by Emily Gunnis
She glanced down at her stomach, where the baby was thrashing around so violently inside her that she could see its limbs protruding through her overalls. Another wave of pain was followed by a gush of liquid splashing on the floor. She looked down to see blood surrounding the bed.
‘You’re doing really well. It looks like the baby is coming.’
Mother Carlin looked to the end of the bed, where two girls in brown overalls were standing. ‘Where is Sister Mary Francis?’ she asked.
‘She’s busy, she told us to help you,’ said one of the girls, placing the nun’s legs in stirrups.
Mother Carlin let out a cry of pain as another wave hit.
‘Stop your screaming.’ The second girl, with pale dirty skin and hair cut away from her head in clumps, walked over to her. ‘Do you think everyone wants to be woken by your crying? If you suffer, it is because you deserve it, because it is the Lord’s choice that you do so and you must accept it.’
‘Get away from me,’ said Mother Carlin, as she let out another scream of agony.
‘I can see the head!’ said the first girl, appearing from between her legs and smiling brightly. ‘Push, push now.’
Mother Carlin pushed hard, panting and groaning loudly. After a few seconds, a baby’s cry echoed through the room.
‘It’s a boy!’ said the girl brightly. Mother Carlin watched, horrified, as the two of them cooed over the baby, then wrapped it in a blanket and brought it over to her.
‘He’s beautiful, look,’ said the first girl.
The baby was covered in blood. Its skin was completely translucent, so that Mother Carlin could see every vein in its face and its heart beating in its chest. It had horns growing out of the sides of its forehead and it was crying loudly, showing razor-sharp teeth. ‘Get it away from me,’ she screamed.
‘Oh dear,’ said one of the girls. ‘She’s still bleeding. Should we call the doctor?’
Mother Carlin looked down at the floor. The pool of blood was spreading now and covered most of the carpet.
‘No, I’ll give her a few stitches. That should stop it.’
The girl rummaged in her pocket, pulling a dirty needle and thread away from some sticky sweets and a tissue, then dragged a chair up in between Mother Carlin’s legs.
‘Don’t touch me with that needle,’ Mother Carlin cried as the girl began to stitch. She sobbed, clinging to the pillow as she writhed around in pain. ‘Please, stop, I can’t bear it.’
‘What a fuss you’re making,’ said the girl. She whistled as she worked. Mother Carlin watched, gasping in pain as the needle stabbed in and out.
‘Are you ready for us to take him now?’ The other girl picked up the baby and opened the bathroom door, where a well-dressed young couple were standing waiting anxiously.
‘Oh Geoffrey, he’s beautiful,’ said the woman to her husband. The girl handed the baby over as Mother Carlin watched, her legs still in stirrups, her tears flowing.
The blood on the floor had turned into a sea of red lava now. She could feel the heat from it, and hear it hissing and popping. Fragments flew up, setting the covers alight. Gradually the lava thickened: she was surrounded by it now, and her bed began to sink lower and lower as it incinerated beneath her. She pulled her legs from the stirrups, rolled onto her side and began to pray as flames danced around her.
‘Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.’
As she looked over towards the door in desperation, it seemed to move further and further away, so that it became like a mouse hole in the distance. She was at sea now, a sea of burning flames from which children’s hands reached up to claw at her and pull her down with them.
The bed sank deeper, until it became a raft that she clung to for dear life. Laughing, the children began tipping it up, as if it were a harmless game. She tried to pull their fingers off, but there were too many of them and eventually she could cling on no longer. She held her breath as she plunged into the molten lava, kicking frantically to get to the surface as the intense heat engulfed her.
A streak of indescribable pain shot up her arm, making it impossible for her to cling on to what was left of the bed. She tried to scream, but the children’s hands covered her face and mouth and pulled her under.
Chapter Twenty-One
Sunday 5 February 2017
Kitty clutched her front door keys as the taxi sped down the motorway. The sharp teeth of the keys digging into the palm of her hand provided focus as anxiety overwhelmed her. She had no idea what would be waiting for her when they arrived. She had not been back to the outhouse since that night; the coward in her had stopped her, and there had seemed to be no point. Father Benjamin had told her father that her sister was dead and buried. But now she wasn’t so sure.
