by Amy Cross
“It's our own fault we're here,” Sissy replies.
“Maybe that's just what he wants us to think,” I point out.
“My parents said it too,” she adds. “We all did something very wicked, and we're lucky that a man like Jeremiah Kane wants to help us.”
“He didn't help Abigal much, did he?” I reply. “Do you really think she'd be dead if she hadn't come to this school?”
“Who knocked you up, anyway?” Catherine asks me. “You've never told us.”
“It's none of your business,” I mutter defensively.
“But you could still tell us,” she continues, with a faint smile. “I've already admitted it was the boy next door. We only did it twice, I thought you couldn't get pregnant the first few times but look at me now.” She places her hands on her huge, rounded belly. “I'm not going to lie, the first time hurt a lot but the second...” She starts to blush. “The second time wasn't half bad. In fact, I think with a few more goes I might even start to like it!”
“Quiet!” I hiss. “That's not why we're out here!”
“Can we just get on with it?” Sissy asks, sounding sleepy. “I'm frightfully cold and I think the snow will start leaking through these cushions soon. Either Abigail can hear us or she can't, so why does it have to take so long?”
“We need to tease her out,” I tell her.
She frowns. “Doesn't she want to talk to us?”
“Where she is now,” I continue, “it might not be that easy. Face it, we don't have a clue what it's like for her in the next world. She's on some level of existence and reality that we probably can't even begin to comprehend, because our brains just aren't big enough, so it's not easy for us to establish a link with her. But Abigail liked us, she was our friend, and I truly believe we can get her attention if we just focus.” I turn to Catherine, as I realize I can hear Wendy still chanting to the fairies. “Please, can't we try properly? If not for our sake, then for Abigail's. I'm sure she wants us to know the truth about how she died. She'll be seeking retribution or justice or something like that.”
“Fine,” Catherine mutters, “let's just get on with it.”
I close my eyes and take a moment to gather my thoughts.
“Abigail Cartwright,” I say finally, feeling a sense of calm falling all around me in the cold night air, mixed in with the light sprinkling of snow that has begun to come down. “We, your friends, wish to make contact with you one final time, so that we might learn the truth about your departure from this life. We hope that you will hear us, and that you will speak to us, and that you'll not only let us know that you have passed on peacefully to whatever comes next, but also that you'll tell us the truth. If there is anything we can do to help you, we are ready.”
I wait.
Silence.
“Please,” I whisper, hoping against hope that soon I'll sense her presence again. “Please, Abigail, just come to us one last time. We need to know who killed you.”
“With everyone trying different methods to get in touch with her,” Catherine mutters not-so-subtly, “someone's bound to manage it eventually. If ghosts exist, anyway.”
III
“Well that was a stinking waste of time,” Catherine says with a sigh as we trudge back into the dark schoolhouse. “Remind me never to listen to you again, Ivy. All I've gained from tonight's effort is a damp bum.”
“It wasn't a waste of time,” I reply, looking down at the lock of Abigail's hair still in the palm of my hand. “It should have worked, I just need to work out what went wrong and we can try again tomorrow night.”
“Not me,” Catherine says, waddling past me as I stop next to the library door. “Not with these ankles. My ghost-hunting days are over.”
“But we just have to give it more time!” I call after her. “Catherine, please, I can do this! I promise!”
As she makes her way back toward the dormitory, I realize there's no way I can argue with her, not really. I was so, so certain that we'd be able to make contact with Abigail tonight, but I'm still convinced we have a chance if I'm just able to figure out where we went wrong. After a moment, however, I glance at Sissy and see the lack of belief in her eyes.
“Not you too,” I mutter.
I wait for a reply, but she seems typically shy.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“You think it was a waste of time too?”
“I just...” She pauses. “Well, I mean, it was worth a try, but I don't see why we really have to get in touch with Abigail. Who says ghosts are real, anyway?”
“Why wouldn't they be?” I ask.
