by Katie Lowe
It was my idea to change our rotas to include the full team at weekends, rather than a reduced staff, so our patients would get something close to round-the-clock care. And yet, here I am, playing hooky on a Saturday; lying to everyone close to me, again.
I lock the car. I push the gates open, just a little, and walk the avenue of tangled trees that leads towards the house.
I’ve seen it from a distance, so many times – but up close, there’s a magic to it. I feel like a child falling into a picture book.
The house itself is further away than I’d imagined, set what must be a full half-mile from the main gates. Still, with every step, I see new details: the creamy facade blackening, riddled with ivy, the cracked windows refracting the light. Over the door, an inscription in Latin, chiselled into the stone: vincit qui se vincit. ‘She conquers who conquers herself’. The history of it seems fresh in the air, the house’s ghosts passing through and around me, almost alive.
I think of the women who’ve stood here before, every one of them called insane. I think of my grandmother; I wonder whether she stood where I am now. I imagine women in white; patients gathered in a cluster under the knotted elm, one reading aloud from a book. A visiting boy runs headlong over the grass, mown in smooth and sweeping lines. Another girl, her dress spilling around her as she lies, sticks out a curious tongue, tasting the honey on the air.
I blink, and they all disappear. I continue my walk alone.
‘Hello?’ I call into the empty hallway, through the half-open door. I nudge it open and step inside. ‘Darcy? It’s Hannah.’
Silence.
A swirl of leaves scrapes across the floor, caught in the breeze. The wet, green odour of mould is inescapable. I hold my breath as I look around, my eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom.
It’s almost too much to take in at once: the destruction, the wildness that’s spread over everything. The wallpaper is black and green with decay, peeling in strips that slump on the floor; there’s graffiti everywhere, bright, chalky colours that seem to glow in the dark. And those chequered tiles, cracked and shattered.
It feels like a dead place. ‘Darcy?’ I call again. But she can’t be here. Because I’ve never felt more alone.
There’s a faint knocking sound in the distance, like a door brushing, soft, against the wind. Not a knocking, in fact, but a tapping. I see my husband’s blue-white hand, hanging limp by the side of the bed.
I shake the memory off.
A tile gives way beneath my feet, and I clutch hold of a railing, furry with moss. As I steady myself, I follow it up: a vast, wooden staircase, hugging the sides of the hall. There are animals carved into the wood, bared teeth dripping with entrails, luscious as fruit: corroded, but still unmistakably there.
‘Gorgeous, isn’t it?’
I spin around. My heart thuds violently in my chest.
‘That’s one word for it,’ I say at last, restraining a laugh at the sight of her, so out of place here, among the dirt and the mess. The soft black of her suit is too tailored, the knees and cuffs smeared with dust, a powdery grey that clings in patches to her elbows, her hair.
‘I’m so glad you came,’ she says, beaming. ‘And that you haven’t run away screaming at the sight of me. I feel like an extra from a horror movie.’
‘I wasn’t going to say anything, but …’
‘I thought I’d try and dress the part of the lady of the house …’ She gestures to her suit and laughs, the sudden bark of it sparking a flutter of wings overhead. I look up to see what I suppose must once have been the circular cage of a glass dome, boarded over with rotting wood. Between the gaps, birds peer down, eyeing us with frank curiosity.
Darcy’s hand flits to her chest. ‘This is why I’m such a mess. Because I keep getting spooked by the resident wildlife. I almost fell headfirst down the stairs when I heard something scuttling around behind me. I still don’t know what it was.’ She seems to catch herself, mid-thought. ‘Not that I’m trying to scare you off. Please don’t leave now I’ve said that.’
‘Never,’ I say, with more enthusiasm than I mean. I’d only been here for five minutes before I started imagining things. I fix on a smile. ‘I’ve wanted to look around this place for years. It’s … It’s stunning.’
She laughs, seeing straight through the lie. ‘Come on. Let me walk you around. Show you what we’ve got planned.’
