‘Dilys …!’
‘Get them out!’ I shout. ‘All I can hear is their voices.’ I am hitting my head now, pulling at my hair. ‘Divine Mother, free me from their control.’
‘There are more,’ Octavia shouts. ‘Help her. Hold her down.’
As they push me onto a chair, I struggle. Just enough. So I can be sure they feel the devil in me. And then I go still. I stare at a knot in the floorboards. Emily stands behind me. I am vacant. Docile. I am ready.
‘You must confess everything,’ Emily says. ‘Lay charges against the Devil. For he is the one that leads you to sin.’
‘I am under the control of demons!’ I say. ‘They are trying to send me mad. I have heard them calling my name over the garden wall and I have seen them waiting outside for me in the street. They take the form of ordinary men. But I know they are demons. They whisper to me about Adrian.’
I look straight up into Octavia’s eyes, for any sign that she knew, any hint that might give her away. But there is nothing.
‘They tell me that I am mad, that all this is madness.’
Octavia staggers back as if she is wounded. I try to stand up but Emily pushes down on my shoulders. I can feel her fingernails digging through the fabric of my dress.
‘Do you wish to be delivered?’ she says.
‘I do! I want to be free of them.’
Octavia lifts her hand above my head and says: ‘Then I condemn these failings as being no good, not of God. What else do you confess?’
‘Desires,’ I say. ‘Feelings of love. Feelings that were consummated. We lay together. I broke my vow to Jesus.’
‘Your vow of celibacy? Oh dear Lord, who is he?’
‘Grace.’
‘Grace?’
‘We made love.’ As I say it I am smiling at the memory; smiling as I snatch my secret out of Emily’s hands. She can’t use the truth against me now, she can’t expose me if I have nothing to hide.
For nothing is secret, that shall not be made manifest.
‘She lies,’ Emily shouts. ‘Grace would have told me. She confessed everything. I would have known …’
No, Emily, only Grace knows the truth. Only Grace knows what happened the night she took me back to bed; the day we were locked inside the Opening Room. She didn’t tell anyone what we did. Not even me. But I have dreams, and memories, and lines of scripture written on notes inside my Bible. And I know that she loved me, that is our truth. Whatever I may tell them now.
‘It was the Devil’s work,’ I say. ‘He seduced me. With ecstasy. With rapture.’ Octavia lurches forward, and I open my eyes. She has grabbed the knife from Emily and is pointing the tip towards my face. Her hand is shaking.
‘I touched her,’ I whisper, dropping my head and pushing my hands between my knees. ‘We lay together in Castleside. On the table where the bishops will gather.’
Octavia steps back suddenly and sits down on the bed. ‘My own daughter.’
Emily says: ‘That’s why Satan has tempted her. To hurt you. Stand up, Octavia. I’ll ask again. Dilys, do you wish to be delivered?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, Octavia, You must condemn her sin … Octavia!’
‘I do,’ she says softly. ‘I condemn it all. No good. Not of God.’ She is still sitting on the bed. She looks exhausted. Defeated.
‘But there’s something else I need to confess,’ I say.
Again Emily tells Octavia to stand up and this time she obeys, handing the knife back when she reaches the chair.
‘Murderous thoughts,’ I say, dropping my voice to a whisper. ‘I have thought about hurting Emily. Of pushing her down the stairs.’ Now I’m the one taking my time; I’m going to enjoy this. ‘The Devil told me I should creep into her room while she slept.’ I lift my hand in front of my face and study my fingers. ‘Take her neck and squeeze it. Or take a poker from the fire and cave in her head.’
‘Oh dear God,’ Octavia says. ‘He is trying to get you to do his work.’
‘He has made me hate her,’ I snarl, rolling each delicious word around my mouth before spitting it at her. ‘I despise her.’
Octavia brings her hand to her mouth and backs away. ‘She is possessed,’ she said. ‘She is lost. He has got her.’
‘Not yet,’ Emily says. ‘Do you wish to be delivered?’
I turn round to her and smile.
