The Visitors

by Catherine Burns

  “What?”

  “One of the girls, Alla—she was expecting, the child arrived just before I came in here.”

  Marion gasped. So it was true. She hadn’t imagined the cries after all. At that moment a nurse dressed in a strawberry-colored uniform came towards them, humming along with a tune on the radio. She looked so bright and happy. How could one be so cheerful surrounded by all this sickness and fear? wondered Marion.

  “Haven’t you got your mobile?”

  “I left it at home.”

  “Then go to the nurses’ desk,” he whispered. “Ask them if they can let you use the phone to call Judith. Tell them the situation, Marion. They are used to this sort of thing.”

  “I can’t phone Judith. She will be terribly angry about the tree. After all, she warned us—”

  “Tell her we’ll buy her a new wall, and a new bloody house too if she wants it.”

  “Could you give us a minute, Marion?” said the nurse. “I need to check John’s dressing.” Then she whisked the curtains around John’s bed.

  Another nurse found Judith’s number in the phone book. She reluctantly agreed to come to the hospital after a lot of tearful begging from Marion. Marion then had to wait outside in the cold for nearly forty-five minutes before Judith’s yellow Citroën appeared. Judith must have seen the damaged wall, yet couldn’t really get angry because of John being ill. Storing up her fury for a more suitable occasion, she drove Marion home in silence. The only time she opened her mouth was to scream “Fucking arsehole” at another driver who pulled out suddenly in front of her.

  • • •

  IT WAS AFTER 9 p.m. by the time Marion got back to the house.

  She sat down in the kitchen for a very long time trying to steel herself for what she must do. Even looking at the cellar door made her sick with fear.

  “But I don’t want to! I can’t go down there,” she cried out loud.

  You must, said John’s voice in her head. If you don’t, they will die.

  “But I didn’t bring them here. You did. They are nothing to do with me. If they die, it won’t be my fault.”

  “You can’t let the baby die. If that happens, you will never forgive yourself.”

  Marion took a deep breath and got to her feet. With trembling hands, she prepared meat paste sandwiches and a bottle of orange cordial. But what would the baby eat? Would she need to go out and buy formula? The most important thing, she told herself, was to bring the baby up into the house. Then she would work out what to do next.

  After removing the key from the biscuit barrel where she had hidden it when the ambulance came for John, she unlocked the cellar. As the heavy oak door swung open, a thousand little pinpricks of fear sank into her flesh. When she tried to move, something solid seemed to be stopping her from taking a single step forwards.

  “Just get on with it,” she told herself. “Don’t be such a coward.”

  The tray of food rattled loudly with each step she took down the steep stone staircase. At the bottom was another door that had to be unlocked, then behind that, a large room containing a wooden worktable with a vise fixed to it. To one side of the table lay a dismantled radio, abandoned with its innards still exposed, like a patient that had died on the operating table. Next to it an old-fashioned biplane, strange and exquisite as a dragonfly, was mounted on a stand, waiting for John to finish painting its dark blue surface. Fine brushes, their tips hardened beyond use, littered the work surface along with dozens of miniature tins of enamel paint.

  The brick walls of the cellar, once painted white, were now a greenish gray streaked with black. Long cobwebs, woolly with dust, dangled from the low ceiling. She felt one catch on her hair and nearly dropped the tray as she tried to shake it loose.

  A variety of tools, screwdrivers, several sizes of saw, and a couple of hammers hung on one wall. Off this room were three more doorways. The one to the left led to the back cellar; this had always been used for gardening equipment because there was access to a flight of steps and a door that led out into the garden. The middle cellar had been full of Dad’s office things, files and such, and the front, the largest area, was where her parents stored disused furniture and the Christmas decorations.

  On one side of the room stood the ancient movie projector that she remembered Dad and John bringing back from Frank’s Yard to repair. Alongside it were several unlabeled, round metal tins, strips of brown celluloid unspooling from them. John and Dad must have come down here to watch films together. Next to the stack of movies was a pile of magazines. Marion turned away in revulsion when she saw they were the same kind Mrs. Morrison had found in John’s bedroom all those years ago.

