by SJI Holliday
Of course I haven’t told anyone that I have a master key; I don’t know if Smeaton has even noticed that it’s gone missing, but I’ve had it in my pocket for months now, trying to work up the courage to investigate every single room in the place. I haven’t got very far. Surprisingly, there’s not been a hint of anything unusual across in the north wing, because that place scares me the most. So I’m focusing here – in this room – where I have long been convinced that something isn’t right.
Smeaton intended to put the new couple in one of the rooms at the side of the building. In the same corridor as me and Fergus. But I convinced him that this room was the best one, with its two huge windows overlooking the pretty front courtyard and that lovely deep bath, in the side-room that has been turned into an en suite. I imagine it looks like a room in a quirky boutique hotel, certainly not something in an old hospital – with the metal bed, the shabby-chic dressing table, and the makeshift curtains that I helped Julie put up. I hope they like it. I hope they appreciate having the best room in the house.
I hope they like the whole house – as it is a house to me, not a crumbling asylum. It is full of dark corners and hidden treasures. Things that will never see the light of day again, and things that are waiting to be uncovered at some point in time, by people who might find a use for them. Smeaton doesn’t encourage exploring, but it doesn’t mean that we don’t do it.
I can tell that Ali is curious about the house – she’s the one who is likely to start poking around, finding things that she is not meant to. But I will tell her only what she needs to know, until I’m sure I can trust her at least.
I let myself into their room, and close the door softly behind me. Ali is in the vegetable garden; I saw her walk off with Richard. If she is with him she will be gone for hours. And I know that Smeaton has taken Jack away to the far fields where the rabbits like to run.
He took the guns.
I don’t like him shooting rabbits, but this is his place and I can hardly tell him that he can’t. I’m sure we can all survive quite easily on the vegetables that Richard and Julie grow, and the eggs from our happy hens, Alice and Agnes, plus milk, of course from Mr Patterson the goat. Do we really need to shoot rabbits? I don’t particularly care for their stringy, grey flesh. But Smeaton told me that it’s not just about eating the meat; there’s the thrill of the hunt. I don’t understand this, as he is a peaceful man. But I suppose everyone has their vices. Mine, of course, is an inherent curiosity, especially for other-worldly things. Yes, OK, worldly things, too. I did used to enjoy reading the trashy magazines in Mary’s shop, while I was supposed to be tidying the shelves. Personally, I think that anyone who isn’t a little bit nosey about other people’s lives must have a very dull one themselves.
They seem to have put all of their belongings away, and the room appears quite neat. This pleases me, as it is how I like to keep my own. Ali has lined up various tubes and jars on the dressing table; her beautifying potions – some fancy brands that I wouldn’t have expected, and I notice that the mirror is tilted downwards. This interests me, and I suspect that despite all her creams and make-ups, she is unhappy with herself. She does not want to stare into her own eyes, and wonder why it is that she has ended up here. Or perhaps there’s another reason that she doesn’t want to look in the mirror. This mirror, in particular. I tilt it upwards, and I sit there for a moment, facing myself, but my eyes fixed on the room behind me, and the bathroom door to my left. Watching, waiting – just in case something chooses to reveal itself. At last I sigh and tilt the mirror back to the angle in which she left it. Maybe she just doesn’t like her own face. Maybe she’s just a bit of an oddball, like the rest of us.