‘I do,’ I whisper.
Emily calls Octavia forward.
‘Then I condemn these failings as being no good,’ she says. ‘Not of God.’
Emily walks round to face me and rests her Bible on top of my head. ‘I command in the name of Jesus that this daughter be delivered from the control of evil spirits.’ The knife in her other hand is pressing into the skin of my neck.
My eyes roll back into my head. ‘I am free,’ I whisper. ‘I can feel them leaving my body.’ Then I look at her and say: ‘They can’t hurt me any more.’ And my body goes limp in the chair.
The Secret
I am delivered. Healed. Restored.
The fact the Devil chose to infect me with such abominable thoughts and deeds has elevated me in Octavia’s estimation. She thought I was beneath his notice. She didn’t think I had it in me.
‘The Lord forgives you,’ she said when it was all over, ‘and so do I.’ Then she put her arms around me. I think I was expected to hold onto her. Or cry. Or both. But it is too late for that: twenty years too late.
‘No one else need ever know what you have confessed,’ she said, and then she looked at Emily, who answered with a nod.
‘My poor daughter. To think of the torment you have suffered. If only we could cleanse your mind of the memories of all those unnatural acts … Well, you mustn’t think about it. About her.’ But of course she is all I want to think about. Grace and where she might be and how I will find her.
And, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.
Now the demons are gone I am calm. That’s what I told Octavia. That I feel lighter, that my mind is quiet, that I can feel God’s love once more. I said the whole experience had made me ravenous, which is just what she wanted to hear. And she put forward her theory that with all those spirits inside me, my stomach had been restricted. Apparently evil can suppress even your appetite.
*
Betty set out a light lunch in the dining room.
‘It is such a relief to be out of my bedroom,’ I said. ‘I feel like I have been freed.’
Emily advised caution, warning that the demons could have left some traces of mischief in me.
‘No, I have complete confidence in the power of the Divine Mother,’ I said. ‘I felt them leave, Emily. It was wonderful.’
Octavia is quite convinced there is no need to keep my bedroom door locked from now on. She can see that I am quite recovered: I ate two egg sandwiches and a small piece of lemon drizzle. But I can’t leave the garden, not yet. ‘Not while the Devil is still at large.’
Fortified with tea and cake, Octavia and Emily went to the chapel where they have a busy afternoon of exorcism planned. Every member has been given a time to present themselves, and make their confession, and after half an hour each one will emerge a different woman. After such a harrowing morning, Octavia insisted that I must get some rest. I agreed, of course, but I had no intention of going to sleep. From my bedroom window I watched them cross the lawn and disappear into the chapel, and when I was sure they were gone I went back along the landing to Emily’s door. To find the letters she has been hiding. The letters from Adrian.
I turned the handle softly but it would not move. I pushed my weight against it. I slammed my fists until the door shook in the frame. But she had locked it.
*
And that is why I have to do this now. That’s why I’m standing here, shivering in my nightdress. My hand is on the doorknob again. But this time Emily is behind the door. I can hear her sleeping.
It must be after midnight. Octavia was first to bed, just after the chapel clo
ck chimed nine. Then I heard nothing until Emily climbed the stairs and Peter his ladder to the attic. I sat on my chair and listened to Betty moving in the kitchen below my bedroom, tidying pans, washing teacups, then rattling the front door to check it was locked. She walked across the landing to Grace’s room; I suppose it is her room again now. And then I waited, I waited for everything to fall silent, but the restless house would not quieten: floorboards creaked to get comfortable, water murmured in the pipes, walls and windows settled into a fitful sleep.
If anyone finds me now I can still pretend I have got up to use the lavatory, but once I go into Emily’s room I will be out of bounds. If I’m discovered they will know I am up to something. The doorknob does its best to betray me with a click of its catch. I stop and wait to check I haven’t woken her. I can hear her heavy breaths, louder now the door is ajar. It is the first time I have stepped into this room since it became hers. When I was a child it was my parents’ room. Mother would allow us to come in so she could tell us all a story, then nanny would scoop us up and tuck us into our own beds. Emily looks like one of the hags from the fairytales we read, before Octavia decided that Hans Christian Andersen was ungodly and every night was Matthew, Mark, Luke or John.
