The Butcher's Daughter

by Jane E James

  ‘You hit her!’ I say at last.

  ‘Sometimes.’ My father becomes more interested in the floor than looking at me. ‘It’s often the only way to control her,’ he mutters.

  He is so matter of fact about this admission that I realise he too has lost his grip on reality. My mother’s fake death, her subsequent imprisonment and his sickening behaviour have become the norm. I want to throw my glass at him, hurt him badly, but I do not. I shake my head because I can hardly believe what I am hearing. How can any of this be real?

  ‘Is that another one of Frank’s laws?’ I finally mutter between gritted teeth. And then I turn on myself, because, oh my God, that thing is my mother. I can’t bear it. I can’t. I wanted so much to believe she was alive that I wished for it every day. Now that my dream has come true, I want only to undo it. As crazy as it sounds, I feel as if I have created a monster. Am I going mad, like her? A part of me, however ironic, can’t help thinking that this outcome would please everybody. My father and Doctor Moses most of all.

  ‘What did you do to her?’ I demand, the deep distrust of my father spilling over into my scathing tone. ‘Why is she locked away like an animal?’ Anger is better than fear, I feel, but when my father storms towards me, his face screwed up with rage, I doubt myself, because deep down I am still afraid. Having lived in fear of him all my life, I have never once been able to breathe in this house without feeling scared.

  Instead of pinning me to the wall like he did my mother, I am surprised when he reaches across the table and grabs hold of my hands, not gently but not forcibly either.

  ‘Natalie, I want you to promise me something.’

  It doesn’t matter that I try to squirm away. He is insistent on being heard.

  ‘Swear on your mother’s life you’ll do as I ask,’ he implores, refusing to let go, but I am unable to look at his grazed hands without thinking of how he used them on my mother.

  ‘What?’ I ask incredulously. Before I’ve even heard him out, I know I am not going to like what he has to say.

  His reply is slow in coming. ‘Tomorrow you’ll leave.’

  ‘Leave?’

  He is deadly serious, I can tell. Whatever I imagined my father might want from me— a promise to keep his terrible secret; to go on hiding the truth—it certainly wasn’t this.

  ‘You’ll disappear. Never come back. It’ll be as if you never came home.’

  From the look on his face, I can see that he believes this is possible and for a moment I wonder if insanity truly does run in our family. My mother’s disposition and mine have always been speculated on, with obvious reasons, but nobody has thought to question the paternal line before.

  Wrestling my hands away from him, I scrape back my chair and get to my feet. ‘How can I leave knowing Mother is down there? Locked up. All alone. I couldn’t live with myself.’

  I pace up and down the room like my mother must be doing, in her prison, while we discuss hers and mine futures. Agitatedly, I scratch at my arms, stopping only when I realise that my father is watching me, his cold blue eyes lingering too long on my scars. He doesn’t like to see me like this. Makes him nervous, he says. So he should be.

  ‘We’ll take her to Dr Moses,’ I say decisively, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world to do. ‘He’ll know what to do. He can make her better.’

  Without warning, my father throws the bottle of whiskey at the wall where it shatters. ‘Are you mad?’ he bellows.

  ‘Why not?’ I ask, torn between fear and curiosity.

  ‘Because she’s as good as dead if you do. Is that what you want?’

  Suddenly, I am a long way away. There is a ringing in my ears, like white noise, and I feel unsteady on my feet. I shake my head, to try to clear it, but there is a fogginess there that I cannot shift. Am I mad like my father is suggesting? Is there no hope for me or my mother? The tears start to fall as I think about my father’s words.

  ‘First Mother. Then me. Locked up. Driven insane.’ Rage stirs within me again. I will not allow my father to blame me for this. He must not be allowed to run riot inside my head.

  ‘You’re the one that’s mad.’ I spin around to confront him and almost lose my balance. ‘I’ll go to the police. I’ll tell them everything,’ I say, feeling victorious, even though I am slurring my words.

  ‘I can’t let you do that, Natalie.’