Broken glass, dead leaves, and fallen plaster crackle underfoot as we walk. Darcy talks, brightly, about her plans, though I zone out. I can’t help it – I’m lost in my own vision of the house as it used to be, the wallpaper pulled back to reveal the bright, candied colours beneath; the fireplaces and window-seats restored, their marble and gold designs glowing once again; the thick, full curtains, no longer black with rot, but gleaming elegantly in the morning light. For a moment, I almost manage to forget all that’s happening in the world beyond – all the worry and horror and fear. I let myself disappear into it; let the house pull me further inside.
I think of the 1950s brochure I’d found, mixed in with other scraps of local history in the nearby library. The principle at Hawkwood House is to provide comfortable and happy surroundings for both voluntary and committed patients, with the aim of allowing them to rest and recover in a state of peace and tranquility. I compare the ruins all around me with the photographs I’ve seen, in black and white; the stories I’ve imagined of the house, my mind reaching to fill the gaps.
I feel Darcy’s eyes on me. I’ve been quiet for too long, lost in thought.
‘Wow,’ I say, stiffly. Apparently it’s the right response.
She goes on. ‘And it’s got fifty-five individual rooms, across three different wings. I’m thinking short-term, long-term, and young people.’
We pass an open door. Something moves inside, among the brush, the broken glass. ‘Mixed?’
‘Female only. I want to keep as much of it as possible in line with the history of the place – or at least, the intentions behind it.’
I feel another pull of envy as she scans my face.
Still, I say nothing. I smile, and we go on.
And, as we walk, it occurs to me that it might in fact be more of a kindness to say nothing. To not encourage her.
Because this renovation seems like a doomed project. The further we go into the house, the more overwhelming the destruction seems. It’s devastating: the old music room, its roof entirely fallen through, a tree spiralling up through the absent floors above. A corridor of patient rooms, lit in shafts through the joists, holding up nothing at all, the rooms spilling into each other through crumbling walls. An enormous bathroom, floor, walls, and ceiling all covered with moss, a single cracked bathtub standing, bow-legged, in the centre.
It’s impossible, without enormous investments of time and money, and even then, I wonder if it isn’t only a dream. A lovely fantasy.
You’re just jealous, Graham whispers.
It’s a memory, I’m sure of it.
But something about it feels real. Like he’s beside me, his lips pressed to my ear.
I shiver, involuntarily, and pretend to bat a spiderweb from my hair.
‘I think we can do it,’ Darcy says. Her eyes are unfixed, looking past me. For a moment, I feel as though she’s responding to someone else. To him. ‘Obviously it’s going to take a huge amount of work – don’t think I don’t know that. But still … I think it’s possible.’
She scans my face again, and I smile. ‘It’s really something.’ It’s a platitude, and she knows it. The brightness fades a little from her eyes.
‘Let me show you the pièce de résistance. I’ve been saving it for last, anyway. And if you’re not convinced then, I’ll let you go home.’ I follow, in silence. I’m a little surprised by the admission, though she’s right: I’m not convinced. Still, I’m not used to being caught in a lie – even one of omission.
Better get used to it, Graham says.
This time, I know it’s real. I feel the cold rush of
breath on my cheek.
Darcy looks at me, warily. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say, a little too quickly. My throat clenches tight around the words. ‘Just … caught a draught.’
‘Probably a ghost passing through. My mum used to say that. Not that it was much of a comfort to a five-year-old.’
I laugh, brushing the gooseflesh from my arms. It’s freezing in here, I realize. It’s just a draught. Just the overreaction of an overexcited mind.
She pushes a door, a rush of dust sweeping out in front. After the darkness of the bathroom, the light inside seems, for a moment, blinding. As my eyes adjust, I take it in. Enormous stained-glass windows, shot through with holes, turning the sunbeams green, and gold, and blue. A shallow empty pool, its tiles turned black with mould, fills the space, the air fat with the stink of damp, of old rot, seeping through.
‘It’s the sun room,’ she says, voice church-hushed. ‘It gets light all day long. The sun rises over there, and’ – I follow her hand, the sunlight blinking through the broken glass – ‘sets here. With the right heating, and the right lights … a new pool, obviously, and maybe some treatment rooms in the orangery outside … Imagine it. It’ll be luxurious. I want it to have all the features of a spa, so when the patients aren’t working with their doctors, they can work on themselves. On healing.’
