Tower of Silence

by Sarah Rayne

  She was brought into the glum day-room in A wing by the attendant Emily had met last time, and she was wearing the same shapeless clothes and ugly clumpy shoes. Her hair had been ruthlessly combed and pinned back and the impression of a too-obedient child, submissively dressed and tidied and brushed by its mother and brought to an outing, was impossible to miss. The bumpy twist of flesh over the damaged eye-socket was unnecessarily exposed, and Emily felt the pity of it clutch her throat. Patrick had mentioned glasses–surely they could have made sure she wore them to meet a visitor? Or at least combed her hair to fall forward in a fringe?

  But she sat down opposite Pippa, and smiled, and said she hoped Pippa remembered her from last week, and more to the point, she hoped Pippa remembered about the cakes.

  ‘The children baked some extra ones specially for you,’ she said. ‘I told them I was visiting a friend today and that her name was Pippa, so they wrote your initial on some of the cakes. We had a really good time with the baking, although some of the kids got covered in dough and flour.’ It was a bit disconcerting to talk like this without getting any response. Emily wished the attendant would help out a bit, instead of sitting like a pudding in the corner, reading a magazine.

  The mention of children seemed to have struck a bit of a spark at any rate. Pippa was watching Emily with sudden attention; Emily thought it was silly to suddenly feel a bit spooked. Was it the single eye that made it feel eerie? Probably. But surely it was all right to have mentioned the children? Dr Irvine had said not to talk about animals, that was all.

  ‘We’ll try the cakes, shall we?’ she said, and she was just reaching for her haversack which contained the borrowed lunch-box when a shrillness ripped through the room. Emily looked round, startled, and then realised that one of the red alarm bells was sounding.

  She had absolutely no idea what she was supposed to do or whether she was supposed to do anything, but the attendant was already talking into the small intercom clipped to her belt and there was a barely audible crackle of someone gabbling urgent instructions at the other end.

  ‘I’ll have to go,’ she said to Emily. ‘There’s a problem in D wing.’

  ‘But–I was told–not to be alone with—’

  ‘It’s all right. She’s never any trouble,’ said the attendant, sending a quick look at Pippa. ‘But they only sound the alarm if there’s a serious incident–a riot or somebody trying to make a run for it. In that situation it’s all hands to the pump. I’ll come straight back, or I’ll send one of the others.’

  ‘Yes, but what do I do—’

  ‘You’ll be OK,’ said the attendant, crossing to the door. ‘Pippa won’t be any trouble, she never is. You won’t be any trouble, will you, Pippa?’ she said in the too-bright, too-loud voice of someone talking to an idiot or a subnormal child.

  ‘You said a problem—’ began Emily, and the attendant, who was halfway through the door by this time, turned back and said, ‘I don’t know what it is until I get there. It might be a storm in a teacup.’ In a resigned way, she added, ‘But I’ll bet my pension that if real trouble’s broken out, that demure-eyed bitch Mary Maskelyne will be at the bottom of it.’ And she was gone, banging the door behind her.

  Emily turned back to Pippa, and saw with sudden fear that Pippa was staring at the door, her hands gripping the arms of her chair so tightly that her knuckles were white. There was a look half of fear, half of puzzlement on her face.

  Emily had no idea what she ought to do, but, trying to speak calmly, she said, ‘Pippa–it’s OK. Don’t look so frightened. It’s just that one of the other—’ God, what did they call them in here? ‘One of the other patients has probably got a bit upset and caused a row,’ said Emily, hoping this sounded all right. ‘It’s nothing to be worried about.’

  Pippa was trembling by this time, and without thinking Emily went to sit next to her. ‘Does the idea of a row upset you?’ she said. ‘It always upsets me: I hate people fighting or shouting. But what we’ll do, we’ll sit here until somebody comes back, and we’ll try one of the cakes the children baked for you. I was hoping we could have a cup of tea as well. Do you have a cup of tea in the afternoons, Pippa? It’s a very English habit, tea, isn’t it?’ She foraged in the haversack again. It took a few minutes to unearth the lunch-box–it had slipped down the side which served her right for toting so much rubbish about. She hauled it out and put it on the little low table between their two chairs. It was a brightly coloured plastic-lidded box, with a picture of Stornforth’s bird sanctuary on it. They sold things like that at Stornforth–posters and tea towels and notepaper–mostly to help with the upkeep of the sanctuary. Emily had got a T-shirt with a gorgeous golden eagle on it.

