‘Is any part of it still used as an asylum?’ Bill wanted to know.
‘Not since the turn of the century. In 1900 the asylum was condemned. New premises were built shortly after and the old asylum was left to fall into disrepair. At one stage they even considered demolishing the place, but it was of architectural interest and eventually there were moves to restore it.’ Matt had been deeply fascinated by the old asylum. ‘The place is steeped in history. During the war, it was occupied by the US Navy as a headquarters.’
‘And now it’s a museum, you say?’
‘Arts centre and museum, yes. But they’ve kept a stark reminder of the original purpose of the building.’ Matt felt his blood run cold as he went on to describe how one padded cell had been left exactly as it was over a hundred years ago. ‘It’s grim, I can tell you,’ he said, shuddering at the memory. ‘It’s like every tormented soul that was ever incarcerated there has left something of themselves behind. I’m not kidding you, Bill… the atmosphere in that place really gets to you.’ He hadn’t forgotten how the cell made him feel as though he had been there before.
Glancing round, he saw how Cathy appeared to be sleeping. Gingerly, he reached and stole the vinyl bag from beneath her arms. Balancing it on his knee, he dipped his hand inside. His fingers touched the cold hard surface which he suspected was the wax doll. Drawing it out, he held the doll up where Bill could easily see it; even the touch of it was deeply unpleasant to his skin. ‘What d’you think of that?’ he asked quietly.
In a series of fleeting glances while still keeping his main attention on the road ahead, Bill examined the tattered object. ‘What the hell is it?’ he asked at length, an expression of disgust on his face.
Matt lowered the artefact, turning it over in his hands. ‘It’s a doll of sorts…’ Fingering the coarse ugly hair over the misshapen head, he stared into the deep hollows that were its eyes. A feeling came over him. An eerie, uncomfortable sensation.
Wondering at Matt’s abrupt silence, Bill glanced at him. ‘It’s hideous!’ he exclaimed. ‘Where did you get it from?’ When Matt gave no answer, he nudged him hard. ‘Don’t you fall asleep on me. It was a lonely drive coming to the airport. A bit of company on the way back would be much appreciated. That… thing, where did you get it?’ He was shocked to see how chalk-white was Matt’s face. ‘Are you all right, son?’ he asked, instinctively slowing the car.
‘Yes, I’m okay. Just a bit queasy.’ He smiled halfheartedly. ‘The heat, I expect… too much sun.’ He answered Bill’s question. ‘Cathy found the doll in the padded cell and she wouldn’t be persuaded to leave it behind.’ Certainly she seemed curiously fascinated by the repulsive little doll she found there, but for some inexplicable reason, Matt was deeply disturbed by it.
‘Do you reckon the doll had been left there by some kiddie?’ Bill asked, quietly intruding on Matt’s deeper thoughts. ‘Although it doesn’t look like the kind of doll a child might have.’
‘I can’t think how else it was left there,’ Matt admitted, ‘although the place does sell all manner of curios and local craft. I expect it was left by some mischievous child.’
‘Hmm!’ Bill stared at the doll. ‘And Cathy thinks it’s a treasure, I expect. Women are funny creatures and no mistake. As for me, I wouldn’t give that thing house room!’ He wrinkled his face in repugnance.
Matt laughed. Cathy valued this little doll more than anything they had bought on their travels. His love for her spilled over, submerging all his superstitions. ‘I expect I’ll have to live with it,’ he grinned, ‘but if it was up to me… I’d fling it out here and now!’
He and Bill were still chuckling, neither of them aware that Cathy was awake, disturbed and angered by Matt’s good-humoured threat to ‘fling it out here and now’.
What happened next occurred with such speed and ferocity that it took them both by surprise. With a strangled cry, Cathy lunged forward, intending to snatch the doll from Matt’s hands. When he instinctively clung to it, jerking his head round in astonishment, it was to see Cathy wild eyed and frantic. Making another desperate grab at the doll, she tore it from his grasp, scoring her nails along the soft flesh of his wrist, and seeming not to notice the fine spray that spattered across the windscreen like crimson rain.
‘Christ almighty!’ Bill yelled, pushing his foot to the brake and swearing at the ensuing melody of car horns that told him how close he was to causing an accident. By the time he had manoeuvred the car across the lanes and on to the hard shoulder, he was still shaking. One look at his son-in-law told him that Matt also was clearly shocked.
