Thorn

by Sarah Rayne

  Imogen was quite safe until it was time for Thalia to acccount for her stewardship. Dan had diligently made application for a sight of Royston Ingram’s will, but he had no idea what he would do when he received it. He was not going to rush fruitlessly up to Northumberland – of course he was not.

  Still, it could not hurt to just look out the route and jot down the names of likely pubs or small hotels where he could stay. He found a couple of likely sounding pubs in Thornacre village itself, and marked one of them. The journey was a long one, even taking into account the motorway stretches and the Al. It was unlikely that his beaten-up Ford Escort would manage it, even with carefully planned breaks.

  There was absolutely no reason to be concerned. Thalia could not possibly do anything to Imogen while she was inside Thornacre, and while Imogen was in this coma-sleep she would not need to do anything. As for Thornacre itself, it had certainly been the subject of a nationwide scandal, but for that reason alone it was probably the most strictly run place in the entire country at the moment. It might be on probation, so to speak, for a time, but the real evildoers had been routed out and hauled to justice

  It was ridiculous to think that Imogen was becoming surrounded by enemies.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Imogen was becoming surrounded by enemies.

  Quincy had known this ever since Imogen fell into the terrible dark sleep and she had known that she could not leave her, although for some time she had not known how this could be prevented. In the end she had simply asked point-blank to return to Thornacre, knocking on Matron Porter’s door, and standing in front of Matron’s desk to make the request. It had taken every shred of courage she possessed, but she had managed it. ‘Please let me go with Imogen to Thornacre,’ she had said, and had stared at Matron and refused to look away, and she had seen Porter-Pig’s mean little eyes narrow. Porter-Pig did not like her, but she was weighing up the advantages of having her as unpaid servant in Thornacre.

  Quincy had said, very loudly, ‘If you don’t let me go, I’ll simply walk out. I’ll beg lifts on the road until I get there.’

  And then Matron had said, slowly, ‘Why of course you shall come with us to Thornacre if you want to,’ and Quincy had seen the gleam of calculation in her eyes, and known she was doing the right thing. The Pig was not quite an enemy to Imogen, but she was definitely not a friend.

  And so here they were in an ambulance with all the windows blacked out and Imogen lying on the stretcher-bed, remote and still. The chart numbering the days she had been asleep was tucked into a cardboard folder beside her.

  Porter-Pig was driving ahead of them in her horrid fat little car with the snout-like headlights; Quincy could probably have travelled with her, but the ambulance men had seemed to think it a good idea for her to be in the ambulance with Imogen and Quincy thought it a good idea as well.

  One of the men travelled inside the ambulance with them. He talked to Quincy on the journey, and they played word games to pass the time. ‘I Spy’, and Twenty Questions, where you had to think up a name or a place or a TV programme, and the other one had to ask questions to guess it. The ambulance man had three children and they often drove to the coast at weekends and holidays, and these were two of the games they played so that the children would not get bored. If the ambulance had had windows they could have collected pub names and scored points; you only got one point for animals’ names like the Fox and Hounds, but you could get two for people’s names, like the Green Man, and four or five if the pub was named after royalty like the King’s Head. You could not do this very well on motorways, of course.

  It had never occurred to Quincy that people thought up games to keep children from getting bored. In Bolt Place children were left to find their own entertainments, and when Quincy was there they had formed gangs and taken it in turns to sneak sweets and comics out of shops. When videos started to be popular, a lot of parents had had sets installed, and there had been films to watch all through the school holidays. But then some of the sets had to go back to the shops because of people falling behind with payments, and others were taken by the police because of forbidden videos being in circulation, and quite a lot were broken in Saturday-night fights.

  When they were eleven or twelve, most of the Bolt Place children graduated to one of the teenage street gangs. In Quincy’s time there had been the Scrum and the Clan. The Scrum – which most people called the Scum – had mostly been for boys who took cigarettes from off-licences and purses out of shopping bags in supermarkets. The Clan was headier stuff and the people in it were older; they smashed jewellers’ windows and forged Social Security cheques and beat up cashiers if they would not hand over the contents of the till. Some of them had dealt in drugs.

  Getting into the Scum was easy, but you had to steal two cars and not be caught before you could be accepted as a member of the Clan, and even then you had to be male. There were no females in the Clan, because the only things females were good for were screwing and cooking. When Quincy first went to Briar House she had been astonished at the way the kitchen helpers and the nursing staff talked about their husbands and boyfriends. They shared shopping trips and cooking and choosing new bedroom curtains. No one from the Scrum or the Clan would have been seen dead shopping or choosing bedroom curtains.

  Two Clan boys had once dragged Quincy into the back room of Farley’s Bar because they thought she had seen them breaking into an off-licence. One of them had smashed a beer bottle and brought the jagged end up to her face. If she grassed on them they would carve her face up with it, they said. Grassing meant telling, and Quincy would not have told even without the broken bottle, but the trouble was that somebody else might do it, and the Clan would think she was responsible and come after her. She had been so frightened that she had shut herself in her room for a very long time, crouching behind the door and keeping the curtains drawn and not switching the light on because the dark was safer.

