfriars Reformatory for Girls’. Whoop-de-doo. The way the paint has deteriorated makes the words ‘Grey’ and ‘Girls’ stand out. Yup, that’s us in our drab uniforms I guess, the gray girls.
The driver slows the bus to a halt and a few seconds later, the gates swing open, activated by an unseen hand. The driver makes another horrendous gear shift and the bus proceeds through the gates and onto a graveled forecourt. The centerpiece of this gloomy space is a dead-looking tree. A few dry leaves flutter in the wake of the prisoner transport bus as we pass by. I glance back through the rear window, careless of the arrogant blonde, and see the gates swing shut behind us. They close with a loud clank, and the driver swings the vehicle around so we are adjacent to the front steps of the buildi
ng. With a hydraulic hiss of the brakes, we lurch to a halt.
“Finally,” the blonde says, with a wisdom beyond her years.
“Right, ladies, disembarkation time. Front rows first. Single file. No talking. Watch your step at the bottom.”
The chains we’re wearing tinkle like Christmas bells as we file off the bus. I’m ahead of the blonde, so I stand up but she gives me that superior look of hers and pushes past me. As the heat of her body rubs against me I notice that she smells overbearingly sweet, like a bag of boiled candies. I don’t like the scent.
“Come on, come on,” the driver urges, and I follow as quickly as my leg irons will allow me to.
The sky looks just as grimy as it did from inside the bus, but at least the air is fresher outside. I take a few calming breaths—
(In, then out, count to three in your head, and breathe in again.)
—like they taught me to, and then line up with the others alongside the bus. The reformatory looks huge now, up close, its dark windows giving nothing away. The front steps look cracked and worn. Several hopes and dreams must have been deposited there on the way into that—
(And I’m just being honest here.)
—frightening shithole of a building.
But even more terrifying is the woman waiting for us on the steps.
She’s in her fifties, and wears a functional black trouser suit. Her auburn hair is bunched and her lips pursed, making her look pretty tightly wound. She carries a clipboard, tucked under her arm. In her free hand I see a bunch of keys on a dull, silver ring. They too make the sound of little silver bells as she walks across the gravel to face us. She doesn’t look at us yet, instead giving the driver a sharp nod. The driver clambers back onto the bus and I hear the engine grumble back into life behind me. The air around me fills with exhaust fumes. After a hiss of the brake release, the bus moves off, kicking up dust as it goes.
The woman quickly pockets the keys, pulls out her clipboard and makes a show of leafing through the pages of the document that is clamped to it. She shakes her head, slowly.
“More lost souls,” she says. Then, after taking a breath, she begins to walk the line of girls.
“I am Principal Quick. Welcome to Greyfriars Reformatory. Your new home.”
I can see the blonde’s smug, smirking face poking out from beneath her plumage-like fringe at the head of the line. The principal stops still and stands in front of her. Glancing at her clipboard, she says, “Name?”
The blonde flinches for a second. Blink and you’d miss it. But I didn’t.
“Saffy,” she says.
“Full name,” Quick replies.
Then Saffy speaks her full name, real fast so it almost comes out as a single word.
“Saffron Chassay.”
I’m not the only one who sniggers. I mean, who wouldn’t? Saffron Chassay. What a ridiculous-ass name. It suits her. She rolls her eyes at the barely contained laughter from me and a couple of the other girls. But she does look rattled. Interesting.
Quick takes a pen from the little holder on the clipboard and makes a ticking motion on her document before moving on to the next girl. She’s the waif of the group, real skinny and pale. I notice her tousling her hair as Quick approaches, which makes the older woman purse her lips even tighter.
“Hands by your side girl. Name?”
“Jessica Hope.”
Another tick, then Quick moves off. Jessica starts fiddling with her hair again as soon as Quick’s back is turned.
“Name.”
I hear a loud hawking and then spitting sound as the next girl deposits a ball of freshly drawn phlegm onto the gravel. I lean forward a little so I can get a better look and see that the clever girl has spat right in front of Quick’s feet. Oh, boy. I remember seeing her on the bus because the dark circles under her eyes stood out. I recall thinking that she looks as though she has grown up way too fast. She has the punk rock look about her, and could pass for thirty thanks to those dark rings.
I see Quick reach out and for a moment I think she’s going to whack her. But instead, Quick places a finger under the girl’s chin and lifts her face until their eyes meet.
“Nasty habit,” she says. “Name?”
The girl jerks away from Quick’s touch, then stares at the floor. “I’m…Lena Turner,” she says, and I’m surprised at the defeat in her tone.
“Yes, I suppose you are.” Quick makes her mark on the clipboard again, before moving on. “Name.”
“Annie. Annie Chastain.”
Quite perky sounding, this one. And I can see a distinct look of displeasure on Quick’s face before she makes another ticking motion with her pen. Then Quick moves to the end of the line. It’s my turn.
“Emily Drake. Surprised to see you back here so soon.”
I can almost sense Saffy’s ears pricking up at this. A couple of the others seem pretty interested too. I can see them out of my peripheral vision, but I try not to look away from Quick in case she interprets it as a sign of weakness. I vaguely remember Principal Quick, and this place. But I’m not sure if I really do remember, or if it’s just my meds messing with my head again. I try my breathing exercises again.
“You’ll learn,” Quick says, her eyes on me, “someday.” Then she takes a step back and addresses all of us. “You will all learn, as I live and breathe.”
Quick tucks the clipboard under her arm with military precision.
“Inside. Single file.”
One by one, the girls ahead of me file across the gravel forecourt, up the steps and into the main entrance of the reformatory. I am last in line and as I follow the others, a shadow catches me. The sudden chill turns my skin to gooseflesh and I have the compulsion to look upward. The clock tower looms over me, obelisk-like against turbulent skies. The increasing wind is bringing with it dark clouds that look heavy with rain. I notice that the clock’s hands are not moving – stuck close to six. Above the clockface is an arched window, open to the elements. For a moment, something gray flutters within the archway. It looks like a girl, standing there in an inmate’s uniform and watching me through her long, dark hair. The wind is making my eyes water and I blink to clear my vision.
No one there after all.
I keep walking, eager to be indoors and away from the biting wind.
About this book
This is a FLAME TREE PRESS BOOK
Text copyright © 2020 Frazer Lee
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Thanks to the Flame Tree Press team, including: Taylor Bentley, Frances Bodiam, Federica Ciaravella, Don D’Auria, Chris Herbert, Josie Karani, Molly Rosevear, Mike Spender, Cat Taylor, Maria Tissot, Nick Wells, Gillian Whitaker. The cover is created by Flame Tree Studio with thanks to Nik Keevil and Shutterstock.com.
FLAME TREE PRESS is an imprint of Flame Tree Publishing Ltd. flametreepublishing.com. A copy of the CIP data for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
9781787584730 US Paperback | 9781787584747 UK Paperback
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