The Dark Water

by David Pirie

  ‘I trust you are not too tired,’ he said. ‘You have had a strenuous time.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said at last, and the words came more firmly than I expected, ‘you could tell me why.’ It was daylight I now registered, the sun was shining into the room, making his hair gleam.

  He laughed. ‘Why?’ he said. He got up from the chair full of energy, the cup still in his hand, and took a few paces away and then back again. ‘Because it was necessary to bring you here in the first place. That in itself took some trouble, though hardly yours. I had a good coachman but I had to carry you inside here myself, for, as you will recall, you were not well. In fact, you are still out of sorts. You must drink. I will have some too, the morning train here is tiresomely early.’

  My head was clearer now but I knew it was important he did not see this; he must think me still under the influence. It was the tiniest of things, but it gave me a hope of deceiving him. As he sat down again on a chair he must have placed by the bed, I took the cup with a shaking hand. That shaking was real enough. Then I tilted it and pretended to drink the milk deeply, making sure some dribbled from the corner of my mouth. In fact, I took little but as I returned it, his eyes were not on the cup but on me. The hand was still shaking and I managed to slop a quantity on the floor, which was not difficult for I was so weak I barely needed to act it. Still he stared at me with concentration, as if I were a difficult case in his surgery.

  ‘Again I ask why?’ I said with a deliberate slur. I was happy to let him think I was weaker than I was.

  ‘I think you must agree,’ he said, ‘it was the greatest joke in all the world. I wanted to renew our acquaintance. But I had no wish to be caught. So I befriended the Morlands. And it was a trifling matter to circulate your name to the practice.’

  The mention of the Morlands sent a chill through me but the last thing I wanted was for him to see this. I lolled my head as if fighting sleep. ‘What do you want?’ I said.

  He sprang up again and he laughed now. ‘You have soiled your clothes, Doyle, do you know that? You are truly a wretched man. Nobody cares for you, you have no loved ones at home waiting, nobody misses you. You could rot here for years and nobody would care.’ He turned back, put his head close to me. ‘No, not even your mother.’

  My heart leapt; this was a new tone. I cursed myself, for he saw my reaction at once.

  ‘Oh, she is at Masongill where Dr Waller keeps her very happy. They would hardly miss you.’

  This was painful. Of course I knew Cream had heard of our family ‘lodger’, Dr Waller, but I never dreamt he would know Waller had entered into an affectionate relationship with my mother, a relationship even I did not understand or like to contemplate. I turned my head away, for I could not bear to see Cream’s eyes burning with laughter.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he went on, ‘I know. And as I say it leaves you with nobody, Doyle. Nobody except me.’

  ‘I want no part of you.’ The emotion in my words was genuine, for I saw I had been right about the drug. Breaking my body was too easy for this man, he wanted to break my spirit first and utterly reduce me. I tried desperately to take my mind off his words by analysing his motive. Something about me must have goaded him so deeply. Why otherwise should he have gone to such lengths to hurt me? There was a key here if I could find it.

  His expression had become serious. ‘That is a lie. You and your precious Dr Bell have tried to find me for years, you can hardly deny it, though I have to say it has occasioned me little inconvenience. Even in Edinburgh I was ahead of you both.’

  ‘We rid the city of you.’ It was feeble but to my amazement his mouth tightened a little.

  ‘I do not understand how. Of course the man thinks he is so clever with his chemistry and his clues and his endless reasoning, yet how could he possibly understand me? How could you?’ It was only a flash but it gave me something. He evidently felt he had been defeated by Bell and myself in Edinburgh, for we nearly caught him and he had to flee. This explained some of his desire to hurt me, as did the fact we had once been close friends with a shared passion for the stories of Poe. Only, as I later realised, we came at them from opposite perspectives. He actually admired their cruelties and hoped I would join him in imitating them.

  As I reflected on this, he was pointing out he could do what he wished with me. ‘I can end your life now. Perhaps it is better I should.’