  My father’s voice sounds distant but he is just across the kitchen from me. The look of regret on his face is enough for two men, I can’t help thinking. Suddenly he has two heads. Everything has become distorted, little more than a blur. I cannot seem to focus on anything properly. Blaming the drink, I gaze stupidly into my glass as if the answer to my troubles can be found there. Feeling increasingly woozy, I vow never to touch a drop of alcohol again.

  Swaying from side to side, I reach out to grab hold of a kitchen chair but miss and almost take a tumble. If my father wasn’t there to catch me, I would have fallen flat on my face.

  ‘Don’t feel well,’ I admit, as he helps me into the chair.

  ‘You won’t. But it won’t last long.’

  He has moved out of my line of vision. I suspect him of playing cat and mouse with me, but the only thing that matters are the two glasses of whiskey on the table. Having made such a fuss over how a tipple of Scotland’s finest would settle both our nerves, his glass remains suspiciously full. Why didn’t I notice this before? Never having known my father nurture a glass so long, the penny drops too late.

  ‘Something in my drink.’

  Thornhaugh

  ‘So, you see, Natalie. Your father didn’t drug you. He’s concerned for you. We all are. As you know, he gave a very different account of what happened that night, but we’ll soon have you remembering things correctly.’

  I am sitting up in bed, ignoring the pile of pills in my hand and the silvery eyes of my protector, Dr Moses, who is trying to reassure me that all is as it should be. But for once, I see through and beyond him, my glance settling hypnotically on the familiar green lawns of Thornhaugh in the distance, where long-term patients like me parade up and down; some alone, some escorted by nurses. What am I doing back here? Have I been away at all?

  Eventually, I take the pills, like a good girl, and swallow them obediently enough, but not in one go as Dr Moses would like. To delay the inevitable dulling of my senses, I take my time; sipping dainty gulps of water in-between, even though I know this will put Dr Moses’ nerves on edge. As expected, he drums his fingers on the bedside table. He has never said so, but I suspect that I am a growing burden to him. I can only hope he never tires of me completely. I do not know where I would be without him.

  As if he knows what is on my mind, he reaches across to pat me in a fatherly way. Although his hands are as smooth and white as ever, I am immediately reminded of another pair of hands with bloody fingernails, but I cannot think who they belong to. My own are pink and healthy and my nails, though clipped short, are not broken or bloody.

  Suddenly, a woman’s voice, familiar but unrecognisable, appears out of nowhere.

  Whore! Whore!

  There is something deeply distressing about the crying that follows. It brings me close to tears, leaving me feeling restless and uneasy. At first, I question if it is one of the patients in a nearby room but I can tell from the unflinching way Dr Moses is looking at me that he does not hear the cries as I do, so I do not give myself away. If I confide in him, he will say that the voice is in my head, and I suppose he would be right. Dr Moses is always right.

  ‘And my mother?’ I ask without any enthusiasm. I have been asking the same question for so long, we are both tired of the repetition, yet it is a game we continue to play.

  ‘Died sixteen years ago. I have a copy of the death certificate here if you want to see it.’

  He flaps a piece of paper at me but I do not ask to see it. Feeling incredibly tired, I slip further down in the bed for extra warmth. No matter the weather, Thornhaugh, with its tall ceilings
and draughty hallways, is always cold. Am I doomed to spend my whole life in this sterile institution? Am I back here for good? If so, what am I meant to have done this time? More importantly, is my mother dead as they would have me believe, when earlier this morning, or was it yesterday or the day before, I felt certain she was alive?

  ‘You told me about the funeral yourself. Don’t you remember?’ Dr Moses’ silver-tongued voice is as smooth as ever. It wraps me in cotton wool. The way it always has.

  The rain lashes down on us, stinging our upturned faces, as if we have not yet suffered enough. I want it to stop. If the sun comes out, then everything will be a lie. Funerals don’t take place when the sun is shining. Everybody knows that. Yet here I am, staring at my mother’s coffin which is being carried by six men I do not know and I am clinging to my father’s leg, terrified of being shrugged off so he can shake someone else’s hand, while they whisper hateful condolences in his ear. They should be punished for the terrible lies they are saying about my mother, who isn’t dead, and who hasn’t abandoned me.