As they reached Brighton, fear and doubt grew within her so that her body felt paralysed. Memories came flooding back at the thought of that night. Of searching for the outhouse in the pitch black. The house was being torn down the day after tomorrow; it would be fenced off and no doubt there would be a security guard on patrol. The chances of being able to get near the outhouse suddenly seemed impossible, but still she watched the road, not stopping the driver, not telling him to turn back. This was her one and only chance; she had to try.
As she breathed steadily, her resolve returned. She wished they could go faster so it would be over. She looked at her watch, it was just past eleven. She could see the cab driver glancing at her a couple of times in the rear-view mirror, knew he recognised her, that he would probably speak to his friends about this strange outing with the woman off the telly. But suddenly she didn’t care. Samantha Harper appeared to be gaining on her, and soon her connection to St Margaret’s would be out. She had hidden the truth for so long, but why? Who was she protecting? Perhaps she wanted it all to come out; why else would she have attended something as public as Father Benjamin’s inquest? All she needed to find out now, before they tore the place down, was whether she had made a mistake in not going back to the outhouse. If there was any sign of her sister at St Margaret’s, she had to know.
As they curled their way through the country lanes, the driver spoke to her. ‘Any idea where we’re headed in Preston, love?’
‘Just the other side of the village,’ said Kitty, moving her head from side to side to loosen her stiff neck. ‘It’s a large Victorian house, St Margaret’s. It’s due for demolition so I suppose you need to look out for a building site.’
‘Is that it?’
Kitty’s eyes followed the direction of the car’s headlights as the driver pointed to the horizon. It was drizzling, and the wipers swished from side to side as the black outline of St Margaret’s came into view. As he pulled up at the gates, the grey clouds parted and the moon cast its light on the imposing Gothic mansion that had dominated her memories for so long. Now that she was here, it felt very different to the overbearing image in her mind’s eye; like a grown-up child visiting a strict grandparent in their dying days.
‘What do I owe you?’ She reached into her handbag, glancing at the meter.
‘Are you sure this is the right place?’ The taxi driver looked doubtful.
Kitty looked down at her wallet, pulling out a wad of twenty-pound notes. ‘Yes, this is fine.’
‘Are you meeting someone?’ he said, frowning up at the house.
‘Yes,’ said Kitty quietly. ‘I’m meeting someone in the outhouse at the back.’
‘Do you want me to drive round?’
‘Okay. That’s very kind of you.’
Kitty sat back again as they headed down the bumpy track next to the house. The car jolted up and down, throwing her around. The broken windows of the house looked down at her as they passed. Soon the taxi would be gone, and she would be alone in the middle of nowhere in the freezing rain, utterly vulnerable. She closed her eyes and tried to calm her breathing, reaching out her hand to feel her sister’s fingers
on the seat next to hers.
‘How about through there?’ asked the driver, stopping the car, the sound of the brakes cutting through the night. ‘Looks like there’s an opening in the fence. And look, some lights the other side of the cemetery.’
Kitty opened her eyes. In the beam of the headlights she could see a huge fence surrounding the perimeter of St Margaret’s, and a small hole peeled back, probably by kids. Just beyond it were row upon row of ivy-covered headstones. ‘I’ll find it, I’ve been here before.’
‘I’m happy to take you back. Doesn’t feel right leaving you out here,’ said the driver. ‘I’ll have to go and grab some food, but I’ll be back after that to pick you up.’
‘Thank you,’ said Kitty, relief flooding her that he had thought of it for her. ‘I’d really appreciate that.’
The driver clicked the button to unlock the door, and Kitty stepped out into the night. She pulled her jumper around her and tied her mac tight before making her way over to the fence and pushing her way through. She fumbled with the buttons on her torch until a faint beam sprang from it. Then, trying to calm her nerves, she closed her eyes and pictured her sister’s face, the memory hazy after all these years.