Because, however you want to look at it, this place is full of misfits. This place is for people who don’t feel like they belong in ‘normal’ society. Why would you be here if you’re normal, if you’re happy, if you have a good, stable life? You would be out there in the real world with your family and your job and your nice house and your friends. You wouldn’t be here in this draughty old mansion with this mishmash of people from all walks of life who have decided that the real world doesn’t work for them anymore. Strangely, though, there has been a large volume of enquiries over the last year or so, from people interested in how we live. It appears that the world has gone entirely to hell, and those who remain relatively sane are looking for ways to escape. Not because there’s anything massively wrong with their day-to-day lives, but more that they can no longer bear to see what is happening around them. They can’t control it, they can’t fix it, and they are unhealthily obsessed with the downward spiral that society has taken. When I think of the world outside Rosalind House, outside the village, and the fens, I remember an old poem that I learned at school, about returning to the land, the old ways of life. It’s a post-apocalyptic tale: Edwin Muir’s The Horses. One line always repeats in my head: ‘That old bad world that swallowed its children quick.’ We are the children. We created this technological world, and it will destroy us. At least here, in Rosalind House, we can try our hardest to pretend that the real world doesn’t exist. Maybe Smeaton’s dream of self-sufficiency can work, but I can’t carry out my mission without my devices.
The bed is neatly made. The covers pulled tight, equal tucks on all sides, pillows plumped. This tells me something about Ali, because I doubt very much that it was Jack who made this bed. People who make their beds in such a way tend to have neat lives and organised minds. But, then, she was a nurse. She is used to making beds. She’s been trained to be fast and efficient. I move to the wardrobe, open the doors. I think they must have brought some coat hangers with them, because there weren’t many in here – only a few of the old wire ones. None of Our Family has many clothes. None of us brought much from our old lives, because we simply don’t need them anymore. Here we need practical clothes, clothes for all weathers. Maybe one nice thing for the occasional party that we have. And even then, just being washed and having your hair brushed is as fancy as it needs to be here.
This is a good place to be to avoid vanity, but there is a difference between being tidy and clean and being dirty and dishevelled. People maintain good standards here; it’s just the way that we are. We aren’t the smelly hippies that some like to think we are.
I riffle through some of the hanging garments, and I don’t see anything particularly flashy. Jeans, plain shirts. A navy dress with daisies appliqued around the neckline. I imagine, like most people, they’ve already sold most of the things that they owned before they came here. Or perhaps they have put them in storage. Who knows what level of commitment they’ve made. Time will tell if they are here to stay.
I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should leave. They should be out for the day, but what if they come back?
Hurriedly, I pull out the drawer beneath the dressing table and see that the Book of Light is still in there. We all have one; we all follow the rules. Such as they are. I flick through the pages, run my finger down the names of Our Family, with Ali and Jack there at the bottom. I updated this sheet for them, the night before they arrived, Smeaton letting me use the typewriter in the library. I wanted to make sure that their names were already included – I wanted them to feel that they were already part of Our Family. I hope they were pleased that we’d made the effort to keep things up to date.
I know I should leave now. Stop nosing around. But now that I’ve started I can’t seem to stop myself. My heart is beating faster, telling me to move on. On the other side of the room there is a small bookcase. There are a few books there, some that I know were here already, some that they must have brought with them. A mixture of things, some non-fiction, some fiction. Classics. I wonder if they’ve read all of these books. Sometimes people have a favourite book but they have never actually read it. My favourite book is Wuthering Heights, although I don’t know why, because if I have read it I have no memory of it. I like the title, and I like the concept. I like the idea of the bleak, ghostly moors. That�
��s enough for me.
As well as books, there are a couple of small boxes on the shelves. I imagine they must contain a few trinkets that they have decided to keep, things that they don’t need but can’t be parted from. I pick up the first one: red velvet with a gold clasp. A jewellery box, I assume. I open it, half expecting to be mildly surprised by a spinning ballerina and a creepy, tinny tune, but there is no ballerina. There are two pairs of earrings, one silver drop chain with diamonds, and the other red studs. One pair of cufflinks, engraved with the initials J.G.
I put the box back, disappointed.
Underneath there is a bigger box, approximately the size of a shoebox. It is made of wood, I think, or perhaps just very thick paper with a coating, I can’t be sure. It’s bigger than A4 size and I imagine that possibly it contains paperwork. Probably nothing of interest for me in there, and yet, I can’t stop myself.