  The box had a golden eagle on it as well; a huge, beautifully clear photograph showing the eagle’s massive wingspan and powerful shoulders. Emily reached out to prise off the lid, and it was then that Pippa’s hand darted out and closed around her wrist. Like a claw. Like a snake uncoiling. Emily tried to jerk back, and saw that the poor mutilated face was wearing a look of stark and absolute horror. Emily said, ‘Pippa, what’s wrong? Has something frightened you?’ Because this was how you would look if you had suddenly been confronted with your absolute, all-time worst nightmare. She hastily reviewed what she had said in the last few minutes. Something about the children? Something to do with drinking tea? And then she saw that Pippa was staring down at the vivid eagle photograph on the plastic lunch-box.

  Whatever you do, Patrick Irvine had said, don’t talk to her about animals in any form…

  ‘Is it the picture of the eagle that upset you?’ said Emily, trying to speak very gently. ‘It’s only a photograph, you know.’ She tried to pull her hand free, tensing her muscles for a quick dash across the room to the door or to the alarm bell but Pippa’s fingers were like steel clamps and stark blazing terror was pouring into the room, filling it up like thick, choking silt. At the back of her mind Emily knew the attendant was going to come back but she had no idea how soon that would be, and she was starting to feel very frightened indeed. Cracked minds, that’s what I’ll remember. I’ll remember she’s sick, poor thing. But the smothering feeling of madness was so strong that she found herself remembering that it was not so long ago that people like Pippa would have been regarded as possessed by devils or demons, and she remembered that clawed-out eye—

  No reference to animals when you talk to Pippa, Emily…She’s potentially very dangerous indeed…

  And, If we knew why she never speaks we might make sense of some of the things she’s done…

  Patrick’s warnings bounced back and forth across Emily’s mind, and then Pippa jerked Emily out of the chair and pulled her backwards, hooking one arm around her neck. Emily yelled with surprise and the sudden pain as her legs smashed against the edge of the table, and then struggled wildly. But Pippa’s free hand came round to imprison her wrists and the hold on her throat tightened. Emily fought to get free, but the vice-like grip on her throat increased. There was a very bad moment when she felt a sickening, throbbing pressure against her eyeballs, and for a moment her vision darkened and a crimson-veined blackness swam before her eyes. Then the grip lessened slightly and Emily’s vision cleared, and she gasped, and said, ‘Let me go! Pippa, for heaven’s sake, let me go!’ And oh God, oh God, let someone come back and put an end to this!

  And then two things happened almost exactly at the same instant.

  Patrick Irvine, two attendants behind him, burst into the room.

  And Pippa said, in a harsh, difficult voice, ‘Keep the birds away.’

  The sound of her voice so close to Emily’s ear was a shock. It was a dreadful voice–thick and grating and slow, like old, old machinery that had rusted with disuse and was struggling to move again. Emily saw Patrick stop dead, and she saw him indicate impatiently to the attendants to keep back. His eyes went to Emily, as if to briefly assure himself she was all right, and then he looked at Pippa, and in his gentlest voice, he said, ‘Pippa, my dea
r child, what is all this about?’ and Emily thought that if she had not loved him before she would have loved him then because of the infinite compassion in his face and in his voice.

  The terrible voice said, ‘You must–keep the birds–away. The children—’

  Patrick came swiftly across the room. ‘What is it about the birds, Pippa?’ he said. ‘Tell me what it is about the birds and the children, Pippa. Then I might be able to help you.’

  Pippa was still holding Emily, but Emily thought she had forgotten why. She could feel that Pippa was trembling violently, but at Patrick’s words there was a feeling of mental withdrawal. She’s going back into the silence, thought Emily. She’s retreating, and the door’s closing. We’ve missed something, and she’s going to be lost again.

  And then Patrick said, ‘You aren’t Pippa at all really, are you? Who are you?’ and Emily knew at once that this was the key, that if only they could know Pippa’s real name they might reach her.

