Devils' Spawn

by Charles Birkin

  When Joan repeated the story to Doctor Burleigh, he looked very grave. “That settles it,” he said. “I’m sorry; but I have no alternative. Your mother must go to a home; and as soon as possible. I’ll try to arrange for her to be received early in the week.”

  Joan had cried, but he had sat by her side and held her hands in his own, and had told her of other cases where the same strain of cruelty had developed, and where there had been nothing else to be done.

  And so at length Joan was convinced, and all arrangements were made for Mrs. Hinton to go to the “Parkside Home for Mental Cases” on the following Tuesday. It had been decided to say nothing to the old lady; and once the decision had been reached that there was no other course to take, Joan felt as if a load had been taken off her mind.

  Nurse Charteris said, “High time, too,” when she heard the news; while McBride tossed her head coyly, and boomed in her deep voice: “Such goings on make a girl feel quite creepy. I never could take much to mentals.”

  Monday came; and suitcases and trunks spilled tissue and newspaper in the nurses’ rooms, and grazed the legs of the unwary on the landing. Great care was taken that the old woman should gain no inkling of its true purpose. When she questioned the hurried comings and goings of the nurses and Joan, she was told that Nurse McBride was leaving, a statement that both satisfied and pleased her. She sat on her sofa, and watched with triumph and malignancy her awkward movements as she busied herself with the tea-table. The ambulance with its white-coated attendants was due at nine o’clock on the following day, so that there would be little time in the morning to do much.

  During tea Nurse McBride, who officially did not come on duty until ten o’clock, but who had been unable to sleep during the afternoon owing to the bustle that pervaded the house, said to Nurse Charteris: “I think I’ll just slip round to Boots’, dear. I won’t be long. I’ve run out of perfume.”

  Nurse Charteris looked at her colleague in surprise. She was always bewildered by this gaunt woman’s coquettish airs.

  “If it wouldn’t be a trouble would you get me a bottle of aspirin?”­

  “Certainly, dear.” Nurse McBride got up. “Well, I think I’ll run along now. Ta-ta!” She hurried from the room.

  Mrs. Hinton’s voice broke the silence. It had that harsh impersonal sound that is so often found among deaf persons.

  “Thank God that terrible woman is going tomorrow. She’s as common as dirt, and a conceited fool into the bargain.”

  Nurse Charteris smiled a little grimly. Although she shared the opinion of her patient, she thought it a wiser policy to say nothing. She was spared the necessity of answering, for at that moment the door opened and Thompson, the butler, entered. He crossed to Nurse Charteris.

  “If you please, Nurse, you are wanted on the telephone.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I didn’t catch the name.” He knew perfectly well that it was the doctor’s voice, but had been warned not to mention his name in front of “the old looney.”

  “Please say I’m just coming.”

  He went out, and left the two women alone. Mrs. Hinton gave her a glance of suspicious inquiry.

  “I won’t be long, my dear,” said Nurse Charteris; and she bustled down the stairs after Thompson, wondering who it could be.

  Left by herself Mrs. Hinton wandered to the window; and as she looked into the drive she saw Mary dashing up it on her bicycle. She knocked on the glass, trying to attract her attention. She was too far off for the little girl to hear, but at that instant she happened to look up and saw her grandmother smiling at her and beckoning to her to come up. “Poor old thing,” she reflected, “stuck up there in her room all the time.” The child nodded her head in assent and ran into the house.

  Mrs. Hinton smiled to herself; Nurse would be away longer than she had said—the interfering chatterbox!

  A minute more and she heard light steps running along the passage.

  “Granny!” Mary called through the half-opened door.

  “Hush, child! Don’t make so much noise. I’ve got rather a headache—but come in, my dear, come in!” Mary ran to the sofa and held up her face to be kissed. She thought her grandmother looked strange; her eyes were fixed on her face; on her throat . . . with an odd expression of . . . Mary tried to describe it—of almost hungry yearning.