  It had been then that people had come; they had broken the lock on the door and somebody had fetched a doctor because of Quincy not having eaten for so long and being weak and muzzy-headed. There had been no food in the house and she could not go out to get any because of the Clan lying in wait. She had tried to explain this, but she had found it difficult because of not having spoken for such a long time and not having eaten much, and also because of being frightened. A doctor had said she was confused, and he had used the word withdrawn. When he found out that she was only fifteen he had said she should go to a place where she could be helped to be less afraid of the world. He had sent her to Thornacre and he had meant it kindly, but he had not known about the Cattersis or being shut in the haunted part if you were a nuisance or made a noise.

  The journey to Thornacre took quite a long time, but it was not as bad as Quincy had feared because of the ambulance men being so friendly. They stopped at a motorway place for a cup of tea and sausages and chips and to go to the lavatory. Quincy had been worried that Matron Porter might be there, but the snouty car was nowhere to be seen. Probably she was well ahead of them. The ambulance men took it in turns to come in to eat because of not leaving Imogen on her own, and swapped over the driving afterwards. The second man did not play ‘I Spy’, but he produced a writing pad and biro and showed Quincy how to play noughts and crosses and crossword games.

  It was late afternoon when they reached the outskirts of Thornacre village and drove up to the house. There was no chance of missing it; it stood on a hillside overlooking the small village that had rooted itself in a fold of the Northumbrian landscape, and huge iron gates guarded the way. The ambulance driver annnounced himself into a small tinny intercom and the gates swung open. As they drove through, Quincy looked back through the ambulance’s small rear windows and saw them swing shut with a horrid hoarse grating sound.

  They drove slowly up the steep incline, with the raggedy overgrown gardens on each side, and then the house was suddenly there ahead, like a huge, crouching monster, rearing up against the dar
kling sky. Quincy shivered.

  Somebody had built Thornacre a very long time ago – more than a hundred years ago – and that somebody had used harsh black stone, the kind that grazed your skin if you touched it. The house had a distorted look as well, as if whoever had built it had not worked out the space for walls and windows and chimneys properly. If you stared up at it for too long you would start to feel dizzy and get a headache.

  It was not completely dark when Quincy got out of the ambulance, but it nearly was. Twilight. Twilight was a lovely word as a rule; it was purple and violet and it was brimful of soft scents and subdued stirrings. It made you think of fairy story things: mysterious forests and prowling creatures with three-cornered faces and cloven hoofs. Magical spells and secrets.

  But the twilight that surrounded Thornacre was a different twilight entirely; it was a creeping, oozing darkness, it was black goblin-juice bleeding into the sunshine, and it had ugly hungering creatures at its heart. It had Cattersis-beasts who leapt on your back and dug their claws into your flesh, and poked their bodies into you until you were bleeding, and who said, you know what will happen to you if you ever tell, my dear . . . Quincy stood staring up at the house, wrapping her arms about her to stop from trembling.

  Behind her the ambulance men were starting to carry Imogen’s stretcher out, and one of them called cheerfully to Quincy to ring the bell and let people know they had arrived.

  Quincy went obediently into the deep porch at the centre of the main wing. On the left was the low wing that was Thornacre’s haunted part. It was covered with ivy and the ivy would tap at the windows at night and you would think it was the ghost coming to get you, dragging its rotting body through the shadowy passages, dribbling its juices as it came. Dr Sterne had said that the Cattersis-doctor had gone, and Quincy believed him because Dr Sterne would never tell a lie. But there were still the ghosts to worry about. There was still the black iron door in the old east wing.

  There was a huge old-fashioned bell pull attached to the door, and Quincy pulled it and heard it jangle somewhere deep in the bowels of the house. At once there was the sound of footsteps crossing the stone-flagged hall on the other side, and there was a pause as somebody fumbled with a bolt. The door swung open and there was nothing for it but to cross Thornacre’s threshold once more.

  As Quincy did so, she felt the darkness descend about her shoulders, and she felt the black despair and the sick hopelessness of all those other people who had lived here.

  And beneath all of that, she caught the thick, curdled whisper, which was the house’s voice. It said in its gobbling, chuckling voice, you’re back . . .

  Freda Porter had quite enjoyed her journey to Northumberland although unfortunately it had been rather a long way, and the motorways were shocking things to negotiate these days; she had almost forgotten how loud and how fast they could be. And, of course, Araminta was not one of your fast, showy cars, although Freda kept her nicely polished, and there was an amusing nodding dog on the back window shelf, and flowered cushions on the back seat.

  It was really rather interesting to stop at the motorway service stations. A lady travelling alone was always intriguing and she had dressed carefully for the occasion. She had no time for these scrawny girls who seemed to think it acceptable to wear jeans and sweaters and the kind of shoes that were called trainers today but which Freda had known as plimsolls. Quite scruffy they looked.