  Yes, but never forget that she’s potentially very, very dangerous, Emily…Keep remembering that, my dear…

  The words brushed against her mind like a breath of cool sweet air, like the scent of rain in autumn, and Emily’s eyes flew to Patrick’s face. He was not looking at her, he was concentrating on Pippa with the whole force of his mind. But Emily thought she had not imagined that moment–no more than the space of a heart-beat–when he had seemed to send out a silent message of reassurance.

  ‘Pippa, who are you really?’ said Patrick again, and for a moment Emily thought the door that had started to open in Pippa’s darkened mind had slammed shut again. He’ll fail, she thought, staring at Patrick in an agony of suspense. Don’t let him fail, please don’t let him fail. She’s dangerous and she’s certainly not sane–I can feel that she isn’t sane!–but she’s so dreadfully sad and pitiful—

  ‘Tell me your name, Pippa,’ said Patrick, and this time there was a sharper note in his voice. And it’s the third time he’s asked her, thought Emily wildly, and there’s an old magical belief that if you ask a question three times, you have to be given the answer—Oh God, now I’m becoming hysterical!

  And then Pippa said, in a voice that made the hair prickle on the back of Emily’s neck, ‘I’m not Pippa. I’m Christy.’ A pause. Then, in the voice of a carefully schooled child giving its credentials to a stranger, she said, ‘My name is Christabel Philippa Maskelyne.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  For what felt like a long time there was absolute silence in the room.

  Patrick was still kneeling down in front of Pippa, and although he had not moved light was streaming from his eyes as if they were lit from behind. He reached out and removed Pippa’s hands from round Emily’s neck, and as Emily half fell in a jumble into a chair he said, very softly, ‘I know who you are. You’re Mary’s elder sister, aren’t you? You heard her name when they rang the alarm, didn’t you? Mary Maskelyne. And hearing that made you remember. That’s right, isn’t it? Christabel?’

  Pippa was shuddering violently, rocking backwards and forwards, her arms wrapped around herself. ‘Christabel,’ she said, nodding slowly. ‘Christy,’ and Emily heard with a cold thrill that she spoke as if she was referring to a separate person.

  Patrick heard it as well. He said, with force, ‘No. You’re Christabel. You’ve tried to keep Christabel hidden away all these years–because you’re afraid of something, isn’t that right? Because Christabel was once very afraid of something. But it’s safe now. You can let Christabel come out now.’ He paused, and then, with a note of such absolute authority that Emily felt a shiver trace its way down her spine, he said, ‘Christabel–Christy–come out into the light.’

  Tears were streaming down Christabel Maskelyne’s face–one-sided, thought Emily with helpless pity–and once she tried to brush them away, like an animal pawing at a wound. But Patrick’s voice held absolute and compelling authority. She won’t be able to resist him, thought Emily.

  In a gentler voice, Patrick said, ‘It’s all right. Christy, it’s all right. But now you must tell me where you are. So that I can help you. Tell me, Christy.’

  There was another of the long silences. But she’ll give in, thought Emily. I know she’ll give in. When Christy began to speak, she was not at all surprised.

  ‘Night,’ she said. ‘Dark everywhere.’ It was not quite the voice of a scared child, but it very nearly was. Emily had the impression that two completely different people were fusing, and one of the people was a poor bewildered woman in her mid fifties, and the other was a small determined child, trying to outwit a dreadful menace. She glanced at the attendants and saw that they were still standing just inside the doorway. Neither of them had moved, and both of them were watching the figure in the chair.

  ‘We were all so frightened…’

  ‘What were you frightened of? The dark?’

  ‘They were going to shoot us,’ said the not-quite-child’s voice. ‘All of us. The men were going to shoot us, one by one, because our parents hadn’t done what they asked. I never understood that properly.’

  One of the attendants murmured the word ‘hostages’.