I reach for the box, and as I do, I hear the unmistakable sound of a floorboard creaking outside. I whip round, my eyes on the door – expecting the key to turn any minute. My heart thumps, and I hold my breath, waiting.
Then nothing.
I wait another moment for my breathing to return to normal, and then I open the box.
As I suspected, it contains piles of papers, some in clear plastic folders, some bound together with elastic bands or paperclips. Bank statements, other things. What else? Nothing of interest, yet. I’m sure I have lifted out all of the papers, and I’m about to put them back in when I realise something strange about the box. The papers I have in my hand form a small pile. But they filled the box to the top. I look at the box, and it becomes clear that the papers were only in the top part. There is a hidden section beneath. I feel my breath catch. A buzz of excitement runs through me like a jolt of electricity. Why is there a secret compartment? What could be so important? I stare inside. My skin prickles. I have no idea what I might find in here.
I take a deep breath, sucking in courage from the fizzing air around me. I don’t know why, but I think what is in this box is important. I prize a nail around the edge of the divider, flicking upwards so that I can gain purchase. Then I carefully remove it. Underneath is a thick pile of newspaper clippings. Neatly cut, some larger articles folded in half, some small ones. I flick through. Lots of different newspapers, lots of different pictures, lots of different headlines.
But they make no sense.
I read the first one: ‘Missing Backpacker Found on Side of M6’. Bradley Hay, twenty-four, from Australia, was found dead in a ditch. It’s thought that he was hitchhiking around the UK and that he was hit by a truck on the motorway. Hit-and-run or an accident? No leads. I pick up another: ‘Girl Found at Side of Motorway Identified’. Charlotte (Charlie) Lawrence, twenty-two, from Leeds. Went missing after she left a party on a housing estate near the slip road at junction twelve of the M1; police think she may have tried to hitch a lift home and was hit by a vehicle. No further details at present.
I read another, then another. All similar. Different roads, different suggestions about what might have happened. Hitchhikers, or people who’d found themselves on the motorway late at night. Different times of the year, over a period of several years.
Nothing to link them in any way.
Jack was in the police, wasn’t he? I don’t know what he did, what he worked on. Was this part of it? I flick more quickly now through the documents, keeping my ears trained on the door, listening for voices … wondering where I could hide, if I had to. I pause to read one of the articles in more detail. A couple of the hitchhikers weren’t even identified. Could they be homeless? Runaways? Did the stress of it lead him to a breakdown? Get out of here, Angela – the voice in my head insists. But I am transfixed, my heart thumping hard now.
I scan through more of the clippings, searching for Jack’s name. Anything to suggest that this was something related to his job. But there is nothing to indicate that he had any official role to play in investigating these deaths. So why, then, does he have all the clippings? And more importantly – why are they hidden?
Dr Henry Baldock’s Journal – 17th April 1955
My hands are still shaking after today’s events, and I fear that this entry might be quite illegible when I come to read it later on. Earlier, I supervised some of the rounds. I was interested to see the patients as they carried out their daily activities, and the nurses as they facilitated this. Usually when I walk around, the patients are in their beds. Some of them are in shared, open wards – the ones who are safe to be looked after in this way. They can be noisy places, with lots of voices. But ultimately they are safe. But there are also lots of private rooms, secure rooms, of various levels. Some for patients who are placed there because they are a danger to themselves and others, although some are only a danger to themselves. Each corridor has a large bathroom area with several baths available, separated by screens. If patients are capable, they will be allowed to bathe themselves, although there will always be a nurse or an orderly in the room with them. For the patients who are not safe or capable of being on their own, they will be helped to bathe by the nurses.