  The sun gleamed on the bed and I noticed the angle of light was higher so it was rising, which meant that the window I had looked out of must face east. I was trying at all costs to find some distraction. I hated to give this man the satisfaction of observing my fear.

  From his pocket he had drawn a surgical blade almost seven inches long with a short handle. He placed it against my neck and there was a stab of pain as he cut the surface skin. I had no time to defend myself even if I had the strength. But the blade stopped just at the edge of my windpipe.

  ‘I believe I prefer another place to cut than the obvious,’ he said, pulling down the covers. And, with a sweeping movement, he stabbed both my breast and stomach and then the top of my left leg. I cried out, for here he slanted the knife a little and went deeper, opening a real wound and causing a burning pain that made me writhe. Then suddenly he seemed to tire of it and pulled the knife out. For a while he watched me twisting in agony before he wiped the knife with a white handkerchief and returned it to his pocket.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘it will be far more fun to keep you a little while yet. After all, we have so much to talk about. Do you think I am mad?’

  I was gasping for breath, but would not in any case have deigned him with a reply. I had no intention of satisfying his vanity or his need for debate. ‘I can justify everything I do,’ he went on, ‘and in a way neither you nor Bell can refute. Your country here is rotten, it is eroding before your eyes, eaten by the sea. Why, there are places literally collapsing into the water. A fine symbol of the corruption of England’s soul. But there is far more to it than that. I am the future, you are the past. I am a child of the next century. I celebrate its freedom, you are imprisoned in the ludicrous codes and restrictions and superstitions of this one. When you are dead there will be many more like me; fifty years after your death ten times more than that. And their code is mine. I will tell you what it is: Do not dream it, live it.’

  ‘We will fight it,’ I said.

  ‘Ah,’ he replied. ‘Yes there was some reference to that in a letter Bell wrote that I once saw. “The fight against the future.” It sounds very grand. But you might as well stand on the seashore and fight the tides. Or howl at the moon.’

  I was losing consciousness now and he smiled at me almost tenderly. ‘I have enjoyed our little talk, though your life has been so wretched, you are less fun than you were at university. You must sleep now. I will see you soon enough. One more talk, perhaps two, before I kill you. Not with my knife. I was intending to take a limb today but I think instead I will roast you alive in the morning for your heresies. Then I might take the dish cold to your mad father and get him to eat you. The regime in such asylums is foul; I am sure he would eat anything so he might as well eat his son.’

  Thankfully I lost him here, the drug and the shock of the pain had done their work and I went into the darkness. When I awoke, my leg was still throbbing but I reached down to find it had been neatly bandaged, and my other wounds, though more superficial, were tended too. Evidently he did not want me to die from loss of blood while he was absent. After a time, I decided from the evidence of the bed and from my own senses that I had not lost very much blood. The bandage of the deeper cut in my leg had staunched the flow, while the other wounds would leave scars but were less deep.

  My head felt clearer and I forced my legs out of the bed to the floor. I dreaded the wounded leg would give way. It nearly did and I had to put my hands on the chair to support myself. But after a time I was able to shuffle forward. There was still pain, but I thought I would be able to walk and, for the first time in my life, gav
e thanks for the expansiveness of my enemy’s imagination. There would have been little hope if he had stuck with his original plan of taking a limb.

  Outside it was dark, but the night was clear and the room, which I now felt sure was a cottage, was illuminated by moonlight. My first task was to conduct a proper search, above all I must try to analyse his movements to see if there was some pattern. From what I could understand, he always came in the morning, he had spoken of the tiresome morning train. That could only mean there were few other trains, for he would do nothing tiresome if he could avoid it.

  I must hope, therefore, I had until morning and I moved quickly. The food had been left out for me again. I took the precaution of emptying the milk into a coal scuttle that was full of coal, for nobody had made a fire. I hid the bread at the bottom of it.

