by Farah Cook
‘Who is Alice?’
He says she was the oldest patient who lived in Ravenswood Lodge and lived here the longest, more than thirty years. Came when she was sixty-six years old. Healthy as a bull. One morning she never woke up. Liam was very close to Alice. She knew every flower and every tree he planted. He was devastated when she died.
‘She used to be in my room. That explains why he hates me. He thinks I am replacing her.’
‘Aye, some of the patients still think Alice is around,’ he says. ‘One is even thought to have seen her wandering around at night,’ he chortles. ‘Liam took it the hardest. He wasn’t happy when he heard someone was moving into Alice’s room. He had a violent argument with Myrtle about keeping it vacant for a while before filling it. Let her memory live, he said. But Myrtle wouldn’t hear of it. We have a long waiting list. Only the privileged patients get to stay here. And so you were brought in, lucky little lady.’
The gardener walks with a brisk pace towards the terrace. He snorts, an awful gurgling sound. Presses his face against the glass and glaring in with wide eyes, murmurs something I can’t hear. Michael gets close. ‘Yer all right Liam?’
The gardener pulls back and cocks his head to the side. ‘She’s trolley. Stay away.’
The caretaker waves his hand. ‘She’s bonnie.’
‘The gardener doesn’t like me,’ I say. ‘He wants to hurt me.’ I touch my tender cheek, it hurts. I think I saw a purple bruise in the mirror. How did it get there?
‘What in devil’s name makes you say that?’ He turns around, his bushy brows raised.
I wring my hands nervously. ‘Tell him to stop looking at me like he wants to kill me.’
‘Oi,’ the gardener says in loud voice. He motions for Michael to come.
Michael ignores him and sits next to me. ‘Liam’s a wee crabbit. But no murderer.’
‘I think he stole something from me.’ I look out the window. He pushes the wheelbarrow down the zigzag path. He wears wellies covered in mud. ‘There was black dirt on the carpet in my room.’ The rain pours down and the wind howls blowing shuddering gusts against the rattling windows. He turns out of sight behind the trees. ‘I know it was him.’
‘Carol is always pokin’ aboot patients’ rooms. Myrtle caught her red-handed. And John. He snatches things not his. Don’t remember where he buries them. What yer missing anyway? I can keek for yer. I know all the corners of old Ravenswood Lodge.’
‘Well, my gold bracelets. They mean a lot to me. And my black diary with all my memories. Now, I have nothing.’ Something else is missing, but what? My pill boxes perhaps. Or is it still on the desk next to Amira’s photograph? I can’t remember.
‘Don’t mind ‘em folks here, little lady. Forgetful, but harmless. They’ll grow on yer, like the Scottish weather does.’ Thrusting his tongue between the gap where he’s missing a toot, he chortles. ‘Most go aboot forgetting something every day. You may have forgotten too. John forgets where ’e puts his teeth. Barks Myrtle took ’em. Stuck a fist down her throat pulling at ’em. Liam found his teeth buried in the garden where John pees. Bullocks ’bout marking a safe territory. He is a lazy bugger. Truth be told, John don’t remember the way to the bathroom. And if yer ask me, Ravenswood has ’is own ghosts.’
‘What do you mean? Can you explain it so I could understand perhaps?’
He strokes his beard and sighs. ‘The estate used to be a horrible place, a hollow shell for decades after being abandoned by the MacGregors. I read it meself in the library papers. Lady Ivy hung herself. Before her, the Fairfaxes left their daughter. Burned to death in the Mill Annex. Rumours of witchcraft for ’em folks before used to burn witches on the very grounds we stay. I swear, sometimes I see their wrath.’
He lowers his voice. ‘It ain’t only ’em elderly folks. Believe me, the black soil still carries blood, and a raw feeling of smouldered flesh sometimes taints the air. Yer gotta be mad to be out in this barren land with dark forests and angry cliffs bowed into the sea. Mad.’ He widens his eyes. ‘Spirits haunt this great manor bleeding at the ’eart of the bleak and earthly witch tormented land. Don’t let the ben surrounding the estate fool yer. At night yer can ’ear ’em. They are screaming from the pain. The suffering. The wounds bleeding with the witches burned to ashes.’