“They might not be,” she points out. “Maybe Abigail's just... gone! Plus, Mr. Kane said what happened to her, and it's not like he'd lie to us.”
“Of course he'd lie to us!” I hiss. “He's a total -”
I stop myself just in time. Before I can think of a better way to end that sentence, however, I realize I can hear voices coming from the library. Making my way over, I pull the creaky old door open and listen for a few seconds to the sound of Millicent reciting some kind of incantation from one of the books. Leaning further inside, I spot several candles flickering on one of the large oak tables, with half a dozen girls gathered around. God, they look so solemn and pleased with themselves, as if they have no idea that they're completely ridiculous. A moment later, Prudence spots me and nudges Millicent's arm, and the incantation comes to an abrupt halt.
“Hello there, Ivy,” Millicent says with her usual cold-as-steel stare. “Did you girls have any luck out there by the hanging tree?”
Next to her, Prudence is grinning like a fool.
“Not yet,” I tell them.
“Do you want to come and join us instead, then?”
I shake my head.
“We haven't made contact yet,” Prudence says, “but it's only a matter of -”
Millicent elbows her in the ribs to shut her up. “We will make contact,” she says firmly, still staring at me. “I can feel it in my bones. We just have to find the right words in these books.”
“Sure you do,” I reply. “You're no better than Mary and those girls asking the fairies for help, you know.”
“We so are better than them,” she replies. “They're silly and we're not!”
“Whatever,” I mutter, stepping back and letting the door swing shut. Damn it, those girls are creepy sometimes. In fact, sometimes I think I'm the only person in this whole school who can see what's what.
“Where should we go now?” Sissy asks cautiously.
“I'm tired,” I mutter, waddling past her and heading to the stairs. “We should get back to the dormitory, in case Mrs. Kilmartin wakes up and decides to do an impromptu check. She does that sometimes, you know, when the brandy allows.” I start making my way up, but I have to stop halfway as I find myself getting breathless. “Damn this body of mine,” I continue with sigh, as Sissy makes her way up to join me. “Do you ever just wish that you could go back in time and change it so you didn't...” I glance at her belly. “Well, you know.”
“Never,” she replies.
I stare at her for a moment. “You don't actually like having that thing inside you, do you?”
“Of course not!” she says quickly, but she immediately starts blushing as a faint smile creeps across her face.
“Oh God,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “I hope you know you can't keep it when it comes out. They won't let you!”
“I know that!”
“The babies get sent to good homes,” I continue. “They get adopted by people who can actually look after them.”
“I know,” she says. “I mean, my parents told me all that when they told me they were sending me here. They weren't half cross with me for getting up the duff so young.”
“Mine too,” I tell her.
“Sometimes I think...” She pauses. “Well, sometimes I do wonder what it'd be like to...” She pauses, and I can't help noticing that she's running her hand across her
belly with an almost maternal sense of care. “Don't you ever wonder, Ivy?”
“No,” I say firmly, “because nothing good can come of it. The babies get taken away, and that's the end of it.”
“What about Abigail's baby?” she asks. “When she died, did it die too?”
“I suppose so. It wasn't ready to come out of her.”
“That's sad,” she replies with a frown. “I heard a rumor,” she adds, “that a few days before she died, Abigail said she felt the Devil's hand on her shoulder.”
“Don't go believing in that rubbish,” I tell her, before turning and starting to make my way up the rest of the stairs.
“Why's it rubbish?” she asks, hurrying after me.
“It just is.”
“But ghosts aren't?”
“Ghosts are different, Sissy. Trust me, they're real.” When I get to the dark landing, I'm breathless again but I force myself to keep going, waddling toward the door at the far end. “A lot of people talk a lot of rot around here,” I add, glancing back at her as she follows me along. “You don't want to go getting soft-headed. That Devil's hand rumor is a good example of the clap-trap you hear from the other girls.”