Matt was the first to speak. Turning in his seat, he was taken aback to see how Cathy was totally unruffled by the incident. In a firm, controlled voice he told her, ‘That was bloody stupid, Cathy! You might have got us all killed.’ Inside, he was trembling, but his instincts told him not to make too big an issue of it. While he waited for Cathy’s response, Matt was aware of her father’s eyes on him. He felt the other man’s horror at what Cathy had done.
For a moment it seemed as though Cathy did not recognise either man. She stared first at Matt, and then at her father. Slowly, she smiled, a curious, unattractive smile. And then she was laughing, harsh, wicked laughter. Suddenly silent, she grabbed the doll to her breast and began singing a lovely haunting melody that was strange to them. There was a madness about her.
‘Cathy?’ It was her father who spoke. She gave no answer. ‘What in God’s name made you do such a thing?’ Still no answer.
With a calmness that belied the fear in him, Matt climbed from the car. His intention was to sit in the back with her, to cradle Cathy in his arms until they reached home, where he would summon the doctor. She was ill, he knew that now.
On opening the rear door, he was astonished to see Cathy quietly curled up in the corner of the seat, fast asleep, the gentle deep rhythm of her breathing suggesting that she had not moved or awakened since the minute she had first closed her eyes, soon after leaving the airport. Puzzled, he glanced at the other man. Bill was visibly trembling.
‘Get back in the front,’ he said. ‘The sooner we get her home, the better.’
For the remainder of the journey, the atmosphere was painfully subdued. The two men were reluctant to speak, for fear of waking her. Still shaken by his daughter’s frenzied outburst, Bill concentrated all his attention on the road, eager now to deliver Cathy safely home. Occasionally he would glance at his son-in-law, secretly wondering what could possibly have made Cathy behave in such a spiteful way. A small suspicion rose in his mind, but almost at once he thrust it out. Matt was not to blame in any way. He had been a good match for Cathy, and his love for her was obvious. Besides, apart from that unfortunate skirmish with the tallow doll, Matt and Cathy had seemed idyllically happy.
The only other explanation was that Cathy suffered too much sun. After all, sunstroke did have an unpredictable effect on some people. It could have been a bad reaction on waking… all the same, it would do no harm for Cathy to get a check-up. ‘She’ll be fine,’ he murmured, glancing at Matt. ‘A storm in a tea cup.’ He smiled, but was not too surprised when Matt did not return his smile.
Reaching out, he slid a cassette into the player; instantly the soothing orchestration filled his senses. Visibly relaxing, he kicked the car into a higher gear and surged forward. Another hour and they would be home. With the music playing on his senses and Cathy peacefully snoozing in the back, it was suddenly easier to believe that it really had been no more than ‘a storm in a tea cup’. Matt’s grim expression reminded him how totally weird it had been.
Matt had wiped the blood droplets from the windscreen and was now holding the crimson-stained handkerchief to his throbbing wrist – Cathy’s nails had gone deep. Now, in the ensuing calm, he could not believe that she had actually launched herself at him in such a way, snarling, lashing out, wanting to hurt him! In that moment when he had swung round to look into her face, it was almost as though he was looking at a hostile
stranger.
He glanced at her now, at the corn-coloured hair that tumbled attractively about her face, the serenity of that lovely face, the innocence there… almost childlike. Even the way she was curled into the corner was reminiscent of a child. This was Cathy; this was how he knew her. So how could he explain the way she had viciously attacked him, her eyes fired with such loathing? He could not explain it. It was almost as though she’d suffered a brainstorm. He turned away.
For a while, Cathy moved not a muscle. Then her eyes slowly opened. She watched Matt through half-closed eyes, black, glittering eyes alive with murderous intent. Inside her furtive mind the voice whispered, enticing, persuasive. In her heart she knew the darkest evil. Matt, like his forefathers, would have to die. But first he must suffer pain, torture. He had to know what it was like to see someone he loved being destroyed. He must be relentlessly pursued beyond all human endurance. He must know that there can be no hope, no reprieve, no salvation, not even beyond the grave!