‘Will you be joining us for tea, Michael, or are you busy taking care of the house?’ Zahra has turned up holding a tray, which she places on the table.
‘Gave Afrah Alice’s book,’ he says, motionless.
‘How nice of you. I am certain Afrah will enjoy reading it later this afternoon. Seems like she’s not the only one who likes to read. You’re quite the storyteller yourself.’
He salutes, gets to his feet and leaves.
‘Was Michael being naughty sharing gossip and ghost stories with you?’
‘He was.’ I untangle my neck from my chador, heavy and drenched in sweat. ‘Don’t remember what he was on about, something about witches and ghosts.’
‘It’s a small community at Ravenswood. Don’t let what he said bother you.’
‘I don’t. Have you brought—’
‘I made a fresh pot.’
She pours the pink tea into two cups. Serves me a plate of shortbread. ‘What’s the matter? Why so quiet?’ she asks in Urdu, placing her hand on my lap.
‘Nothing’s the matter.’ Heaviness surrounds me. ‘Let us drink our tea or it will go cold.’ Any hope I have to leave this old haunted house vanishes. And where is my daughter? Why hasn’t she come to see me? I lean my head back and close my eyes. I see Amira’s face. That’s not all. Next to her I see someone else. A dark burned face and hollow eyes. It frightens me.
‘Time for lunch Afrah, didn’t you hear the gong?’ She walks right past me spinning like she is a ballerina.
‘Leave her alone, Carol,’ says Nisha. ‘She’s my friend.’
I turn around and stare at Carol. There’s something strange about the way she looks today.
‘Recognise these, do you, do you, huh?’ She jingles the bracelets around her wrist like some crazy dancing monkey.
‘What are those? Wait . . . Are those mine? Give them back, you thief!’ I get up, kick the chair with the back of my heel. ‘It was you, you stole them from me!’
‘Did not. Somebody put them in my room.’ She places a hand in front of her mouth and giggles. ‘I didn’t steal anything. I am not a thief, Afrah. Stop calling me a thief!’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Myrtle, Carol stole Afrah’s bangles,’ says Nisha. ‘Look what’s around her arm.’
‘Someone is always stealing things around here. How many times must I remind you all to put your valuables away?’ says Myrtle. ‘Are those the bracelets you made a fuss about?’
‘I made no fuss,’ I say. ‘She stole from me.’
‘Did not.’ Carol hands me my bracelets. ‘Here, take them. Don’t want them anyway.’
‘It’s time for your lunch Afrah.’ Someone puts an arm round my shoulder. I can’t see who it is. ‘Come with me. We’ll find your diary too. It’s only a matter of time.’
I walk down the hallway hugging my bracelets close to my heart.
‘She stole them from me,’ I whisper.
The icy wind blows in, a strong current, from the window that knocks over a vase. It drops and breaks. Water floods over the broken pieces. I look down the dining hall – no one is there, and I am alone in this chair, in this room with empty plates and glasses decorating the table. I think I have been sitting here for ages. I’ve been left alone. Amira must wonder where I am.
‘Somebody get me out of here,’ I say aloud to make sure I’m being heard. Nothing. ‘It’s getting dark. Where is my supper?’ I’ve not eaten. My tummy is growling and I am so hungry I think I will faint.
A young girl dressed in a blue uniform appears out of nowhere. ‘Afrah, what’s the matter? You OK? What were you saying?’ She turns her head and looks at me curiously.
‘Nothing,’
I lie. ‘I said nothing.’
‘Something about supper, I think? You’ve been served already. It’s time to go to your room.’ She motions for me to leave. I stand up staring at her as she starts down the hall.
‘I’ve got to eat something,’ I say under my breath.
I go down to the basement and yank on the door handle in front of me. It’s locked. The same girl appears.
‘Please leave,’ she says. ‘You are not supposed to be down here.’
‘Badtameez ladki.’
‘What did you call me?’ Her words are pointy. She takes one step closer.
‘Nothing,’ I lie again.
She pulls me along and I tell her to let go of me. She is not listening. Is she crazy?
‘Pagal, pagal!’ I shout. Her face turns red. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘I’ve had enough of you,’ she says and shakes her head. ‘This stops, alrighty?’