  It was a pity that the only men who had taken any real notice of her had been a couple of lorry drivers who had tailed her all the way from the turn-off at Newcastle-on-Tyne, flashing their lights and making vulgar gestures in the driving mirror. Anyone would think she had done something silly, or even dangerous, when she had in fact been driving in a most responsible fashion. All she had done was to take a little time over choosing the lane at the bypass, which was something that anyone might need to do. And she had signalled properly and clearly when she changed lanes because of getting the wrong one to start with, so there was really no call for people to hoot and flash their lights.

  Freda did not really like the odd, wordless compact she had entered into with Thalia Caudle, but there had been no other course of action. Do what I want or I’ll make sure everyone knows you were overdosing Imogen with sedatives. Not that the dosage had been so very large, in fact now that she came to think it over, it had been only marginally over the amount prescribed by Dr Shilling.

  Still, the carrot held out had been a good one: a personal reference to Professor Rackham and his commission, not that Freda thought it had actually been necessary in the end. She had given a very good account of herself at the interview, which would have counted for a good deal. Four gentlemen, there had been, and my word they had asked some stiff questions, all about methods of care and the kind of work she had done at Briar House. One of them had asked her opinion of what was being called holistic medicine. It had been unfortunate that she had misheard the word, but they had had quite a laugh about it in the end.

  Freda was greatly looking forward to working at Thornacre alongside Leo Sterne. She had already begun to weave a whole new daydream, in which they were comrades by day and something a little more intimate by night. Well, why not? Her mind flew ahead and she saw herself and Dr Sterne side by side, discussing patients, happy and absorbed, working into the night, hardly aware of the time. Sometimes she would work with him on these occasions; at others she would go back to her own room where she would doze in a chair until he came, when she would serve a relaxing little supper.

  This was a very promising scenario indeed; Freda dwelled with glandular pleasure on it. She had bought a new dressing gown in pink quilted satin and had had her hair permed before leaving Briar House so that she would not need to wear rollers in bed. As she turned off the A1 she developed the theme to allow Leo to discover some marvellous new treatment which he would not have found without her own quiet support and encouragement and the late-night suppers.

  She found the turning to Thornacre without any difficulty, although the condition of the driveway was a scandal, all rutted and cracked, with weeds growing up everywhere. The rhododendron bushes and the dripping laurels shut out the light and made the place shockingly gloomy. Freda would see about having them all torn up and some nice neat lobelia beds and marigolds planted instead. Quite melancholy it was at the moment.

  The house was much bigger than she had expected, but it showed the same disgraceful signs of neglect. It was built of black stone or even granite, and there was a central portion, which had probably once been the main living area, with two jutting wings, both covered with ivy. They would have that removed as soon as possible; Freda could not be doing with ivy which everyone knew weakened brickwork and darkened rooms. And seen at closer quarters, everywhere was dirty and shabby. Freda felt momentarily quite depressed. But all that was needed was a good session of cleaning and plenty of elbow grease.

  Driving up to the house, Freda began to visualise the outfit she would wear to Buckingham Palace when Dr Sterne was given the long-deserved recognition for his services to his profession. She would have to find out whether an OBE was higher than an MBE. She would be at his side, of course; she rather thought there was an area specially set aside for relatives to watch the ceremony on these occasions. She would wear navy silk with white polka-dots and white gloves and a daring hat.

  She drove happily on up the drive.

  Chapter Twenty

  Leo Sterne alighted from Tottenham Court Road Tube station and walked down Charing Cross Road.

  It was that curious hour when Soho was just crossing over the line that separated its daylight identity from the dark and frequently sleazy face it wore at night.

  Leo found this part of London endlessly fascinating. She was a hypocritical old tart, Soho. By day she catered primly for ordinary business people and workers and shoppers, and twitched her lace curtains aside to admit them into the bistros and trattorias and restaurants for their blameless lunches. But when night fell, the lace
curtains were dragged back to display the red lights, and the short skirts came out and the high heels and black stockings. The tart painted her face and rummaged into her tatterdemalion ragbag of whips and chains and black leather, and, suitably accoutred, went padding off to peddle sex and vice.

  Crossing into Old Compton Street, Leo went deeper in, glancing into the window of one of the bars as he passed. Pulsating crimson light washed endlessly over the walls like a rippling river, and the pounding of hard rock music assaulted his senses. At the far end was a tiny stage with two marginal nudes, dancing. Their faces were blank and their eyes were glazed and bored, and a sudden image of the street markets and the flesh traders of ancient Rome flicked across his mind. The main difference was that the music was louder, and that now you could read the book and you could see the film of the book if you wanted to. You could even play the lead in the film. Films . . .

  He paused before a dimly-lit door, where a bluish light showed and where the legend ‘Original Videos’ was set over the entrance. Somebody had tried to smudge the first letters so that it would read ‘Vaginal Videos’, which was probably quite a good description of much of the merchandise. The sour smell of stale cigarettes and spilled beer gusted out, and the yeasty reek of raw sex. If anyone recognised him now they would probably think it unexpected of the eminent Dr Sterne to frequent such a place, but it was not very likely that anyone would see him. He did not much care anyway, but from force of habit he glanced up and down the street, and then took a deep breath and went in.