Growing suddenly fretful in her sleep, Cathy began to fidget this way and that. The doll slid to the floor. Soon a great sense of inner peace overwhelmed her. Presently she was sleeping contentedly, the nightmare subdued, for a while. Only for a while. The seed was sown. There could be no turning back.
‘Here we are. Home at last.’ Bill followed the snaking traffic from the motorway, but when the four or five vehicles continued along the main road towards Bedford, he turned the car into the wide country road which ran in the direction of Holden, and Slater’s Farm. As they wended their way along the lane, neither man saw the hatchback which followed at a discreet distance. ‘Best wake Cathy,’ Bill told Matt. His voice was calmer. Somehow the incident seemed unreal.
‘I’ll wake her when we get there.’ Matt also felt distanced from what had happened. After two long weeks, they were back on familiar territory. He was eager for signs of home; the house on the corner with its huge sign outside, which told passers-by of the ‘Flowers for sale’. Beneath the sign was a small tray and a black plastic bucket crammed with bunches of tulips; propped up against it was a smaller sign that instructed purchasers, ‘Fifty pence a bunch, please leave the money in the tray’. Further along Safford Lane was a large farmhouse of Edwardian design, and in the front paddock stood a huge spherical building, reputed to have a sliding aperture through which the farmer studied the night sky. The lane was mostly flanked by high-reaching hedges and, beyond, rolling pastureland with intermittent spinneys.
On the horizon could be seen rows of long low buildings, erected to house the many thousands of battery hens… ‘a shame on those who built them’, Cathy had often claimed. She detested the thought of God’s creatures being denied the light of day and freedom to run about. There were many who shared her views, but for every farmer who abhorred such practices, there were others who were always willing to put profit above all else.
The narrow meandering lane that led to Slater’s Farm was just ahead. Bill eased the pressure on the accelerator, allowing the car to slow to a crawl. In a moment the lane was in sight. Cautiously, and mindful of the fact that this lane was the only means of exit from the two cottages and the stables, he turned in from the road. Almost immediately the red-roofed stable blocks came into view; tall and regimental in design, they were constructed of tongue and groove planking with lofts over, and housed a total of forty top bloodstock animals. In the lush paddocks could be seen a number of horses contentedly grazing, then, as the car drew closer, it became obvious that the schooling ring was occupied, with some twenty children under tuition.
‘Laura’s working late, isn’t she?’ Matt remarked, his eyes picking out the tall, slim figure of a woman who stood in the centre of the formation issuing instructions and occasionally rebuking either rider or mount. No sooner had he spoken than the school began to lead away in an orderly fashion towards the stables. In that same moment the floodlights came on. The daylight was almost gone. Bill had been driving on sidelights since turning into the lane; they were sufficient now to see him to the cottage. As the car cruised past a group of riders, Laura raised her arm in greeting.
‘I envy you this place, Matt,’ Bill Barrington told him now, when the main cottage came in sight. The evening light was a perfect complement to the old thatched dwelling. With the sun going down behind its chimneys and the lights twinkling from the downstairs windows, it made a picturesque vision. History told that the cottage was built in the mid-seventeenth century; its crooked walls, beamed ceilings and inglenook fireplaces all bore testimony to that. The windows were tiny but many, each crisscrossed with lead-light and lending the cottage a unique prettiness. Having four large bedrooms, two reception rooms, two bathrooms and a spacious farm kitchen, it was considered to be unusually large and, though many interior alterations had taken place, they were always in character, retaining the timeless essence and easily blending with all original features.
Cathy was awake. With a sleepy ‘Home already?’ she uncurled and sat forward on the edge of the seat, leaning between the two men and laying her head on Matt’s shoulder. ‘Sorry, I slept all the way,’ she said, nuzzling her nose against his face. Suddenly she noticed the blood-soaked handkerchief pressed over his wrist. ‘What’s that… what have you done?’ Clearly shocked, she sat upright, her anxious grey eyes staring at Matt and waiting for his explanation.
It was her father who answered, his voice low and incredulous. ‘You mean you don’t know?’ He felt oddly out of his depth, unsure and apprehensive. He did not turn to look at her but, instead, he glanced into the overhead mirror, seeing her reflection there and thinking how distraught she seemed. Maybe she did know, after all.