I mimic her voice mockingly. Three strikes of the gong chime in my ears. I’ve been hearing it every night. That’s when everyone goes to their rooms. That’s when I sleep.
The grandfather clock strikes the hour. ‘Nine p.m.,’ says the girl. She presses the button to the elevator, her face awash with emotions. She turns and I walk off. I swing into the corridor, and find myself getting lost.
Now I am in a different room. It’s dark and the curtains are flickering in the wind. I shiver and turn around. A tall man with a pale ghostly face with wrinkles stares at me. He pushes me, I stumble. I roll over on my stomach. I feel his heavy breath on me. I shield my face with my arm and crawl, pushing my elbows forward.
‘Where the hell do you think you are going?’
He looks down on me and spits.
I wipe my face with my sleeve and get up. I walk without turning as fast as I can. I am in the library, the musty smell is awful, it makes me feel sick. I turn into the common area and knock my knee against the table full of board games, now falling over. A dice escapes, rolls and spins to a stop. I turn and there’s another room, and another room. I am in the little reading room . . . music room . . . or whatever it’s called. I stagger against the piano; the keys spill out dark clunks of noise.
I stand still, my chest moving with my breath. Something is burning. A charred smell assaults my nostrils. I cough. I hear heavy footsteps; someone is talking, whispers and voices. A door slams shut. I jump and feel too afraid to call for help. Where’s Amira? I wish she was here. I need her. She will be worried. I need to get out of this crazy place. It’s making me crazy. Somebody is getting closer. Somebody is out to get me. Thick curly waves travel down my throat, hot like fire. I let out a scream, ‘Help!’
‘You are really trying my patience,’ says the same girl. ‘Go to your room, now.’ She yanks me hard by the arm. I don’t get a proper look at her. She wears brown shoes with black laces. ‘If I catch you out here again, past bedtime, I’ll tell Myrtle.’
‘I’ve got to get home. My daughter is worried about me.’ I cut loose but she runs ahead and blocks my way, arms spread out wide. She shakes her head.
‘This needs to stop. Up we go.’ Her shoes squeak. ‘Alrighty?’
‘But what about my daughter?’
‘She’s already been to see you today.’
‘Don’t lie. Amira wasn’t here!’
Now, she is talking to herself, mumbling that she can’t wait to be off night duty next week. Me too – I don’t want her bossing me around. We are in the room, number nine. There’s a desk, a chair, a bed. All sorts of newspapers and books. I sit at the edge of the bed and glare into the empty space. My emotions feel caged. I need to get out of here. The girl is outside chatting to someone. I catch a glimpse of a tall woman with blonde hair.
‘Afrah called me something in that language of hers. I bet she swore at me.’
‘I’ll tell Myrtle so she can make a note of it. Where’s Zahra?’
‘Off again, I think Afrah hasn’t had her meds. Do you mind? I’m knackered.’
‘I’ll see to it, give her an extra dose to knock her out,’ says the second voice.
That’s when I remember my pill boxes are missing. But that’s not all. Somebody at Ravenswood Lodge is playing games with me. Someone wants me gone.
Wednesday, 18 December 2019
The front door clacks open and slams shut. Someone is in my room. I see the shape of a tall woman skirting gracefully around the desk. ‘Wakey, wakey. It’s your favourite carer, Zahra.’ Hands draw the curtains with ease. I don’t want to get up. I am comfortable in bed – sleepy, warm.
The light stings my eyes and I see the shape forming clearly now. Zahra wears a long skirt, white blouse and scarf with flowers tied around her swan-like neck. ‘It’s a beautiful day. You slept in, even missed breakfast.’ A radiant face, straight lined lips and pony-brown eyes with fluttering lashes smile at me. I don’t know how it is I feel light-headed. No amount of numbness will blur the dream. ‘Did you have a good night’s sleep?’ She stares at me for a long time and I wonder what’s wrong.
‘Yes, I slept well,’ the Urdu words roll out on my tongue.
Fiddling around with one hand I search for my reading glasses. And my diary. It isn’t beside me. When did I last write in it? It’s difficult to keep track of anything without it. How do I feel? Blue or yellow? No bookmark to dictate my mood. To tell me how I may or may not have been feeling. I don’t want to use grey. Lately, I have had a lot of bad dreams. I find myself roused in hot flashes and my clothes are clammy.