‘Wow.’ I walk around to the edge of the pool, the pattern on the cracked mosaic floor too filthy to make out. ‘It’s … It sounds amazing.’ The air is clotted with dust, and heady; I feel a cold slick of sweat spread over my skin, like a wave.
You’re just tired, I tell myself, mouth suddenly parched and gasping. It’s fine. But the words have the ring of a lie, a self-delusion. He was here. I felt him. I know it.
‘Hannah?’ There’s a chill in Darcy’s voice now. ‘What’s wrong?’
I take a long, low breath, and close my eyes. ‘I’m – I’m sorry. I just …’ I shake my head and try to blink the shiver of memory away. ‘It’s fine.’
‘You don’t look fine. Come on.’ Arm around my shoulder, she steers me towards an ancient lounger covered in a filthy white sheet. ‘Come and have a seat for a minute. You’ve gone a bit pale.’
‘I’m fine, honestly, I—’ As I speak, though, a new wave of sickness passes through me. She makes some attempt to sweep the filth from the chair, and I sit, gratefully. I press my eyes to the balls of my hands, my pulse shuddering in my wrists.
She crouches in front of me. ‘Take a deep breath. In. Now, out. That’s it. You’re OK.’
I gather myself, shame creeping in, though I’m still cold, bone-deep, with fear. ‘I’m so sorry – I don’t know what just happened. I …’ The words fall away. I close my eyes again.
‘Was it … I mean, if you don’t mind me asking: do you suffer from panic attacks?’
There’s a soft professionalism in her tone. I know it well – I’ve used it myself – but still, it grates. Because she’s right. It must’ve been a panic attack: the racing heart, the dizziness, the horror.
That’s all it was, I tell myself. A panic attack. That’s all.
‘I don’t, but … you’re probably right.’ I take another steadying breath. ‘I’m so sorry. You must think I’m completely mad.’
She opens her mouth, as though about to speak, and pauses. Her bottom teeth are a little yellowed, nicotined. The imperfection comes as a surprise.
‘I don’t want to sound like some kind of stalker, but …’ She glances away. ‘I read about this Conviction thing. I googled you. Last night,’ she adds, quickly. ‘Just to see if you were working anywhere at the moment. After I’d sent that email, I realized I hadn’t taken into account the fact you probably had a job to go to, so …’
I stare at her. I don’t know what to say.
‘I’m probably overstepping the mark, but … I think it’s disgusting.’ A shiver runs through her. She reminds me of a little bird shaking its feathers out after the rain. ‘How they can do that to people … I really have no idea. It’s obscene.’
I smile. I’m grateful for her, for reflecting back the anger that’s been lodged inside my chest since the first trailer went live – though I’ve swallowed it.
It’s not fair, I told myself, when it first appeared, feeling the knot of it tighten, clenching like a fist. You can’t be angry about this. You don’t have the right.
She looks at me expectantly, waiting for my response. I think of the things I imagine I’m supposed to say in this situation: that I only want justice done. That I’m fine with it all, so long as they catch my husband’s killer. But that’s all bullshit, all lies. I wish they’d leave well alone.
‘Thank you,’ I say, finally. ‘You’re probably right. It’s … It’s just been a lot. I guess it’s getting to me more than I realized.’
‘Is there any – I don’t know – legal action you can take?’ She screws up her face, her nose crinkled, like a child catching a bad smell. ‘I suppose it probably counts as “free speech” or what have you.’
I laugh, grimly. ‘I suppose it does.’
‘Look,’ she says, squeezing my knee. Her hand is cold, like Graham’s breath – or rather, what I thought was Graham’s breath. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t have been. ‘For what it’s worth – we didn’t know each other well, back then. But I know you didn’t kill your husband. No matter what some sleazy podcast wants to imply. I’m absolutely sure of it.’
How? I think, grimly. How could you possibly know that?
But I keep this to myself. ‘Thank you. That means a lot.’
In the silence that follows, I feel a pinch of guilt. An urge, suddenly, to tell the truth.
I look up at the cracked glass overhead, the sun gleaming through in tinted shafts, and I stand.