As the taxi rattled off down the drive she ventured on, ignoring the anxious stabbing pain in her guts. The foggy graveyard seemed to come alive, the sounds of the night filling the black gaps beyond the torchlight. The ground rustled below her feet as wildlife scattered, and leaves crackled above her as squirrels and birds darted to safety. Kitty directed her torch at the gravestones; polished marble adorned with loving messages for the Sisters of Mercy who had died during their service at St Margaret’s. A comforting view of death: gone but not forgotten. She pressed on as fast as she could, the frozen ground of the graveyard uneven, a maze of gravestones in her path.
Every grave had been dug out, the bodies within them taken for reburial elsewhere and the pits left behind filled with sand and stone. Kitty walked amongst them, wondering how far from where she now stood her sister had been buried. If they had killed her, the excavation report told her that they hadn’t given her a proper burial, so where, in this freezing hell, were her remains hidden? And if they hadn’t killed her, if she was alive, was Kitty insane for thinking she could still be living here after all these years?
She pressed on, stumbling several times as the ground became increasingly uneven. The gravestones grew smaller as she moved further into the graveyard, shrinking to mere stumps of stone engraved with only names and dates. Sarah Johnson, January 1928–April 1950. Only twenty-two when she died, thought Kitty, as her foot caught in a tangle of thorns. She put down the torch to free herself. Emma Lockwood, July 1942–December 1961 read the inscription on the broken cross lying on the ground. Nineteen. Still a child. Many of the mounds of earth had no official headstone at all, just tiny wooden crosses, their sharp corners worn down by the passing of time. Clara Lockwood, infant, December 1961 read a small slab of grey stone just ahead of her. Catherine Henderson, February 1942–July 1957. Kitty tried to stay focused on her destination, but her head started to throb as she thought about this young girl, just fifteen, her body not ready to give birth, most probably dying in agony in the infirmary of St Margaret’s.
As she made her way towards the light at the edge of the cemetery, a dog barked and she jumped, struggling to steady herself as the night spun around her. Sinking down onto a large rock, she took in huge gulps of freezing air, tucking her hands in her pockets to stop them going numb. The torch lay on the ground where it had fallen. Clara Jones, Penny Frost, Nancy Webb. No epitaph or poetry to accompany these poor souls.
The noises around her grew louder, like voices whispering among the trees. Burying her head in her hands, Kitty heard a thud. An image flashed into her mind of a young mother and her baby being thrown into a cheap coffin and lowered roughly into the ground. She covered her ears, yet she could still hear the grunts and groans of a tired gravedigger shovelling the earth back into the hole. This was a part of the cemetery nobody visited. She felt sick at the thought of all these poor souls lying in makeshift graves, trampled on, unacknowledged by the families who had dumped them at the gates.
She snapped back to the present as the dog barked again, and looked up to see shadows moving between the trees. Increasingly she felt as if she was being watched. If Elvira were here, she would be waiting for Kitty to get closer so she could reach out to her without anyone else knowing. She needed to get up, to keep moving. The more ground she covered, the more chance she had of finding her sister.
With a groan, she picked up her torch and pushed herself off the stone, picking her way forward as the dog barked yet again. She tried to shake off the thought of it appearing in front of her suddenly, knocking her down, attacking her, tearing her ice-cold skin.
She staggered and grabbed at the steel fence at the perimeter for support, the impact making it rattle through the silence. She walked alongside it, using it as her guide, running her numb fingers over the wire until her legs became too tired to hold her up any longer. The dog was now silent, and the light in the distance had faded completely. If she followed the fence back, it would take her to the graveyard and back to the safety of the taxi. Then what? Home? More despair? She would rather keep going and die out here than go back having failed her sister again.
‘Hello?’ she called, her voice shaking from the cold. Still using the fence as a support, she walked on, so frozen she could no longer feel the bruises and cuts on her body from the countless thorns encircling her.
Suddenly she stumbled in a dip in the ground and crashed down, hot pokers of intense pain shooting through her legs. She screamed out and rolled onto her back, then lay still, unable to move, and looked up at the moon, waiting for the pain to pass.