“I'm not getting soft-headed,” she replies. “It's just... Well, a lot of people talk about it, so it can't be completely made up, can it?”
“Of course it can,” I mutter with a sigh. “Lies get more believable when more people join in. That stupid Devil's hand stuff is just nonsense.”
“But Prudence -”
“Can go suck an egg,” I add as we reach the door to the dormitory. Turning, I can see the fear in Sissy's eyes. Damn it, sometimes I wish she was just a little less credulous. “Have you met one person,” I continue, “who has actually claimed to have felt this Devil's hand hogwash for themselves?”
“Well...” She pauses, frowning as she thinks for a moment. “No, I don't suppose so, but still -”
“So it's just been gossip and hearsay?”
“Ivy -”
“Which means it's balderdash!” I point out. “It's second-hand or third-hand information at best. Haven't you ever heard of Chinese whispers, Sissy? Do you really think the Devil is wandering around this school, setting his hand on the shoulders of one girl at a time and making them die? I spoke to poor Abigail not two days before she passed, and she most certainly said nothing of the sort!”
“So perhaps it happened after you spoke to her?”
“Oh, Sissy...” Stepping closer, I put my hands on her shoulders. At the same time, our belly bumps touch. “You really have to try to think these things through for yourself,” I tell her. “If the Devil was anywhere near this place, why, all the vicars and priests of England would come flocking here to take a look, not to mention the men from the newspapers. That Devil's hand business is simply the result of people who have too much time on their hands, sprinkled with a little of the holy terror that Kane tries to instill in our souls. Please, darling Sissy, don't fall into their trap.”
She stares at me, and I can tell that I've almost persuaded her.
“Think for yourself more, okay?” I add.
She pauses, before nodding.
“Promise?”
“Of course, Ivy. If you insist. But...” She pauses. “The Devil's hand isn't real, but ghosts are real?”
“Now you're getting the hang of it,” I tell her. “Just trust me.”
Sighing, I roll my eyes and pull the door open, stepping into the dark dormitory. No sooner have I done so, however, than I spot Clara May flat on her back in one of the beds, with several other girls gathered around while they sprinkle some kind of dark powder on her exposed, bare belly.
“What in God's name are you girls up to?” I ask, genuinely shocked.
“We're trying to contact Abigail Cartwright,” Clara replies in her usual thick Yorkshire accent. “We thought maybe herbs would work.”
“And rose petals,” Constance Barrow adds, as if it's the most important thing in the world. She sprinkles more powder on Clara's belly. “Don't forget the rose petals.”
“Oh dear God,” I mutter, making my way past them. “Any luck so far?”
“Not really,” Clara says cautiously. “I think maybe we need to sacrifice a chicken for it to work properly, but none of us can think of where to get one.”
Climbing onto my bed, I can't help sighing as I look back across the room and see them continuing with their ridiculous ritual. Sometimes I think every single girl in this school has her own idea about how to contact the dead, but of course very few of them actually listen to me when I propose a decent idea. I watch with an increasing sense of hopelessness as Sissy is persuaded to join in with their shenanigans, and after a few minutes she's taking handfuls of dried herbs and sprinkling them over Clara's belly.
“We'll find a way to contact you yet, Abigail,” I mutter, settling down flat on my back and staring up at the dark ceiling. “I swear we'll find out what really happened to you. Ghosts are real. We just have to know how to talk to them.”
Part Two
DOCTOR JAMES RATCLIFFE
I
“Okay girls,” Kane says firmly, almost proudly, “now I want you to file in two-by-two and witness the sad, sorry fate that awaits any of you who refuse to buckle down and repent for your sins.”
I can hear the nervous shuffling of feet in the corridor outside my office, and I can't help thinking that those poor girls shouldn't be forced to see this. Glancing at the table, I take another look at Abigail Cartwright's poor, pale naked body, with its belly crudely stitched together and a mess of black wire nestling on her navel where I sewed her shut. Next to her, the dead newborn boy is also laid out, and his little dead eyes are scrunched tight shut.