‘I’m sorry, Darcy,’ I say, meeting her eye. ‘I haven’t been completely honest.’ She blanches, and I realize the conclusion she’s jumped to. ‘No – oh, God, not about …’ I laugh. ‘I mean about Hawkwood House. I don’t really know why I didn’t mention it before, but … my grandmother was a patient here. In the fifties.’
The realization spreads, slowly, across her face. ‘You wrote that post – on the message board. That was you.’
I pause, trying to read her expression. ‘Yeah. I’d … I’d forgotten about it, honestly. Until you mentioned it, I’d … Well, it sort of blindsided me. Which is why I didn’t say anything at the time.’
‘Wow.’ There’s a pause. ‘What was her name?’
‘Margot.’ I feel a chill. There’s something uncanny about saying her name out loud. Especially here. I leave her second name unsaid, though it’s the same as mine. Darcy seems to intuit it, anyway.
‘Wow,’ she says, again. ‘Well, if I find anything with her name on, I’ll absolutely let you know.’ She shoots a glance at her phone and winces. ‘I’m sorry to boot you out, but the contractor’s coming in half an hour – do you mind?’
‘Oh – no, of course not,’ I say, though the sudden change of pace is disorienting. All through the morning, spent wandering leisurely through the mess, it’s felt as though we’ve had all the time in the world. I reach for my bag, and stand, the words in her email appearing, with lightning clarity, in my mind: On my own there all day, company v welcome.
She’s throwing me out, I realize, my gut giving an awful lurch. She doesn’t want me here.
Possessive, Graham says. I can hear the smile on his lips.
‘OK, then,’ she says, brightly, as we reach the main doors. There’s no suggestion of anything wrong in her expression. ‘Well, thank you for coming. Really. It’s been such a pleasure.’
‘Thank you for showing me around. And if there’s anything I can help with—’
‘Thanks,’ she says, coolly.
She closes the door before I turn away. I walk back to the car, eyes fixed on the gravel underfoot. I can feel a storm on the air, the bright, sharp glimmer in everything. And as I pull the car door open, I think I feel him on the icy b
reeze.
Goodbye, Hannah, his memory says. Goodnight, sweetheart.
13
When I pull up at home, hours later, I feel like a child caught in a lie. I climb out of my car, and squeeze past Sarah’s, an inch-wide gap between it and the swaying hedge. Through the crack in the curtains, I see candlelight flicker; the two of them leaning in, heads lowered in quiet discussion.
By the time I open the front door, I’m drowned, soaked through by the hammering rain. They stop talking when they hear me come in.
‘I didn’t know we had plans,’ I say, casually.
Sarah laughs. ‘Very cool, for someone skiving off work.’
I glance at Dan, his expression a combination of sympathy and concern. I can’t stand it. I look away.
‘I’m joking,’ Sarah adds. ‘Jesus. Don’t look so panicked. It’s fine.’
I drop my bag and peer into the darkness upstairs. ‘Where’s Evie?’
‘Lissa’s,’ Dan says. ‘They’ve got some kind of … project.’
I shoot him a look. I know he knows more than that. He’s fanatical – endearingly so, though I’m not sure either she or I really appreciate it – about helping Evie with her schoolwork. So this shrug is, for Dan, the silent treatment. But if Sarah notices the tension, she chooses to ignore it. ‘Ideal circumstances for you and me to watch a shitty movie and get quietly pissed, then. Well – for me to get pissed, anyway.’
Dan reaches into the fridge; the light inside stays off. ‘There’s been a power cut, so there’s pizza coming. I’ll get out of your way once it’s here, so you pair can have a girls’ night.’
I know what he’s saying. They’ve planned this together, the two of them.
I don’t know what’s going on with her, he’ll have said.
I’ll talk to her, she’ll have replied. Don’t worry. She’s just like that, sometimes.
The thought of them, here, comparing notes, makes me itch. It sparks a memory.
Sarah’s silhouette in the door of my student bedroom; Graham’s voice in the hallway outside. Words I can’t quite make out, the two of them whispering. I roll up on my bed and tell him to leave. She squeezes his arm as he goes, and tells him all I need is space.