I found out today that there are no patients here who are completely bedbound; this hospital does not have the facilities for those. Although I believe it did at one time. In the first open ward, patients were having lunch. They sat at a long communal table in the middle, and things seemed to be carrying on without incident. I nodded towards the nurse in charge of the room and made my leave. I had no need to be in that room, there was nothing here that had to be recorded as a concern. I walked further down the corridor and I had a quick look into a couple of the secure rooms; the doors have a small gap into which I can peer, almost like prison cells. I do not like these rooms, but I know they are necessary. I lifted the latch on the first room and saw a man lying in bed. He seemed to be staring straight at me, and yet he didn’t see me. Catatonia is one of the things that is most difficult to treat. Sometimes we try medication, insulin shock therapy and often ECT. I have mixed feelings about these methods, but it’s not my job to decide the treatments here. My job is to investigate the allegations of abuse.
Further down the corridor, I heard the sound of running water. Splashes. Voices coming from the bathroom. I hurried along. The bathroom door was closed, but I could clearly hear the noises coming from within. Exaggerated whispers, trying to disguise their raised voices. My chest tightened and I sensed that all was not well. I opened the door and observed that all the partition curtains were drawn. Underneath the first I could see two sets of feet. The white leather-soled shoes that the nurses wear. I don’t think they heard me coming in, because the noises continued.
When I pulled back the curtain, I was met with a scene of horror.
A female patient, was being held under water, and a nurse was pressing on her shoulders. At the other end, another nurse was operating the taps. At the sound of the curtain, the nurse holding the patient’s shoulders sprung back, and the woman’s face burst from beneath the surface. Water flew everywhere, spraying on my face, and I shuddered in absolute shock – because the water was ice cold.
‘Just what is going on here?’ I demanded, attempting to sound authoritative, despite feeling a tremble deep in my chest.
‘Help me,’ the woman croaked, coughing. Spluttering out water. ‘Help me…’
The nurse at the tap end spoke without a hint of fear in her voice. ‘This is not what it looks like, Dr Baldock. There’s no need to be alarmed…’
The other nurse, clearly the more junior of the two, was drying her arms with a towel. She threw her colleague a nervous look and butted in, ‘The patient was hysterical, doctor. We’ve been using this treatment for years—’
‘Get this woman dried off and warmed up. Get her a hot drink, and a tot of whisky. Get her into bed, with plenty of blankets. Then we’ll talk.’
I turned quickly and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind me.
I did not want them to see that I was shaking.
&n
bsp; Just as I am now.
14
Ali
‘So, where do you want me?’ Ali lifts an apron from a peg near the door, slips it over her head and ties the straps behind her back. ‘Any hats?’ she continues, before anyone has the chance to answer.
‘Good morning, Ali.’ Fergus gives her a wide grin, revealing his gaptoothed smile, and hands her a box of checked cotton hats. ‘You’ve worked in a kitchen before?’
She positions the hat as best she can over her neat bun. It’s one thing she has been able to bring from her old job, at least: the ability to spin her hair into an immovable bun with three hairpins in the minimum amount of time. ‘Not since before I trained as a nurse. I helped out in a pub kitchen a bit when I was a teenager. I know my way around a potato peeler.’
Fergus laughs, a low growl that she can almost feel in her own chest. She’s been intrigued by Fergus since meeting him at the welcoming party last week. He’s a large but quiet man, with the most beautifully smooth skin she has ever seen. He’s told her he was a former addict, and an embarrassment to his middle-class Jamaican family. Clearly Rosalind House and the fresh air of the fens has had a nourishing effect on his health. As well as the kitchen, he works with Richard and Julie in the gardens, deciding on the best seasonal crops to plant and helping to tend them. Apparently he’d learned to run a kitchen in a homeless hostel, so he is the perfect person to cook for a crowd in here.
‘Well, you’re in luck,’ he says, picking up a huge blue bucket and dropping it on the counter. ‘Plenty of potatoes for you to do.’
He must’ve picked up the look of horror on her face, because he laughs again, and points to a big steel contraption next to one of the sinks.
‘Rumbler, isn’t it? No potato peelings for you, dear.’
Ali breathes a sigh of relief. ‘Got it.’