  “Sit here, child. I haven’t got much time. They never will leave me alone. But I want to talk to you. I’m an ill old woman, you know. Very ill. And Doctor Burleigh wants to shut me up in an asylum. Do you know what an asylum is, child? It’s where they put mad people. Yes, Doctor Burleigh wants to send me to a mad-house. He thinks I’m a maniac. But I’m not! Oh dear, no! I’m only ill . . . under-nourished. I must have a special diet, dear child.”

  While she was speaking the old woman had slithered her great body along the sofa until she sat next to her grand-daughter. She stroked her hair, ran her hands over the girl’s shoulders, caressed her neck.

  “You love your old grandmother, don’t you, Mary?”

  “Yes.” Mary felt uncomfortable. Granny looked so strange—almost as if she were mad.

  Mrs. Hinton got up and went over to the door. The key was in the lock. She turned it, and, slipping it into her work-bag, returned to the sofa.

  “We must be quick, my dear, if you really wish to help your granny. They’ll be back soon—Charteris and that McBride.”

  “What is it you want me to do?”

  “Just give me a little present . . . something I need, something . . .” she almost spat out the words, “. . . something I must have.”

  “Don’t, Granny,” Mary laughed nervously, “you’re frightening me.”

  “There’s no need to be frightened. I don’t want much. Just a cupful. One teacupful of your young healthy blood. You’d give that to make your Granny well again, wouldn’t you, Mary?”

  “Don’t say things like that . . . I’m going. Let me out.”

  “Don’t be a silly little girl. I’m not going to hurt you. I’ll let you out when you’ve given me your little present.”

  The child started to cry.

  “Now there’s no need to cry, dear. Come along, there’s no time to waste.”

  With incredible speed for her bulk, Mrs. Hinton lumbered to the tea-table and picked up a table-knife that lay there. Wide-eyed with terror Mary watched her. Then she screamed. Like a tigress the woman turned, her face distorted with rage and fear.

  “Stop it, you silly child. Stop it or I’ll cut your throat.”

  Blinded by her tears, and half choked by sobs and fear, the little girl ran to the door, rattling the knob and shaking it with all the sum of her small strength. But in a flash the old woman was after her. Mary felt her grandmother’s hand on her neck, wrenching her from her hold. Propelled by a last powerful push the child staggered back to the sofa. With deadly purpose Mrs. Hinton was upon her, the knife in her hand.

  “Mummy! . . . Mummy! . . . Nurse Charteris . . . help. . . .”

  She pushed the child’s head back, until the throat was taut.

  Meanwhile Nurse Charteris picked up the telephone.

  “Yes?”

  “Is that Nurse Charteris?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Doctor Burleigh. I rang you up to tell you that . . .”

  Suddenly the line was disconnected. Nurse Charteris bounced the hook on the instrument up and down. She felt very vexed. Really the operators were getting worse and worse.

  “Exchange! . . . Exchange! I’ve been cut off!”

  “Kaindly replace your receiver and I’ll call you again,” came the refined tones of the operator.

  Nurse Charteris obeyed these instructions with bad grace, and stood waiting, impatiently tapping the floor with her shoe. She wondered uneasily, if she had done wrong in leaving Mrs. Hinton—but she could hardly get into any trouble in the short time she would be away.

  She looked with displeasure at the telephone. After three minutes the bell rang ag
ain. Nurse Charteris picked it up, clucking with annoyance.

  “Nurse Charteris? We were cut off. I rang you up to tell you to give Mrs. Hinton a sedative so that she will have a good night before her move. You’d better give medinol. What? Yes, the same as before. I’ll come round in the morning before she leaves. Good-bye.”

  Nurse Charteris heard the click of the receiver as the line went dead.

  The telephone was on a table that stood in a corner under the staircase. Nurse Charteris thought that since she was downstairs she might as well have a word with Mrs. Willoughby about the final preparations. She found her employer in the drawing-room, sunk in a deep chair, a book in her hand. Nurse Charteris glanced at the room with appreciation. So quiet and restful, with its discreet lighting and crackling wood fire!

  “You want me, Nurse?”

  “I just looked in to ask if there was anything you wished to see me about.”