  She put down the tray on the table and found the key labeled “front cellar” hung up on a peg. She hesitated before unlocking the door. It wasn’t too late to run back upstairs, to go and have a hot bath, then get into bed and fall asleep. Pretend they didn’t exist. “No, you have to keep going, you have got this far, you can’t stop now,” she urged herself. As she opened the door the smell rushed to greet her. It was the stench of things people didn’t talk about. Filth and sickness and shame. Shuffling sounds came from the darkness, noises made by creatures disturbed in their cages. She imagined them lying in wait, ready to pounce upon her and rip the flesh from her bones.

  When she turned on the light for a moment, everything seemed too grotesque to be real. The room was around fifteen feet by ten, the whitewash on the brick walls was flaking and mottled with black mold. Plaster had fallen away from parts of the ceiling, leaving the wooden joists exposed like the bones of a rotting carcass. Three mattresses lay on the floor. On one side was an upturned orange crate—these served as a kind of bedside table where the girl’s personal items, such as a toothbrush and a washcloth, were kept. On the other side was a bucket filled with dark slops.

  The small amount of available floor space between the mattresses was littered with debris: dirty cotton buds, scraps of grimy tissues, soiled sanitary napkins, food wrappers. By one wall Marion noticed two rattraps, each of which had ensnared a glossy brown victim. In the center of the room there was a single, unvarnished wooden chair, and a large blue washing-up bowl that contained an inch of scummy water.

  It frightened her to look directly at the occupants of this hideous dormitory. Each of them lay on a mattress, their hands and feet joined together by a tangle of chains, yet more chains connected them to the walls. Their mouths were gagged by weird things that looked like rubber balls connected to a dog’s muzzle.

  How could she have ever believed he was trying to help them? Was it because the truth was so awful? Nothing in her imagination had come close to this.

  The smell and sights of the room were so repulsive, Marion worried she might faint. She forced herself to breathe deeply. Soon it will be over, she told herself. You can get through this. Pretend it isn’t real. They are just like the waxworks in the museum, not actual human beings.

  The eyes of the girl on the mattress near the door were closed, and she wasn’t moving at all. Though she must only be in her twenties, her bloated face reminded Marion of the dying old woman she had seen in the hospital.

  This was Alla. How different she looked from the glamorous woman in her fur coat who had looked down her nose at Marion the first time they met. Her blond tresses had grown out into a dense dark thatch of hair. The lower half of her body was covered with a blood-soaked blanket trimmed with blue satin. In this corner of the room, behind Alla’s mattress, were unopened packets of nappies and formula. She remembered the mysterious packages in the hallway. They must have contained supplies for the baby.

  Next to Alla was the blue ottoman; sitting inside was the teddy bear with white fur she had got from the charity shop, and lying next to it was a funny little doll wrapped in what looked like a green-patterned pillowcase. The doll’s eyes were closed and its face blue-gray in color. A wave of horror nearly knocked her from her feet when she realized it was the baby.

  That poor litt
le thing, its life over before it even began. A white crocheted shawl lay on the floor next to the ottoman. She picked it up and placed it over the child’s body, carefully tucking it in around the sides.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “you and I would have looked for fairies together in the garden. I would have adored you like my own.” Then as tears blurred her eyes she turned away.

  Don’t look at it. Don’t even think about it. If you think about all of this too much, you will go mad, and you have to keep going. You promised John you would do this, and you must.

  Sitting on the middle mattress was a small thin figure, barely recognizable as Sonya, the first of the visitors. She was so nervous when she first arrived, clutching that old suitcase decorated with stickers of ponies and horses. Her face, round and soft when Marion first saw her, now had sharp edges and deep hollows like something carved from wood. She wore a ragged blue dress and an old cardigan that had once belonged to Mother. The girl’s legs were red, raw, and covered in bruises. Sonya’s eyes, still large and terrified—the one thing about her that seemed unaltered by years in the cellar—followed Marion’s slightest movement.