  But the cliff edge, situated a few measly feet away from Little Downey’s overcrowded cemetery, does not lie. It is a terrible reminder of the tragedy that has befallen us.

  I have been warned not to slouch, so I stand up straight, but nobody can stop me counting the long line of black cars parked on the rocky incline. To my mind, they look as if they’re the ones that have been abandoned and the cemetery gates, which hang off their hinges, have downturned mouths like my own. In the trees, crows try to hurry us along with their bossy caws and a boy with blond hair and blue eyes, like my father’s, throws stones at them. When the boy catches me frowning, he winks cheekily at me, as an older boy might.

  The ground is riddled with rabbit holes, which means the men carrying the coffin stumble often, drawing gasps from the mourners gathered around the open grave; my mother’s last resting place. As we watch her coffin, which doesn’t look anywhere near fancy enough for her, being lowered into the earth, I stare at the expressionless faces in the crowd. Some, like Andrew Muxlow, who is the closest thing to a friend my father has—I recognise. Swamped in a long black coat, he appears considerably sadder than anyone else and for that reason alone I smile at him, but he turns away from the black eyes that remind everyone of her.

  Others, like the obese woman and her blond-haired son, the one who hates crows, I have never met before. Forcing my fingers into my father’s rigid hand, we do not throw flowers as others do. Nor do we cry. Not once. Not then. Not afterwards. Frank’s Law.

  ‘There were sandwiches at the house afterwards. Everybody came,’ I murmur in something of a childlike trance, the tears spilling off my cheeks, as I recall the wake.

  ‘That’s right.’ Dr Moses nods his encouragement, as if this alone will prompt further memories to return.

  But then I remember that the villagers came only to snoop, to sip sherry and to whisper behind their hands, which angered my father; made him mad enough to sweep an entire table of sandwiches onto the floor. I do not mention this part to Dr Moses, as I do not think he will believe me. Suddenly, I experience a more painful flashback and I clutch at Dr Moses’ sleeve, not giving him a chance to pull away or call out for assistance.

  ‘And there is no mad woman in the cellar. The village isn’t out to get me,’ I plead.

  I can tell by the way Dr Moses is looking at me, kindly and patiently, that my eyes must be rolling around in my head again. The madness is never far away, he will be thinking. But then he proves me wrong, by laughing out loud. Actually laughing.

  ‘As I have never been to Little Downey,’ he jokes, ‘I cannot vouch for the majority. But look at all these gifts and cards. It seems to me that you have a good many friends there.’

  I glance over at the bunches of flowers, still in their cellophane, and the dozen or so Get Well cards on the windowsill, as if I have never seen them before. How long they have been there, or who brought them in, I have no idea, but I do not let on.

  ‘I do?’ I ask, feeling emotional.

  Dr Moses pats me a second time and I notice that his eyes are as watery as my own, which makes me sadder still. He has always been kind to me, yet I continue to hide so much from him. I can never hope to deserve him.

  ‘You’ve suffered a relapse, Natalie. But we’ll soon have you back on your feet again.’

  Back on my feet again. Soon have me back on my feet again, I think drowsily, not sure if it is night or day. There is a heaviness on my chest that is pressing down on me, which prevents me from getting out of bed. I am unsure of what drugs they gave me, but as I am so tired, I suspect I have been given a sleeping pill.

  Thornhaugh is a few miles from the coast, but I imagine I can hear the waves crashing against the rocks. I can even taste sea salt in the air. As I fall into a restless sleep, I dream about a line of black cars disappearing off the cliff edge into the water below and wonder which one of the crumbling gravestones in Little Downey’s cemetery belongs to my mother.

  Little Downey Cemetery

  Daniel

  In the darkened cemetery, Daniel and Jono work quickly, throwing up a wall of sea mist around them; stopping only to wipe sweat from their brows or to pull up their sleeves. Trampling on an assortment of crushed wreaths and flowers that have been carelessly tossed aside, they take it in turns to attack the ground with a shovel. Working silently and without any light, the sea glinting in the distance behind them is as glossy as spilt oil.