Emily is lying on her back, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. In the lamplight she looks so small, you could almost imagine she was harmless, powerless.
And right now she is. I could do the things I told them I had been thinking of. I could wrap my fingers around her throat. I could take a pillow and smother her; hold it over her face while she twitched and twisted; press it down until she lay still. The taste of cotton would be the last she’d ever know.
Cotton. Grace’s nightdress.
But I mustn’t think of her. Not now.
I need to find Adrian’s letters.
Emily isn’t moving. The sight of her makes me think of something else, of Ellen lying still and stiff in her bed. For a moment I am breathing in her memory: the acetous scent of decaying flowers and stale silence. But I am not imagining things. I never was. It is Emily’s perfume I can smell. There’s a bottle of lavender water on her bedside table and beside it is the Jerusalem knife and a small bunch of keys, which I pick up and hold tightly to muffle the jingle of metal. One of them must fit her bureau.
The first is too big but the second unlocks the top drawer. There’s nothing inside it but writing pads and headed notepaper. I try the next drawer down. It sticks at first but I open it enough to slip my fingers inside, pushing down a pile of papers that are jammed behind the lip. There are newspaper cuttings: headlines about earthquakes and storms. And among them is a letter in Adrian’s handwriting. I fold it twice and hide it in the palm of my hand. And just then I hear Emily stir. She rolls over to face me. She stretches out but her eyes are still closed. There must be more letters but I don’t make a sound now.
‘Betty?’ she murmurs, rolling onto her other side. She is going to wake up; she is going to find me here. I stand and wait for her breathing to sink back into its steady pattern. And when she falls still, I slide the drawer back, gently, and make my way round to the door, returning the keys to the bedside table.
The Jerusalem knife is gone.
‘Dilys,’ she says. ‘What are you doing in here?’ Her eyes are shining in the darkness, her voice is on the edge of breaking. She is frightened. Of me. And for a moment I cannot help smiling. You don’t need to be frightened, Emily, I am only sleepwalking. I lift the lamp and she cries out, covering her face with her arm to protect herself. And I stand perfectly still, shining the light on a pair of invisible eyes on the wall. My voice is slow and flat.
‘Ellen,’ I say. ‘Is that you? Have you come back? Do you know where Grace is?’
Without looking at her I turn and walk out of the room. I want to run but I take each step slowly. Back into my bedroom. Back into my bed. And I take Adrian’s letter, which is screwed up in my fist, and I hide it under my pillow until I can be sure that she won’t follow me. Only then do I open it.
Edward Reeves Esq.,
Jessop and Son,
5c Harper Street,
Bedford
Dear Mrs Barltrop,
I have been instructed by my client, Mr Adrian Barltrop, to record his concerns about the health of his sister, Dilys, who he has come to understand is suffering with ‘nerve-problems’. He has written to you on this subject on a number of occasions but, having received no reply, has come to the conclusion that you are either choosing to ignore his letters or have been prevented from reading them by some third party.
He strongly suspects that you are being given false counsel by those closest to you and urges you to put the needs of your daughter ahead of the ‘religious mania’ which he feels has divided his family and taken over his family home. Furthermore, he has come to understand that a gentleman, Mr Peter Rasmussen, is living with you in 12 Albany Road. It is his belief that this is wholly improper and, in light of stories of immoral practices between you, asks you to put a stop to this arrangement with immediate effect.
A copy of this letter has been kept on file as proof that it was sent. Failure to reply will result in Mr Barltrop taking legal action against those who are obstructing his sister’s access to treatment.
Yours sincerely,
Edward Reeves Esq.
Deliverance
I am smiling. It is the thought of Emily’s face last night, the image of her cowering in bed. She who is the holder of secrets, the one who calls all others to make their confessions. Now I have the knowledge. I am the one who knows what she has been hiding. I have the truth she has locked away in the drawers of her bureau.
