by T M Creedy
THE CROWLANDS
BY T M CREEDY
Dedicated to my families on both sides of the world,
and to my husband who wanders between them.
Prologue
Crowlands House, Victoria, Australia
1902
The boy squinted through the glare of the sun at the imposing mansion in front of him. Despite the heat of the afternoon he couldn’t help but shiver as rows and rows of windows stared blankly back at him. There was an unearthly stillness about the place; nothing moved. There was no sound apart from the grating shrieks of the crows high up in the branches of the magnificent gum tree which sat like a sentry in front of the wrought iron gates.
The carter busied himself undoing the straps around the boy’s small cardboard suitcase, eager to be away from this place and on his way. There was something dreadfully wrong here. His horses sensed it too as they were restless and tense in their harnesses, rolling their eyes and straining against the leather straps as if they were keen to be away from here as fast as possible.
The front door of the house opened and a tall man, dressed in a formal dark suit with a gold watch chain across his waist, stepped out onto the veranda and stood, hands behind his back, watching. Behind him a lady dressed all in white, with a folded white cap covering her hair, bustled down the front steps and stopped in front of the boy, bending down to peer closely at his face.
‘You must be Gregory.’ She smiled at the boy, taking in his dirty, crumpled appearance and wrinkling her nose at the sour smell of old ammonia coming from his soiled shorts.
‘Boy’s here on time missus.’ The carter threw the suitcase none too gently onto the dry ground at her feet. ‘I’ll be off now then.’ He tipped his hat politely, in deference to her status as a nurse, and swung himself back up onto the wooden boards, clicking his tongue softly at the horses. The cart rumbled away in a cloud of choking yellow dust, getting smaller and smaller until it was no more than a speck in the distance.
The tall man strode slowly down the steps, watching, watching Gregory all the time.
‘Classic distinguishing characteristics.’ He intoned, almost to himself. ‘Take note of the snub nose, the slanted eyes, and the tongue, too big for the child’s mouth causing the tongue to stick out.’ He reached out and grabbed Gregory’s face between his thumb and his index finger firmly, twisting his head from side to side roughly. ‘Flattened skull, short of stature.’ The man continued making his mental notes oblivious to the pain he was causing the small boy.
Finally, the tall man wiped his hands distastefully on his trousers and called to the nurse.
‘Get him inside. He will need bathing with lye soap to get rid of any parasites. Then deliver him to my surgery directly.’
‘But, Doctor, the poor lamb must be hungry and thirsty after his long journey.’ The nurse’s soft lilting voice was gentle as she picked up Gregory’s suitcase with one hand and made to take the boy’s hand with her other. ‘No doubt he’ll be wanting a bath and clean clothes too, but first a rest and some sustenance, I think.’
Gregory was very thirsty. He had been passed from pillar to post this morning, travelling first on the steam train, then by public coach and finally by horse and cart to this isolated house, far from any town and with no other buildings in any direction as far as he could see. No one had asked him if he wanted a drink, or given him any food. They just looked at the front of his shirt where he had drooled down the neckline and looked away quickly, but not so quickly that Gregory hadn’t seen the disgust on their faces. Making a conscious effort to keep his too-large tongue in his mouth, he nodded at the nice lady and said ‘Drink, please?’ in his best voice.
The tall man turned irritably towards the nurse.
‘Nonsense. He’s a drooling idiot. Just look at him. I doubt he even knows where he is. He can have something later with the rest of the children but for now I want to begin my examinations immediately. He is a prime subject to assist with my studies and you will deliver him to my surgery as I ask. Is that clear, Nurse McKay?’ His voice had the clipped tones of the upper classes, and it was obvious he expected his orders to be obeyed without question.
‘Yes, Doctor.’ The nurse lowered her eyes meekly and nodded. ‘I will have Dolly prepare a bath this instance.’
The tall man turned on his heel and walked back into the house, dismissing them both. Gregory looked up at the kind nurse but she no longer smiled or looked him in the eye.