  Somewhere close by an owl hoots, making Jono flinch, but when the metal edge of Daniel’s blade scrapes on something hard, they stop what they are doing and stare at each other. This seems to act as a signal for Daniel to jump into the open grave, while Jono keeps watch, shiftily turning his head this way and that, on the lookout for God knows what. Meanwhile, Daniel flicks on a torch to illuminate the high walls of the grave. Crouching over an exposed wooden coffin, he looks up at Jono and winks.

  ‘What you waiting for? Chuck it down!’ Daniel calls out impatiently, shining the beam upwards, into Jono’s face.

  A crow bar is passed down and Daniel wastes no time prying open the coffin lid. It cries like a drowning kitten before finally splitting. Through a crack in the wood, a dead man’s face peers out in a creepy game of hide and seek. Not put off by this, Daniel levers the rest of the wood off with his hands to reveal more of the corpse—an elderly man with a sparse comb over, who wears a jacket much too big for him.

  ‘Good to see you again, Ted.’ Daniel shakes the dead man’s hand and laughs.

  Like a buffoon who knows he is being too loud, Jono clasps a hand over his mouth and sniggers through his fingers.

  ‘Shut up, idiot,’ Daniel warns.

  The sound of a rock crashing down to the sea below causes them to stop what they are doing and turn alarmed eyes on each other.

  ‘What was that? Did you hear that?’ Jono asks nervously, edging closer to the open grave. His face is as white as any dead man’s.

  ‘It’s a graveyard. It’s the middle of the night,’ Daniel hisses. ‘We wouldn’t be normal if we didn’t hear things.’

  An hour later, they have got what they came for. The flowers are back on the grave and the earth has been patted down neatly again, as if it had never been disturbed. The same can’t be said for Daniel, who can’t shake off the fear that somebody had been watching them the whole time. Jono is already in the pickup truck, fingernails drumming on the paintwork, impatiently waiting to get the hell out of there, but Daniel cannot leave without knowing.

  ‘Come on,’ Jono hisses, leaning out of the window.

  Ignoring the terror in his friend’s eyes, Daniel picks his way over the rocks in the dark, sending shards of smaller stones off the cliff edge, where they can be heard bouncing down on the sand below, like ghostly raindrops. He doesn’t have to look far. Sees it straight away. As if it had been left there deliberately for him to find—a chunky necklace made from chicken feet and canine teeth lays discarded in the rocky soil. He doesn�
�t know what a find like this means. He only knows it doesn’t belong here; that whoever left it behind had no right being here. He looks in the direction of the house by the sea, which stands tall and proud, like Frank Powers and his difficult daughter, and senses that trouble is afoot.

  Thornhaugh

  Natalie

  The residents’ lounge where long-term patients like me are sent in our Sunday best, to reassure loved ones that all is well in our world, is lavishly furnished, unlike our own rooms. Each comfy armchair is covered in a shade of tartan that goes well with the forest-green carpet. The heavy curtains are draped with fancy swags and pelmets, and an original fireplace, dating back to the sixteenth century provides a focal point for people to stare vacantly at. The tall windows, eight in all, look out onto the woodland that lurks at the back of the house, casting a permanent shadow over certain parts of the room, even at night. For some reason, the trees were planted too close together, giving it a claustrophobic air.

  As always, there are nurses on hand to dish out cups of tea. If you have ever had the unpleasant experience of visiting a mental institution or asylum, then you will know that there is an abundance of tea to be had. It solves everything, apparently. I know that we are not supposed to call them institutions nowadays, but that is exactly what Thornhaugh is. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Our privileges are thin on the ground, but in here at least, we can drink from real china and are even allowed to stir our tea with a metal spoon.

  I sit away from the others and do just that—stir my milky tea. As I watch the liquid circling around in the cup, I think about slipping the spoon into my pocket, it would feel good rasping against my skin, but I do not. One thing I have learned during my time here is that you are never truly alone at Thornhaugh. There are eyes and ears everywhere.