“Come on!” Kane shouts, clapping his hands together. “Get moving! You two, you're first!”
I watch as two timid girls step through from the corridor, holding one another's hands for comfort as they enter the room. They look absolutely traumatized by the sight of Abigail's dead body, and I can see that their hands are clasping one another with increasing force as they make their way slowly toward the table. Frankly, I think it's a miracle they haven't already run away screaming, but I suppose Jeremiah Kane's will is a powerful force.
“Look upon her,” Kane continues with a sneer, “and pray that your souls are strong enough to withstand temptation!”
The girls stop for a moment, their wide-eyed stares fixed on Abigail, and then one of them notices the dead baby and gasps, taking a step back. She turns to her companion, and they both seem utterly appalled and struck dumb by the sight. After a moment, they both look down at their own bumps.
“It's okay,” I tell them, even though I know there's no way I can lessen the horror of this experience. I force a smile, hoping to put their minds at ease. “She's not in any pain, not now.”
“Don't try to console the young sinners,” Kane says firmly. “Okay you two, file out the other side and go to Mrs. Kilmartin for your morning chores.” He turns and claps toward the main door. “Next two in! Hurry up, we don't have all day here!”
As the first girls shuffle out with pale and shocked faces, two more girls walk in, also hand-in-hand. One of the girls is little Ivy Jones, one of the more headstrong pupils at the school, and of course she's with her ever-present companion Sissy O'Neill. I swear, those two girls go everywhere and do everything together, and it's noticeable that Ivy has to pull Sissy forward a little to make he approach the table. Poor Sissy isn't exactly the brightest bean in the school's garden.
“Don't dawdle,” I hear Ivy whispering. “He won't like it if you do.”
“Stop talking!” Kane snaps at them. “Look upon this foul body of sin and recognize the need for repentance!”
Ivy and Sissy stop at the side of the table. Sissy looks absolutely green around the gills, as if she might pass out at any moment, and she's shaking more and more with each passing second. Ivy, meanwhile, seems more composed and together, observing the body – i
ncluding that of the child – with a hint of genuine fascination in her eyes. I suppose that shouldn't be such a shock, since Ivy is by far one of the most intelligent and mature girls in this entire place, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if she suddenly piped up with a series of to-the-point questions. Sometimes I think it's a shame she can't go to university when she's older and study to enter one of the medical professions.
“Okay,” Kane tells them, “move along. Next two in!”
Ivy and Sissy make their way out into the yard. A moment later, and to no great surprise, I hear Sissy throwing up by the far wall, and I also hear Ivy trying to offer her some comfort.
***
“Open your mouth,” I instruct Sissy a short while later, and she obeys diligently, allowing me to shine a light all the way to her tonsils. “That's good,” I mutter, turning and heading over to my desk. “Any pain?”
When she doesn't reply, I turn and see that her mouth is still wide open.
“You can close it now, Sissy,” I tell her.
She does so, and it's clear that she's in an even more literal mood than usual this lunchtime. Bless her, she's a nice enough girl, but she could never be mistaken for a great thinker. Sometimes I think it's a miracle she remembers to breathe in and out. God only knows what she'd be like if she tried to look after a baby, but I suppose it's not hard to understand how a simpleton like her might have been easy pickings when some older boy wanted to take advantage.
“Are you in any pain?” I ask as I make some notes on her chart.
“No, Sir.”
“That's good. Have you felt any movement in your belly?”
“No, Sir.”
“None at all?”
“Nothing, Sir.”
I glance at her. Given her stage of pregnancy, she really should have felt a few kicks by now, but I suppose it's a little early to be worried. I force a smile, hoping to set her mind at rest, but the vacant look in her eyes doesn't really give anything away. Is she worried? Does she care? Damn it, this girl wouldn't be bad at poker, if she could be made to understand the rules.