‘Come along Gregory.’ She pulled at his hand and led him up the wooden steps to the verandah, turning right and walking briskly around the side of the house to another, less grand entrance. Gregory didn’t want to go inside, into that dark chilly void that seemed so threatening. He wanted to be back at home, with Mam and Dad, helping around the farm. It was his job to look after the chickens and collect their eggs – who would do that for Mam now? He wondered. His Mam had cried a lot this morning when Father Thomas had come to collect Gregory to put him on the train bound for Melbourne. His Dad wouldn’t look at him, just kept his eyes firmly on the sheep in the far paddock, but his lips were quivering and he kept swallowing like he had a lump in his throat that wouldn’t go away. Gregory didn’t know why he was here, at this big frightening house which smelled bitter, like medicine and fear, but he thought he might have to be here for a little while as Mam had packed his case with all of his clothes and Billy Bunny, his best toy.
He looked around as his eyes slowly adjusted from the glare of the sun outside and settled into the gloomy dimness of the hallway. Painted a dull, institutional green, the interior of the house was at odds with its rather lavish exterior. The nurse lady kept pulling on Gregory’s hand, up the stairs which led to a long corridor with many doors on either side, all firmly shut. The further Gregory was drawn inside the house, the more fear he felt, and his legs suddenly refused to cooperate. He let loose a long drawn out scream of panic and pain as the nurse dug her long fingers into his upper arm and dragged him along the hall, his feet sliding uselessly along the polished linoleum floor behind him.
‘Now, laddie, there’s to be none of that here.’ The nurse told him, still gentle but it was a voice of steel wrapped in silk. ‘This is a nice place. There are many other children here so you’ll make lots of friends. We go on picnics and have parties on the lawn outside. You’ll go to school here and learn to be useful - you’ll have a trade so you can work when you’re older. There’s good food, plenty of cakes and biscuits for afternoon tea, and nice clothes, fresh every day…’ Her voice tapered off to a strangled choke and Gregory looked up to see tears running in floods down her face. All she had told him had been a lie, he was sure of it, but why would she make up stories about this being a nice place? If it really was such a good place wouldn’t she be happy, smiling and laughing while telling him about all the wonderful things that happened here? Gregory felt fear like he had never known before, and to his shame, he felt the front of his shorts grow wet again, just like they had earlier when no one had bothered to ask him if he needed to go to the toilet.
There was nothing but misery here, in this mansion. He could feel it seeping out from every crevice, flooding from every crack in the floor, every gap in the window frames. Nothing but misery, fear, and pain. Unimaginable pain. This was a very bad place indeed.
CHAPTER ONE
Peckham, London
Present Day
No Win, Try Again.
'Come on, you prick!' I slam my palm onto the screen in front of me.
No Win, Try Again.
'Come on. COME ON!' I mutter under my breath, smacking the Spin button again. And again and again and again.
No Credit Remaining.
Blowing out a deep breath of anger and frustration I fumble at the magnetic clasp
on my handbag. Digging in deep I draw out the battered faux leather purse my gran sent me for my birthday last year and rifle through each of the compartments. Nothing. Nothing but bank receipt slips from all the withdrawals I made at the cashpoint today. In desperation I unzip the coin pocket and count out a pound in small silver change, clinking each coin into the slot on top of the machine. One last chance at that five-hundred-pound jackpot.
No Win. Try Again.
I can't try again, you fucker, I've no money left.
Stomping to the glass panelled door I throw it open in anger, savouring the loud crash as it hits the wall. No one looks over, the Ladbrokes staff don’t even look up from their counters; they've seen and heard it all a thousand times before. There's a reason why their doors are made of toughened, shatter-proof glass.