  Beside her mattress there was a collection of toiletries: pine-scented shower gel, toothpaste, conditioning shampoo, a dried-out sponge, and a soiled towel. A blond, snub-nosed Disney Cinderella was printed on the back of a hairbrush, its bristles clogged with clumps of dry, blond hair.

  “I’m here to help you. That is, if you will let me,” Marion said to Sonya, her voice unsteady. “Please don’t be scared.”

  As she got closer the girl leaned away as if she thought Marion was going to hit her.

  “I’m sorry,” said Marion. “I didn’t know it was like this. Honestly I didn’t.”

  The girl started crying. Marion reached carefully round the back of her head to undo the gag. As she was struggling with the fastener she saw there were scaly bald patches on Sonya’s scalp. The gag was tricky to undo, but when it finally sprung lose, it was as if Marion had triggered an alarm. The girl began to scream.

  “Please, you have to be quiet. If you don’t keep quiet, I can’t help you.”

  “Dink dink,” said the girl, looking at the jug of orange cordial. “Pees dink.”

  “Of course, of course, I’m so sorry, you must be very thirsty.” Marion had forgotten to bring any cups, so she poured the drink straight into the girl’s mouth. She began to choke and cough; a lot of the orange cordial ended up soaking into her dress.

  Since the girl’s hands were chained, Marion had to hold the paste sandwich to her mouth. It was like feeding a wild creature. The sharp little teeth tore at the food so ravenously, Marion worried they might nip her fingers. As the girl ate, Marion found herself reaching out to stroke her head, and in return the girl rubbed herself against Marion’s hand as if taking comfort from this contact.

  Marion imagined letting Sonya go free. The girl would be interviewed on morning TV, ruddy cheeked and healthy, her hair nicely washed, wearing a clean blouse and new jeans, like a bright young university student. Sonya would tell the story of how she had been rescued by Marion from her terrible ordeal in the cellar.

  But it could never be like that, could it? said Mother. If you let her go, then things will be very bad for both of you.

  When Sonya finished eating, she looked up at Marion.

  “Peeeease help.”

  Marion took a deep breath.

  “I want to help, of course. But the situation—really, it is very complicated—you see. I have to think things over—to decide what is best—really, I don’t know—”

  Marion picked up the gag and went to put it back on Sonya. As soon as the girl realized what was happening, she began shaking her head wildly and screaming as hard as she could.

  “No gag no please, no gag help us. You help us, lady, please,” the girl wailed, moving around so much that Marion found it impossible to place the gag around her head.

  “You have to be good now,” said Marion, trying to reason with her. “John is in hospital, see. He is very poorly. He had an operation. For a while I wasn’t sure if he would pull through. I want to help you, but you are making it very difficult for me. You don’t understand how much strain I am under.”

  The screaming was tearing her nerves apart. Surely Judith or someone else would be able to hear?

  “Look, if you don’t behave yourself, I won’t bring you any more food. In fact, I will never come down here ever again. No one will.” Marion surprised herself by the stern tone of her voice. The girl stopped screaming and just stared at her stupidly with those big eyes.

  When finally she managed to replace the gag, Sonya seemed to lose all hope and slumped back onto her mattress, exhausted.

  By the far wall Violetta, dressed in a short black dress, sat bolt upright on her mattress. Her skin was still smooth and tanned, her curls glossy. Next to her pillow was a vase of dead roses. She stayed very still, hardly moving her head while the gag was removed, but her eyes were blacker than anything Marion had ever seen before. Marion’s back ached from leaning over to feed Sonya, so she sat down on a wooden chair next to the mattress. Violetta drank and ate without crying or screaming. Only after her mouth had been wiped and Marion was fiddling with the gag did she speak. Her voice was rough from thirst, yet calm and reasonable:

  “Marion, you have to do something. You must help us.”

  Marion was shocked to hear her name spoken by one of them.