‘Well… no! I don’t know how Matt did that.’ Cathy stared from one man to the other. ‘I can’t remember you cutting yourself,’ she told Matt. When she saw how Matt and her father exchanged furtive glances, she was inexplicably afraid, searching her mind, trying so hard to recall when it was that Matt cut his wrist. But she could not recall the incident, and yet both Matt and her father seemed not to believe her. She knew instinctively that there was something wrong, something horribly wrong. Not for the first time since embarking on the journey home, Cathy sensed a strange lull in herself; not a peaceful, contented lull, but an awful sensation that deeply unnerved her. Panic now. ‘Matt, how did you cut your wrist?’ She was reaching forward, clawing at his turned-back cuff, wanting to see the wound more clearly. It was then that she saw her own blood-stained fingers and the ragged blobs of what looked like skin wedged beneath her fingernails. ‘Me? Was it me?’ she gasped. ‘Did I do that to you?’ In the mirror her father could see the disbelief in Cathy’s wide-open eyes.
Sensing her rising panic, Matt quickly wound his long, strong fingers round Cathy’s small fist. Drawing her to him, he kissed her mouth, saying when she abruptly pulled away, ‘You lashed out in your sleep. It was my own stupid fault. I wanted to show your father what you had found in that padded cell. When I pulled the bag away, it must have frightened you.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Just that you lashed out in your sleep, that’s all.’ He grinned, that handsome lop-sided grin that always won her over. ‘Serves me right,’ he said, ‘but it might be a good idea to get your talons trimmed.’
He smiled nervously, slipping a corner of the handkerchief beneath her nails, teasing out the torn remnants of his skin and telling her, ‘It’s just a scratch. I bleed easily.’ When he turned now to look at her, he could see she was not altogether convinced. ‘I’m not about to die,’ he said, showing how his wrist was no longer bleeding, though still raw and angry, and patterned with a series of deep gashes now turgid with congealed blood. ‘Like I said,’ he teased, ‘it wouldn’t hurt to get your talons clipped.’
He had sensed the uncertainty in her, and it hurt him. It frightened him too. So how could he tell her the truth – that she had not merely lashed out in her sleep, but had in fact viciously attacked him? And yet she remembered nothing of it! What was he to th
ink? What was he to do? This was not the first time something like this had happened, though. He recalled the night before leaving Perth, when Cathy had woken from that awful nightmare.
‘Look! There’s Edna, and the dogs.’ Cathy brought the two men’s attention to the far paddock and the well-trodden footway that led from the field gate to the rear of the cottage. Silhouetted against the evening sky, and heading for the cottage, was a large ambling figure in black wellington boots and a dark duffle coat, the hem of which fell below the cuff of her boots. She had on a headscarf and carried a long stout branch which she now discarded, propping it up against the gate post, where it would no doubt remain until she passed that way again.
Almost before the car had ground to a halt in the gravel driveway, Cathy was clambering from the car. ‘Bonnie… Shandy…’ she called, her laughing face betraying her utter delight as she fell to her knees on the rose lawn. Her arms opened wide when the two black Labradors came bounding towards her. In a minute they were on her, heavy cumbersome beasts, long pink tongues licking her face while the three of them rolled over and over, joyful in each other’s company.
‘Hey! That’s enough!’ Fearful that Cathy would be swamped, Matt slipped his hands one under each of their collars and pulled them back. ‘One of these days, sweetheart,’ he warned the laughing Cathy, ‘you might be sorry you let them rampage all over you.’ The two dogs were Matthew’s. Shandy was found wandering along Safford Lane some nine years ago, bedraggled, hungry and in pup. It was Matthew’s opinion that she had been abandoned, so he took her in and cared for her. Soon after, she gave birth to eight fat healthy pups, seven of which he gave to good homes, and the one remaining he kept back. Bonnie was the weak runt in the litter, and Matthew feared she would not survive, but, under his constant care and supervision, not only did she survive, but she outgrew her mother, making a proud-looking animal with an instinct for hunting. Unfortunately, both dogs were past their prime, Shandy being the wrong side of ten years old, and Bonnie only a year younger, yet in spite of the fact that the whiskers on their faces were now greying with age and they were more easily tired after a walk across the fields, the dogs were bursting with health and still full of high spirits. Now, when Edna deliberately clattered the spoon against their feeding bowls, the two dogs raced away to enjoy the main meal of the day.
The Tallow Image Page 15