Outside on the cold street the wind whipped through my too thin fleece. I had thought it a bargain when I found it on the one-pound sale rail at my local hospice shop, not realising until much later that it was made from the cheap inferior type of material that lets the slightest breeze through and keeps the chill in. Shivering, I huddle into myself and tuck my gloveless hands into my armpits, walking quicker so I will warm up, and get home sooner. The grey November afternoon is bleeding into darkness, the glow from the streetlights and the brightly lit shopfronts whisper false promises of warmth and cheer. I kick through the piles of city debris that litter the street; dead, dry leaves and fast food wrappers, and try not to think about how much money I have lost today. I only got paid two days ago from my job as a sales assistant in a cut-price clothing store and my mind swiftly calculated that, if I included what I had spent last night online, I have already wasted the best part of four hundred pounds, dumping me firmly back in the murky world of my overdraft already. And I haven't even paid the rent yet.
'You stupid, stupid bitch.' I chide myself, over and over again. I must have lost a hundred pounds today chasing that pathetic jackpot and I know from past experience that, even if I did get a lucky win, I would stand at that slot machine for hours, hitting the bet button over and over until it was all lost anyway. I never learn.
I totally blame my Gran for my gambling problem.
One night when I was about six, and Mum and Dad had been drinking and fighting again, Gran was called to look after me by the police who came into our house to take Dad down to the lock-up while an ambulance took Mum to A&E. It was Gran's bingo night, and she wasn't going to miss her twice weekly bingo for anything, not when there was a national linked game that night promising one lucky winner a prize in excess of ten grand. So Gran took me along to the bingo, sitting me on the green vinyl chair next to her and keeping me quiet with a bottle of Fanta and a bag of Walkers Salt'n'Vinegar. She let me play with her special dabber pens on old scrap tickets while the caller shouted 'Eyes down for a full house.' and Gran concentrated on marking off the numbers on her six tickets at lightning speed.
I was mesmerised by it all. The tumbling balls in the bingo machine, the funny names for the numbers - especially two fat ladies, that one made me laugh every time - the twinkling lights on the slot machines that lined the walls. I could feel the heavy hush of delicious anticipation as the players waited like tightly coiled springs for that one last number they needed. Then the victorious cry of 'BINGO!' and a collective groan from those who hadn't won. By the time the halfway tea break had finished and the winning raffle numbers announced I was begging Gran to let me have one of her tickets, just one, to play in the next game. She gave in eventually, letting me choose my favourite purple dabber and keeping a beady eye on me, in case I missed any of the numbers and lost her the chance of a win.
I remember the concentration, the complete focus, on that one ticket with its fifteen numbers. I was good at counting anyway, even at that young age, so numbers up to ninety posed no problem for me. I remember how I dabbed the numbers with purple dots, the ink bleeding into the cheap newsprint paper of the ticket, dabbing and dabbing and waiting and waiting for the next number to be called, only someone else always got to cry 'BINGO' before all my numbers were purple.
That was it. I was totally hooked from that night. I accompanied Gran to bingo every week after that and she bought me my very own set of dabber pens to use. Of course, it was Gran's tickets I always played with as I wasn't allowed to buy my own until I was eighteen but Gran always gave me a few pounds if she had a little win. She was very fair like that. We always sat at the same table, with the same people, and I suppose I was something of a mascot. A lucky charm. I was always welcome at the Bingo hall with its crisps and bottles of fizzy pop that kept me awake long into the night.
I've never lost my love of bingo and when I got old enough I would be there next to Gran, with my own books of tickets bought from my meagre wages, purple dabber poised. Always purple. It was my lucky colour. When online bingo sites started appearing on the internet I signed up to them all in a frenzy. What could be better than having a nice few games of bingo in the comfort of your own lounge, with a bottle of wine as your companion, and the lure of huge jackpots just waiting to be won? After the bingo sites, there were the online slots and casino sites. New ones popping up every day with more and more games, and prizes reaching into the millions, all yours at the click of a mouse. It was so easy. Just enter your bank card details and click, click away. Run out of money? Just click here to fast deposit more. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
By the time I admitted to myself that I was losing money hand over fist it was too late. I was a member of at least a hundred gambling sites. In moments of miserable realisation, I would shut down the accounts, begging for permanent self-exclusion, only to sign up at a new rival site almost immediately. I tried, I really did try. I would cancel my bank card claiming I had lost it so I couldn't use it online anymore. I would swear on my Grans' life I wouldn't ever, ever use my new debit card for gambling when it arrived. I did OK for a while, I ran out of sites to belong to - and self-exclude from - so I couldn't gamble, no matter how hard I looked for a new casino to join, even if it was registered in a completely dodgy country.