I am going to get away from here. From her. From all of this. It is not too late.
I sit at my desk and write to Adrian. I tell him that I’m going to get out. That I will find a way. Send help at 6.15 p.m. on Saturday, when they are all at chapel. Come and help me.
Further than seventy-seven steps away. Far enough that Octavia can’t follow.
I write all this, take a stamp from the box of letters in my wardrobe, and put the envelope in my pocket. If I can get to Castleside I will be able to sneak out and post it. So I will take breakfast downstairs with them this morning. I will prove that I am well and that they don’t need to worry. I will get dressed, and style my hair and present myself at the table. I will eat and smile and chat. I will ask them how they got on with Kate Firth’s casting out yesterday, and how many demons they chased out of her body. I will pretend that nothing happened last night. Emily won’t say anything. Not in front of Octavia.
But when I take my place at the breakfast table there is hardly a word spoken by anyone. It is toast this morning, so everyone is concentrating on eating quietly. I can tell Octavia is trying to ignore the scraping, the crunching, the swallowing; and by the time we have finished she is struggling to sit still. ‘I am going to my room,’ she says, flinching at the sound of Betty collecting up the plates.
‘Before you do,’ I say, ‘I can’t find my keys for Castleside. Do you have them? I plan to get back to work there today.’ I’m trying to sound as if it is an afterthought. Unimportant. Peter stirs his tea and knocks the edge of his saucer with the teaspoon as he lays it back down. Octavia jumps out of her chair.
‘You’ll have to talk to Emily about it,’ she says. ‘I really must get to my room.’ She is already halfway out of the door. Emily is waiting for me to ask her, but I won’t. There is silence between us, a silence uncomfortable enough to make Peter stand up, make his excuses and go.
‘I have your keys, Dilys,’ Emily says. ‘We thought it best that I keep hold of them while you were acting so … erratically. For your own safety. I’m not sure where I put them but the back door is unlocked anyway and you have no need to open the front now the work has finished. Unless you were planning to go somewhere.’
‘I need access to the Opening Room. There are a number of details I need to see to. Some pictures to hang.’
‘Everything
has been taken care of,’ says Emily. ‘Octavia asked me to take over while you were resting. Best that I keep hold of the keys.’
‘I’ll speak to Octavia about it,’ I say. ‘When she is feeling better.’
‘Yes, do. And so will I. I’m sure Octavia will ask the Divine Mother for guidance on the matter. It is obvious to me that you are still not well, Dilys.’ She pauses as if deciding whether to say more. ‘After last night …’
‘Last night?’
‘You were out of bed.’
‘I think you are mistaken, Emily. I slept very soundly. Perhaps it was you that was dreaming. Perhaps the burden of God’s expectation is getting too heavy for you to bear.’
*
She thinks she has won but Kate said there was another set of keys in the drawers of the desk in Castleside. She told me so the day she first showed me around. The back door is open and everything is just as I left it. I’m greeted by the smell of new paint that became so familiar in the weeks I spent here, when Grace used to bring my lunch and sit beside me. This is my place. I am the only one who knows about the scratched drawing in the cupboard, the dents on the doorframe and the damp that is creeping up behind the skirting board in the corner of the front bedroom. I know every imperfection and every scar. I know the frayed cord on the sash window where I used to sit and watch for Grace coming up the path, the loose doorknob I turned to rush out to the front door, the cracked tile in the hallway where I would stand and count to eight, then eight again, before I let her in. We’d sit in the kitchen on two dining-room chairs and talk about the others while we ate lunch. Sometimes I’d bring a stool and insist she put her feet up. She’d close her eyes and I’d roll up her sleeve and stroke her forearm until the tiny hairs on her skin rose up to meet my touch. If I close my eyes I can imagine her scent on my skin; if I bring my fingers to my lips I imagine I can almost taste her. She is written between the lines of my fingerprints, like the powder that’s left behind when you touch a butterfly’s wings.
The Rapture Page 27