  “The baby died, and Alla is nearly dead too. Why do you let him do this to us? Why don’t you go to the police? Did he threaten to kill you?”

  “No.” Marion hesitated, remembering the look in his eyes when he had shaken her. “John would never do a thing like that.”

  “Then why do you help him?”

  She searched for an answer.

  “He’s my brother.”

  “You are a woman too. You are not evil. Don’t you see you have to help us? We will say you didn’t know anything until now. We won’t tell that you came with him to get us.”

  As she turned away from Violetta’s black eyes the words of Brendan O’Brian echoed in Marion’s mind: You are evil.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to put the gag back on now.”

  “No, no, don’t do that!” Violetta ordered. “You cannot. You have to help us.”

  “I am trying to help you.”

  “Do you even know about the things he does?”

  “He’s teaching you things like English and mathematics, because he wants you to have an education.”

  “You really believe that? You think he is our teacher?” Violetta began to laugh. “You think that is how Alla got baby? From mathematica?”

  The baby had been John’s child? That girl had been down the cellar for well over a year now, so it must be his. How could she have been so stupid not to realize? She looked over to the small blue doll tucked in one shadowy corner of the ottoman. That baby shared her blood. Her little niece or nephew had died down here.

  “You are evil woman,” screeched Violetta. “You are a bitch from hell. This is your fault, you have done this to us, you are as bad as your fat fucking rapist brother.”

  “Don’t call him that!”

  “You know he doesn’t give shit for you. He laughs at you, his fat stupid sister. He says when you were at school, they call you manatee, big fat sea monster with titties!” She began to giggle.

  Manatee. The name thundered through her head like a train in a tunnel. Only John could have told her about that. How else would she have known? He must have remembered Juliet teasing her all those years ago in the department store café.

  She imagined John describing his fat ugly sister. The Manatee. Everyone made fun of her at school, and now she was a sad old virgin, all alone with no one to love. How that nasty little bitch must have shrieked and cackled with glee!

  Violetta’s laughter echoed around the cellar and then suddenly stopped. Marion didn’t realize she had hit her until she felt her hand strike that sharp
little nose. The girl screamed, more in outrage than pain. “Oh, oh my gosh, sorry!” Marion said automatically, as if she had trodden on someone’s foot in a crowd.

  Sonya began bouncing her legs and bottom around on her mattress and making a whining noise through her nose. Marion’s heart banged against her ribs like someone desperate to escape a locked room. She had to get upstairs before she fainted, but first the gag must be put back on Violetta, otherwise the girl would scream all night long and someone would most certainly hear.

  As she stepped onto the mattress to replace the gag, Violetta swung her chained legs sideways, knocking Marion off her feet. She fell forwards, landing across the girl’s tough, wriggling body and losing her glasses. The cellar became a muddle of blurry gray shapes. She tried to prop herself up on the mattress, then felt a surge of sharp pain. Violetta was biting into her neck.

  “Stop it, stop it,” said Marion, struggling to get away. Violetta was moving around so much, it was impossible to get upright. She struck Violetta across the face with her elbow and then rolled sideways, knocking over the filth bucket and hitting her head against the wall. As she groped around for her glasses she felt the cold vile contents of the bucket soak into her clothes.

  She found her glasses by the side of the mattress and got to her feet. There was blood on Violetta’s mouth that Marion realized must have come from her own neck.

  “Why didn’t you run away at the service station? Why did you come back? It isn’t my fault. None of this is my fault!”

  “It is your fault. It is all your fault. You could have stopped him. You die in prison, you ugly fat witch. Then you go to hell.”

  Before she even realized what she was doing, Marion picked up the wooden chair. She swung it at Violetta’s head but missed. She then closed her eyes and brought the side of the chair down hard on her chest. It’s like crushing a spider beneath a book, she told herself, you have to hold it down long enough just to make sure. Finally she lifted up the chair and slammed it down on the girl’s head. A terrible, wet scream could be heard followed by a crunching sound.