But then the high street bookies started getting in their slot machines, and actual bricks-and-mortar real life casinos were springing up all over the city. They were all front, trying to look like they were imported in directly from the sun soaked streets of Monte Carlo or Las Vegas, but behind the smoked glass doors and tuxedoed bouncers, they were all the same. Dark and seedy, smelling of old beer and cigarettes, offering cheap vinegar masquerading as wine in small half glasses for a pound. I joined as many clubs as I could, only to be blacklisted when my credit went bad, and there wasn't a casino left in this city that would let me in now. The bookies were another matter though, there were hundreds and hundreds of them scattered all over the place, on every corner of every street. The maximum amount one could win on their machines was only five hundred pounds, but what if I was having a lucky day and won two jackpots? That would be a thousand pounds I could put away in a safe account and not touch. Yeah, right. I'd been telling myself that for years. If I could win a thousand pounds a month I would have twelve thousand pounds at the end of this year. Which brings me back full circle to the here and now, on this cold London street, overdrawn already and no savings in any account anywhere.
Passing the small Tesco's, I put my hand in my handbag for my purse, needing something warm and cheap for tea. Heart sinking, I remember that I had just put my last pound into the slot machines. I can't afford to buy something to eat, not even in the Reduced to Clear section. If I was lucky I might have enough in small change to buy the cheapest tin of beans, the ones which taste of nothing but sugar and synthetic tomatoes. There is no bread at home to make toast to go with them. There is nothing but a couple of out-of-date packet soups in the cupboard, and nothing at all in the fridge. I don't like to think again of how much money I have lost today, but I know it would be enough to fill the cupboards and fridge to overflowing with all kinds of good food and treats.
To the oth
er shoppers, I suppose I probably look normal, just a slight, scruffy figure with messy blonde hair which badly needs cutting, standing and staring at the tins on the shelves. I don't suppose any of them can hear me screaming with utter self -loathing on the inside.
I know what you're thinking. Why don't I just stop? Why don't I get some of that blocking software for my laptop, the kind that doesn't allow you to access any gambling or porn? Why don't I leave my bank card safely at home, so I'm not tempted to take all my cash out and shove it note by note into the greedy, flashing, robbing bastard slot machines? Why don't I grow up and transfer some money from my wages each payday into an account that doesn't have a bank card attached to it?
Don't you think I've tried all that? Don't you think I get so sick of being a gambling addict, of never having any money, of stressing over how I'm going to pay my rent, my electric bill? I tried downloading the blocking software once but a few weeks later, my skin itching and crawling with the need to watch those spinning reels, I found a website which showed me how to disable the program drivers and override the whole system. I tried leaving my card at home, only to run back in my lunch break to grab it, justifying it to myself by inventing other reasons I needed money. I wanted some shopping, or I had to check my bank balance, then I would get twenty quid out, swearing all the while that I would just put ten of it in the machines. Just ten. Only it never was just ten, and I would be back at the cash machine again and again until I maxed out my card's daily limit. I tried opening another account, with no bank card attached, and stashing a couple of hundred quid in it every month, but it was just too easy to go into my internet banking and transfer it to my current account. I've stopped even trying to come up with excuses now. The sad fact is, if I have any money, any money at all, I will gamble it away.
So there you have it. I'm officially a loser. Twenty-three years old with no friends, no contact with my family and one hell of a gambling addiction. I'll never beat it so I might as well go with it, my ship will come in one day and I'll win enough to live on for the rest of my life. In the meantime, I will continue to lurch from payday to payday, skint again after just a couple of days, going without food, without nice clothes, just to feed the relentless, ravenous need to beat the system and win big.