  “No. I think everything is arranged. Doctor Burleigh is coming in the morning, half an hour before the ambulance.” She laid down her book. “Oh, Nurse, I know we are doing the right thing; but somehow it seems awful!”

  “You’ve done all you can for your mother,” she answered, trim and capable in her severe uniform.

  Joan smiled sadly in agreement, and then added: “I suppose we all have. Will you ask Thompson to come here, on your way up.”

  Nurse Charteris walked briskly to the pantry, delivered her message, and preceded him down the passage to the hall. As they passed the drawing-room, they heard Mary’s scream; stifled and far away. There was terror in that cry—and it came from above, from Mrs. Hinton’s room. And why had it ended so abruptly? She put her hand on Thompson’s arm—“Good God! That child’s gone up there . . . it’s Mrs. Hinton! I may need your help.”

  She ran up the stairs, the man following. As she turned the corner she caught a glimpse of Joan’s face of startled inquiry below her. She ran to Mrs. Hinton’s room, her arm outstretched for the handle. It was locked. She realised that she must keep calm.

  “Mrs. Hinton! Open the door, please. It’s Nurse Charteris.”

  There was no answer. The silence in the room was intense, unnatural . . . and someone waited and listened.

  “Mrs. Hinton! Open the door at once. I know you’re there.” Impatiently she rattled the knob.

  From inside the room she heard a low groan. Her eyes narrowed. Mary was hurt. God only knew what that old devil had done to her. She looked at Thompson’s broad shoulders. Yes, he would make short work of the door.

  “Mrs. Hinton, if you don’t open the door I shall break it down.”

  This time she heard stealthy movements from the locked room.

  Nurse Charteris nodded to Thompson. He threw his weight against the door, which held firm. Again he lunged against it; this time he was rewarded by a protesting creak. Mrs. Willoughby and the parlour-maid, attracted by the noise, hurried down the passage. Thompson stepped back a few paces from the door and then flung himself forward with all his force. There was a sound of splintering wood and it swung open. As they surged into the room Mrs. Hinton twisted round from the object on the sofa that engaged her attention.

  While she hesitated on the threshold of the room, Joan’s first dazed impression was that the lower half of her mother’s face was coloured red, and that she wore red gloves on her hands.

  PREMIÈRE

  The Majestic Cinema was a blaze of light. The name of the Super Production that was about to have its première winked in giant letters. The luminaries of the silver screen that graced this particular opus were likewise honoured in fiery neon. The pavement in front of the entrance was floodlit—posses of policemen kept free a long gangway to the street to allow the “first nighters” an uninterrupted passage into the theatre. Cameras, mounted on trucks, were trained on the notable arrivals as they stepped from their motor cars and hurried past the crowds of celebrity spotters into the sanctuary of the foyer. The performance was billed to begin at a quarter to nine, but it was already three-quarters of an hour past that time, and still newcomers were pouring into the auditorium. “Seats bookable, 5s. to five guineas,” the advance publicity had announced. A few shabbily dressed men were haunting the fringe of the mass of sightseers, hawking tickets that they had had the foresight to purchase with this end in view.

  The Mills of God had taken a year to make and had been completed at the staggering figure of two million pounds sterling. The stars of the picture were as numerous as those of heaven. Film history was to be made. The greatest, grandest dramatic spectacle of all time was to be unwound before the wondering gaze of London’s élite, who were jostling and pushing their ways in a most unmannerly fashion to the staircases and doorways, that led to their dearly-bought stalls and Royal Circles as society photographers kept up a bewildering bombardment of blinding flashes—attempting to obtain pictures of those who were “news”—and battling valiantly against the wiles of the humbler stratas of the gathering whose wish it was to be so termed. Little knots of friends greeted one another, and stood gossiping of this and of that at strategic points of inconvenience to the intense irritation of the later arrivals who either had not won such advantageous positions for themselves, or who wished to get comfortably settled before the start of the performance.

  At the entrance, an immaculate Announcer was broadcasting the list of famous pleasure seekers as they arrived—a custom imported from the United States, and one that was immensely popular with a minority of the people so described.