Through the throbbing in her ears, she heard footsteps coming towards her, quiet at first, then louder as they crunched on the icy ground and came to a halt beside her. Elvira squatted down next to her, reaching out and stroking her hair.
‘Look,’ she said, stretching out her tiny arm in its brown overalls. ‘Over there.’
Twenty feet away was an outbuilding that Kitty immediately recognised from her dreams. She pushed herself up onto all fours, then stood and slowly began making her way towards it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sunday 5 February 2017
‘Are you coming, or what?’ said a male voice down the phone.
Sam was still sitting in the car outside Gracewell, overwhelmed with the temptation to let St Margaret’s go for ever. It was just too hard. Her body and mind ached from being pulled in so many different directions.
‘Who is this?’ She fished a bottle of water from her bag.
‘That’s charming. It’s Andy.’
Andy. Who the hell was Andy?
‘From the building site.’
‘Oh, shit! Andy! I’m so sorry,’ said Sam, looking at her watch. ‘We were supposed to meet at ten, weren’t we? It’s been a hell of a day.’ She glanced at her reflection in the rear-view mirror and sighed.
‘You’ll be needing that drink then.’
When she arrived, Andy was sitting in the corner of the brightly lit Wetherspoon’s he’d chosen as their venue. Though she’d felt a migraine coming on as soon as she stepped onto the swirly blue carpet, at least there was no chance of bumping into any of Ben’s painfully trendy friends in there. The last thing she needed was Ben thinking she was having an affair.
‘All right?’ Andy asked, not standing as she approached his table.
‘Yeah, good, thanks. You?’ Sam perched awkwardly on a stool next to his.
‘S’pose so.’ He downed the rest of his pint.
‘Drink?’ She dug into her bag for her purse.
‘Go on then, I’ll have a pint of Stella.’
As she stood at the bar, Sam suddenly missed Ben so much she felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. Walking into the pub had made her recall their first date, which they’d spent in a cocktai
l bar on Clapham High Street, making their way through every drink on the menu until the manager had physically thrown them out. Ben had bought a new shirt, which still had the label on, and he’d sprung out of his seat so fast when she’d walked in that he hit his head on the beam above him, almost knocking himself out. Sam had scuttled to the bar for an ice pack, after which they had spent the next four hours swapping life stories and pawing at each other until all the other customers were put off their nachos and left. From that moment on, she’d never wanted anyone else. She loved Ben more than she had ever loved anyone, but they were so bloody miserable at the moment and hurled such bile and vitriol at one another that there just didn’t seem to be any hope for them. That was why people broke up, she thought, handing over her cash. It was why they walked away. Staying with someone who had seen you at your worst, and thrown it back at you, was soul-destroying.
‘Sam!’ shouted a familiar voice from behind her, and for a second her heart lurched, terrified that it was Ben. Then she turned and before her stood Fred, clutching a pint of beer and beaming at her.
‘Oh, hi, Fred, how’s it going?’ Sam looked over at a group of people behind him, all clutching pints of beer and heckling.
‘Yeah, good, I’m celebrating,’ said Fred, turning back to his friends and signalling for them to pipe down.
‘Oh yeah?’ said Sam, glancing over at Andy. ‘What are you celebrating?’
‘I just came third in the British Bouldering Championships,’ Fred said proudly, his voice slurring.
‘That’s fantastic, Fred, well done.’
‘Fancy joining us?’ he said, gazing at her.
‘Thanks, but I’d better not. I’m here with a contact. I’ll see you later.’ As she turned to make her way back to Andy, she was aware of Fred’s eyes on her.
‘Cheers,’ said Andy as she put down his pint and sat opposite him, smiling awkwardly. He was huge, the sort of bloke you saw on a Harley-Davidson on the motorway. His hands were wrapped around his pint as if it were a shot glass, and the leather jacket on the back of his chair nearly reached the floor. He smelt of body odour and cigarettes, and when he spoke, he leant in a bit too close.