  I was already sure there was nothing of consequence near where I slept and I had come to hate those stinking sheets, but I was uncertain about what lay beyond the screen. As I passed it, the same sickening smell returned to me, making me almost retch, but I could see nothing to tell me what was causing it for this side of the room was almost bare. I pushed my hands along part of the floor and found only a carpet nail from which I assumed someone had recently pulled up a carpet and removed it.

  The door again proved hopeless as I already knew, which left the window behind my bed. Surely there must be something in here to smash its panes. I returned to the coal scuttle, pleased my leg was becoming more malleable though I was still very weak. The lumps of coal in it were small but they could surely break a window. I got one in my hand and found I could lift it. At last, I thought, I could do something.

  But, just as I got to my feet, there came a sudden noise, the last noise in the world I wanted to hear. The key had turned in the lock and now the door opened.

  THE VIGIL

  My first instinct was to face him with what little strength I had. At least I could fling the coal at his head. That was my thought as, for a moment, his view was blocked by the door which opened inside. But in that moment, I knew I would have no chance at all. I could not even surprise him, for he would see me long before I reached the door or even the screen. And, since he was fit, healthy and armed the only result would surely be that he would kill me at once. Though I hated it, my only hope must lie in deception. I dropped the coal and lunged into the bed.

  I had only a few seconds but I was quiet and, because of the angle of the door and the depth of the shadows, I was sure he had not seen me. I lay under the covers, eyes shut, as he closed the door carefully behind him and walked over to inspect me. Then he lit a candle, put it on the table and examined the remains of the food. This seemed to satisfy him, it would certainly explain my immobile shape in the bed. I felt the light of the candle full on me and sensed him inches away, staring at my face. Perhaps, if I remained too rigid, he would see through me so I pretended to stir slightly. This was a mistake.

  ‘I hope you have had enough milk and bread,’ he said. ‘I am glad to see it is finished. Even so, you are not sleeping as deeply as I would prefer.’

  I heard him opening something. And then I felt a bottle pressed against my lips. ‘I am sure you can hear me, Doyle. Swallow this down, swallow it now.’

  Of course it could have been strychnine, but I soon recognised the sticky bitter undertaste of the laudanum mixed in with the alcohol. There was a greater concentration of the stuff here than in the milk and I knew I must not drink it, yet to show any resistance would be to give away the sole chance I had.

  In the agony of this moment I pressed my fist together and felt a sharp stab of pain, it was the carpet nail I held. The pain cleared my mind. I took several apparent gulps of the liquid, allowed some to go down but kept most in my mouth as I slumped back in what I tried to pretend was total unconsciousness, my head lolled away from him, half off the pillow. I heard him put the bottle down, and the candlelight was no longer on me as I slowly spat that noxious mixture out into my pillow and the blanket. I knew the smell would never alert him, for it was just another foul odour in that bed and the pillow was in shadow.

  After a time, I heard him walking about and noted — rather to my surprise — he was tapping the walls and moving back and forth around the space beyond the screen. He seemed a little out of sorts too. More than once I heard a muffled curse.

  At last he came back to me. ‘You are a poor sort of opponent, Doyle. I can smell the blankets are soiled again, I had hoped for something better. In the morning, when I have time to make a fire, I will come back and kill you, for I have had quite enough of this place, which has yielded only the pleasure of torturing you. I believe it will be exquisite and I meant what I said about your father. He will have his son for dinner. I am sure he will relish it. And of course after he dines he will discover the nature of the meat he so richly enjoyed.’

  There was a lull then, for he moved away and I heard no more of him. The laudanum I had swallowed caused me to sleep though, because of my evasions, not I think for very long. When I awoke it was still dark but my memory was clear. I waited, but no sound came. Soon I was convinced he had left.

  Slowly I raised myself up and found I was able to get to my feet and that I felt stronger. Partly no doubt this was because the effects of the drug were lifting but also because I was spurred by the knowledge that here was my last chance. I was ravenously hungry and my throat burnt, but I had taken only a few sips of laudanum in two days and I had a sense of myself again.