‘Zahra, have you seen my diary?’
‘You don’t remember?’
I shake my head. ‘Remember what?’
I wipe the thick layer of sweat from my chest and bite my nails till I can’t anymore more and hide my ugly fingers behind my back. Shoved behind my pillow, I pull out the newspaper. She comes closer and hands me my reading glasses from the drawer. ‘Is this what you were looking for?’ She places them on my nose and pulls back strands of hair flaring behind my ears. ‘There we go.’ Her voice is kind, and she smiles like a politician’s wife. I re-jig the pillow behind my back.
The articles are highlighted in yellow, scribbled with words in my own handwriting that I cannot read. She peers over my shoulder. ‘You asked several times if you could have the newspaper. And so, Myrtle agreed you can have it. But don’t tell anyone.’
‘She did?’
‘Don’t be so surprised,’ Zahra arches her brows. ‘She may not appear to be, but the woman is butter mellow, underneath that hard skin of hers.’
I uncurl the scrawled pages and lay the paper flat. All I see is ink on paper. The words seem smeared, as if flying off the page. I feel dizzy and lean back. My heart is beating at a slow rate underneath my saggy flesh.
‘You’ve mentioned several times now that you are following a story in the papers about a young girl who went missing after a tragic accident. I did an online search. Nothing came up in this area. Perhaps if I knew how old she was, or where she lived I could look it up. What was her name? Was it national news?’
‘Please stop,’ I put my hands over my ears. ‘Too many questions.’
She detects my discomfort when I look away. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I can’t remember the details.’
‘Never mind,’ she says, and smiles. ‘I’m sure it will come up. I’ll keep an eye on the papers for you. Is it an important story?’
‘It is, or it was.’ Bad feelings well up inside me. My eyes cup with water. I feel Zahra’s gaze, but I can’t look up. ‘She was so young.’
‘Sounds just terrible. I can’t begin to imagine how the girl’s parents must be feeling.’
I look straight into Zahra’s eyes filled with bright light. ‘She was only fourteen.’
She shifts page after page. ‘Does it say that in here?’
‘It was front-page news. Now there’s no mention of her anywhere. Some say she is dead. She has been forgotten. Not by me. I still remember her.’
Zahra puts the newspaper to
the side. ‘I understand how some stories can have a long-lasting effect on some people. Especially tragic stories mentioning the disappearance of children. Stories like that never give closure. Try not to read anything that may upset you.’
I don’t tell her that for years that’s all I’ve done. Skimming papers, collecting articles, keeping her alive, but she is long gone.
Zahra notices my damp clothes and sweeps across the floor. ‘How about you get out of bed and get changed?’
I shake my head. ‘No, I really don’t want to.’
She opens the wardrobe and pulls out a hanger which holds a green sari. ‘This is nice. With your height, I would love to see you wear it.’
I stopped wearing saris a while back, and I don’t think Amira would have packed it. So how did it creep into my wardrobe? ‘Put it away,’ I say raising my voice. ‘Don’t touch anything.’
She comes close and sits at the edge of my bed. ‘I never meant to upset you. Nisha wears them and I got curious. I hardly wear any Pakistani clothes unless I attend weddings or funerals, which I rarely do.’
‘Me neither,’ I can’t recall the last time I attended an event.
‘How about this.’ She pulls out a beige wool shalwar kameez. ‘This looks nice. Try it on.’
‘Where did that come from?’ I ask. Zahra looks confused. ‘It’s not mine.’
‘Are you sure?’ she says. ‘It was in your wardrobe. You must have brought it with you from home. You don’t remember packing it?’ She brings it over.
I shake my head. ‘As I said, it’s not mine,’ I touch the material and it itches. The memory cuts me. Crawls into the crevice of my mind like an insect. I press on my temples to calm myself.
‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you about getting changed.’
My clothes suck at my skin. Zahra hauls me up and I swing my legs over the bed frame. My feet search for my slippers. The skin lumpy with thick blue veins running under it like ropes push into the shoes. I shove my shoulders back. My muscles crack like old wood.
‘Nisha said she will take her tea in the old music room should you want to join her.’