  “The time is now growing short,” the young man declared with perfect enunciation, “The Mills of God is about to begin! I wish that you could see the brilliant gathering that we have with us at the Majestic Cinema to-night. Lady Juliet Ramsbury has just entered accompanied by Peter Arlington, the noted novelist. . . . Here comes Lord Lundy escorting the glamorous Dolores Denby, famous star of the silent days—I beg your pardon?—Miss Denby wishes me to tell her unseen fans that she loves them all as much as ever. She also wishes me to tell them that she starts work on her first talking-picture Souls in Pawn next week . . . and who is this? Miss Lairma Strang, famous Mayfair beauty. She is with her mother, and a young man whose name I don’t know—but who looks very proud to be seen with Miss Strang. . . . And here comes Sylvia Panson, starring to-night at the Majestic Cinema in The Mills of God—and doesn’t she look lovely! She is accompanied by Alex Boronoff, the director of the film. They have come to England especially for this première. As you may know The Mills of God took fourteen months to make, cost over ten million dollars and commands the services of eighteen stars of the first magnitude. Five lives were lost in the filming of the Casino Fire sequence. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I must close down now—The Mills of God is about to begin.”

  Gradually the foyer emptied, and only the crowd in the Square outside the theatre held in check by the cordon of police, waited for the film to finish so that they might see again their favourites as they struggled out into the night, having witnessed the first performance in Great Britain of The Mills of God.

  Half a dozen imposing flunkeys in gorgeous liveries, and with shapely and over-robust legs, lounged in the scented, air-­conditioned hall of the Majestic, their duties ended until after midnight.

  Mary Gordon was one of the five extras who had been so unlucky as to lose their lives in the filming of the epic production. Together with three girls and a young man she had perished in a blazing inferno of plywood and canvas. The end had been swift, inevitable and agonising. She had known with a dread certainty that her life was over. The disaster duly shocked the Excelsior Company who, however, made full use of the resultant publicity.

  Shortly after the conflagration died down Mary found herself standing outside the well-known Golden Gates. Saint Peter was kindness itself to her. He informed her that it was necessary to ask a few questions in accordance with the rules of entry, and Mary fully realised that it would be useless to tell lies to this benevolent but shrewd old gentleman. Accordingly she gave trut
hful replies to his queries as to her life, motives and actions. She was a little astonished to find that her evening dress which she had been wearing at the time of her death was quite undamaged by the flames. This pleased her, for, like most of her sex, she considered first impressions all important.

  Eventually Saint Peter came to the end of his examination, and Mary waited for him to let her into the heavenly garden of which she had a pleasant, if vague, idea—a relic of the early religious teaching imparted to her by her mother, who had been a devout Scotswoman.

  “My child,” Saint Peter said, “you have done but little with your opportunities. You have been selfish, thoughtlessly intolerant, and bitter. But your trials have been many, and you have never wantonly destroyed the happiness of another. Therefore, before you pass on, will I give you one earthly wish. Tell me what it is that you would like to possess before you enter the land of no possessions.”

  Mary looked at him to see if he was sincere. Always having had to look after herself she suspected trickery.

  “Fame?” she answered with decision.

  “Film Fame?” she added to clarify her desire.

  The old man bowed his head in acquiescence. . . . The Golden Gates grew fainter . . . an utter stillness surrounded her . . . she floated through illimitable space . . . sinking gently through mist grey and soft as the smoke of a wood fire seen curling in the still air of a summer’s evening.

  Mary sat in the middle of the second row of the “Royal Circle.” A magnificent chinchilla coat covered her evening dress of silver brocade. Immediately in front of her were Boronoff and Sylvia Panson. They had just settled themselves into their seats and Boronoff had relieved his lovely Star of her wrap. They were pleasantly conscious of being the cynosure of all eyes.

  The Silly Symphony which preceded the main attraction received the usual enthusiastic reception, then, with deep and significant preliminary chords, the words The Mills of God in ragged letters caused a murmur of anticipation.