  For the first time, I told myself that so far as hunger was concerned I had known this kind of want before and had got through it before. There was a time in my practice when there had been simply no money for food and I had gone for days without it. That had been hard but I had coped. Admittedly, I had wounds to contend with now but, thanks to his games, they were not crippling. My wounded leg was sore but it worked. I would just have to summon up all my courage in the battle to live. This notion reminded me of all the stories I was told as a child about my great-uncle who led the Scottish brigade at Waterloo and I rejoiced that, despite the pain, the hunger and even the thirst, at least I had been strong enough to throw off that awful weakness and passivity.

  Not wishing to linger any longer by that disgusting bed, I found and lit the candle with matches that lay beside it. The bread and milk were there as ever but I did not even bother to pretend I had touched them. Taking up the candle, I made a quick tour but all was exactly as before, though the smell by the door had become so indescribably putrid that I began to wonder if Cream had slaughtered an animal and left it there as an additional taunt.

  There was nothing here beyond what I already knew and I did not intend to wait. Going back to the bed, I stared down at the clothes and blankets heaped upon it and found to my joy some garments had been cast aside at the bottom. No doubt he had thrown my shoes away on the journey but here was a pair of trousers and an ancient coat.

  Once I had them on I felt far better but, for the moment, I would have to proceed barefoot even though my feet were becoming cold.

  I turned back to the coal scuttle, seizing the largest lump I could find, and advanced to the window. Suddenly, a rattling sound came from outside. I felt a stab of terror. Was I again to be frustrated? I stood there, coal in hand, certain only that whatever happened now I was not getting back into that bed. But the sound receded. It had been a cart on the road outside.

  This meant it could be later than I thought, perhaps nearly dawn, and I turned back to the window. Without any further delay, I raised my hand with the lump of coal, brought it back and hit the pane with as much force as I could muster. My arm jarred at the collision but the result was hopeless. No glass splintered. I pulled back and struck another blow. This time, to my great relief, it gave and I heard glass falling on the other side and felt the breath of cold air on my face. I waited but outside remained quiet. As I expected, there was nobody to hear the noise.

  That gave me courage and I struck again more than once. When the pane had completely
shattered I turned to the one beside it. I had to take another lump of coal for the original had crumbled away but soon the second pane too was gone and I went for the one above.

  Finally, four were gone and I stood there, panting, listening again to see if my exertions had alerted anyone. The only sound was the wind.

  All this activity had taken its toll but I knew the biggest tasks were still ahead of me. Somehow I had to use my weapon to break the middle of the frame and this would require much greater force than the glass. I put my hand on the wooden frame and to my great joy found it was old and not well cared for.

  I summoned up all my strength, gripping the coal tightly, swung my arm back and hit the wood hard where it crossed. There was a horrible jolting sensation in my arm as the coal broke in tiny pieces, but the frame stayed quite intact.

  I returned to the coal scuttle to see if there was a better lump of the stuff, only to find the other pieces were so small as to be useless. And then, for the first time, I began to think about the scuttle itself. It was made of some cheap metal, but it was still metal. I got it up and emptied the coal out without too much difficulty. Soon I was swinging it by its handle, marvelling to think how much better this was as a weapon than my feeble lump of coal and imagining the crack it would make if I smashed it into my enemy’s skull. That cheered me and I was soon back at the window. I took a breath, gritted my teeth and swung the scuttle with all my might against the frame, loosening my grip at the point of impact.

  I know I imagined Cream’s head was in its way and the results could hardly have been more pleasing. The wood splintered and gave way while the coal scuttle itself hurtled out through the window on to the grass outside. Examining the damage closely, I was sure that, with a bit of effort, I could now clamber through the space I had opened, though I still had to contend with the remaining glass.

  Uneasily aware that outside it was becoming lighter, I pushed every large piece of glass out of the window, but there was no hope of removing all the smaller splinters. I went back to the bed and got one of the heavy blankets, throwing it out of the window, making sure that its thick wool covered the base of the frame.