  ‘I hid,’ said Christy. ‘I didn’t want to get shot. It was dreadful. You can’t think how dreadful it was.’ She covered her face with her hands.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Patrick’s voice insistently. ‘Tell me how dreadful it was.’ He reached up to pull her hands away from her face, but she flinched and cowered back in the chair. ‘Christabel,’ said Patrick. ‘Listen now, you must tell me. Then we’ll understand why you stopped speaking all those years ago, and why you did all those other things—’ There was a brief, perceptible pause, and then he went on again. ‘Tell me everything you remember,’ he said, and Emily heard again the hard insistence beneath the gentleness. He isn’t quite hypnotising her, she thought in fascination. But he nearly is. That’s why he keeps calling her by her real name. Christabel Maskelyne, that’s her name. Christy. I don’t understand this yet, but it’s as if he’s calling her out of the years of the dark silence where she’s been hiding.

  After a moment, from behind her hands, Christabel said, ‘I found a place to hide. No one knew I was there, and I stayed there while the birds ate everyone up. I couldn’t fight them off–the birds. There were so many of them. I thought they’d eat me as well.’ Again there was the flailing of her hands as if to beat off some unseen assailant. ‘So I hid and I stayed very still and very quiet until they went away. It was a long time before they went away, but I stayed there all the time.’

  ‘Where?’ said Patrick. ‘Christy, tell me where it was that you hid.’

  ‘Inside the tower,’ she said, and Patrick sat back on his heels.

  ‘The Dakhma,’ he said very softly. ‘The Parsi funerary Tower of Silence. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?’

  ‘When the others were lined up to be shot I dodged back in the shadows all round the tower,’ said Christy. ‘They were thick shadows. They were black, like blood. Blood turns black in the moonlight, did you know that?’ She looked at Patrick from between her fingers, and Emily had to suppress a gasp because there had been something unutterably sinister about that look. Just for a moment it had been as if something evil and grinning had peeped, goblin-like, out of Christabel Maskelyne’s face.

  ‘I know about the blood turning black,’ said the voice. ‘I know how it feels, as well, when the blood spills over your hands. Like warm silk. It’s the best feeling in the world.’ The cruel secret look stayed there for a moment. As if she’s considering each of us in turn, thought Emily, suppressing a shiver. And then it vanished abruptly, and the frightened child was back. ‘I could hear their wings beating,’ said Christy. ‘They flew backwards and forwards, over and over the tower, waiting to come swooping down on me. But I fooled them. I went up the iron stairway inside the tower—’ Again there was the involuntary gesture as if she was trying to push something away from her face. ‘It was horrid. It smelled so bad. Selina was sick on the floor–it wen
t all over her shoes.’

  ‘Selina?’

  ‘She hid there as well. And then she tried to escape. But she went outside too soon, and I think they shot her. She thought it was safe to go outside, you see, but I knew it wasn’t. I think the bad men caught her and shot her, that’s what I think happened to Selina.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘They shot everyone,’ said Christabel. ‘Douglas and Selina and the others. I heard them be shot. I cried about it for a long time. I cried about Selina being shot. I loved Selina. I loved all my friends.’

  Selina, thought Emily. Selina March? No, it’s just coincidence. Selina isn’t a very common name, but it isn’t all that uncommon. Yes, but Selina March was in India as a child–she told me she was. And the dates would be about right.

  ‘The tower’s where they put dead people in India,’ said Christy. ‘And they leave them for the vultures to eat.’ She looked at Patrick. ‘You knew that, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. It was very brave of you to hide in there, Christy.’

  ‘When you’re dead in India, you’re sacred. That’s like being holy in England. So when the men tried to find me–after Selina went outside–I stayed in the tower. They came to look for me, but I hid where they couldn’t find me.’

  ‘You hid with the dead,’ said Patrick, half questioning.

  ‘The dead people were all on shelves,’ said Christy. Her voice sounded very nearly normal now. ‘Right at the top of the Tower. They have a shelf for the men and one for the women, and another for the children.’ Her voice faltered, and then she said, ‘There were a lot of children. They get sick very easily in Alwar, and they die, and their mummies and daddies take them there. But I didn’t hide there because it was too near to the birds. I saw that the birds would get me, so I came down again.’ She stopped for a moment, and then said, ‘In the middle of the tower there was a hole. A pit. Like a well you have in the gardens of very old houses. That was where the bones went when the vultures finished eating up the bodies. The bones dropped down into the well. There were lots and lots of bones there, dozens and hundreds.’