The Shape of Darkness

by Laura Purcell

  Myrtle has her back turned, but she seems to sense Pearl emerge from Father’s room.

  ‘Hope you’re in top form,’ she calls. ‘Mr Stadler’s going to write this one up as a piece. Who knows? We might be seeing our names in Missives from Summerland one of these days.’

  Pearl can picture the leering, eager faces of the spirit-seekers. She wishes Myrtle would care less for the dead, and more about the man on his last legs in the very next room.

  ‘Father’s pretty bad,’ she says.

  ‘So? He’s not got to do the séance.’

  Desperation seizes her. Someone needs to sit with Father, to nurse him. Anyone with a heart can see that. She knows she can’t make Myrtle cancel the séance. But maybe if she appeals to her sister’s vanity, she can get something for Father.

  ‘Won’t you mesmerise him again?’ she pleads. ‘It’d help me concentrate, to know you’d looked after him. He’s been so much worse since you stopped the treatment, I’ve really noticed it.’

  Myrtle shakes her head. ‘He fights against me.’

  ‘He won’t. I promise. He’s too weak now, and you’re so strong …’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I’m busy today. Someone’s got to fix that front door, ain’t they?’

  ‘Please! This will just take a few minutes. I’d be so grateful. You’re the best mesmerist there is. Only you can make him well again, Myrtle.’

  ‘Is that so? I thought you knew better than me, these days.’ She folds her rag over to find a clean bit. ‘Why don’t you ask your new friend Miss Darken to help you?’

  So it’s like that: she’s still not forgiven.

  Flaming with sorrow and outrage, she stomps into the kitchen. On the table is a jar of jam and an empty box of matches. There’s no water to cool her forehead – they used it all yesterday cleaning Father’s jaw. She can’t quench her thirst either, because Myrtle hasn’t fetched any ale from the Northgate Brewery. She’s sure that’s deliberate. Myrtle wants Pearl to suffer, and Father too. She still thinks they killed Mother on purpose.

  Pearl tries to steady her breathing but fails. She can’t take any more of this: closed doors everywhere she turns. If one more person tells her no, she will scream.

  Father will get better. He must.

  Myrtle and the doctor think they’re so clever, with all their learning, but it’s Pearl everyone comes crying to, wanting answers. Pearl’s the one with the power and she needs to use it. If she can talk for people who are dead, she can surely cure the ‘fuzzy jaw’?

  Her eyes range the surfaces, fall upon the biggest, sharpest kitchen knife.

  And she knows what she has to do.

  CHAPTER 30

  Something has happened.

  Agnes felt it the minute the crystal ball cracked. She does not know if Pearl has unleashed some dark entity in her distress, or whether this is the presence she has sensed building for so long: the one that follows her through the streets, teasing closer and closer at every séance.

  But it is here now.

  She sits in her studio, hugging the book of duplicates to her chest. The abbey bells throb, strong as a pulse, through the magpies’ chitter and cackle.

  One by one, the framed silhouettes drop from the wall to crash beside her feet. Bronzed work, painting on wax, hollow-cuts. No visible hand touches them. For years they have hung there, undisturbed, but now they smash onto the floor and hatch as the profiles break free of their glass.

  There is a slow malevolence to the destruction; first one frame, then the next, each dislodged without a hurry. Whatever it is, it is working its way towards the centre of the room.

  A trio of Etruscan silhouettes painted in vermillion hang directly in front of her chair. The frame to the left of them goes down, then the one to the right. Thud, crack, thud, crack, until only the three profiles remain: a man wearing a peruke and two ladies with feathers in their hats.

  Agnes stares at them, her agitated brain trying to find meaning. There is no obvious connection between them other than their orange-red colour. She cranes back in her chair as the oval frames start to tremble, but they do not fall. Instead, the one of a man in the centre seems to … melt.

  Livid drops trickle down the wall, slowly at first, and then they are streaking, gory, splattering onto her desk with the iron scent of blood.

  Her work is being exsanguinated.

  She surges to her feet, head rushing, and hurries from the room.

  Dusk is blooming outside but still the abbey bells toll, on and on, relentless. The shadows of the bannisters waver across the landing like the bars of a cage. A female shadow flits behind; it does not look like her own.

  She blunders down the staircase, still clutching the heavy duplicate book in her arms. The profiles hanging on the wall seem to turn and watch her as she goes.

  Mamma sits in the darkened parlour with only the fire for company. There are shadows, more shadows, massing around her hunched, shawl-covered frame. Agnes cries out and drops her book onto the wing chair. Picking up the pail of sand that stands beside the poker set, she uses it to douse the flames. The orange tongues hiss, crackle and die, until all that remains is a charred pile of sand and the grey smoke.

  ‘Whatever did you do that for?’ Mamma protests. ‘It’s cold in here.’

  Agnes pants and places the empty bucket down. This must be why Pearl keeps it dark – shadows cannot haunt you in the dark.

  ‘I told you, Mamma. No fires.’

  ‘No fires, no papers, no Cedric,’ Mamma grumbles, shuffling her swollen feet. ‘Very high and mighty with your orders, miss. Who died and left you in charge?’

  ‘Papa did!’ she shouts, wheeling round to face her mother. ‘Papa entreated me to take care of you all and I have …’ She softens, ashamed of her outburst. ‘I have tried. But I have failed. I was not strong enough.’

  Mamma looks ancient in the dark; sadder, without the rosy-red hue of her cheeks. She scrunches her wrinkled hands together and glances down at them, contrite.

  ‘Was I a bad mother to you, Agnes?’

  This winds her. ‘Bad?’ She sits down on the sofa beside Mamma and touches her shoulder. ‘Why would you think so?’

  ‘Well. I can’t help but question it, considering. I never found you a husband. And Constance …’

  Yes, Constance.

  What can Agnes say? This is her mother, she loves her. The last thing she would wish to do is hurt her. Yet what Mamma says is true. Papa never thought of extracting deathbed promises from his wife – he knew instinctively that she would not cope. And perhaps Constance would have turned out differently if their mother had not treated her with such open resentment and hostility. It was hardly Constance’s fault that she was not born a boy, or that her infant sickness discouraged the usual bond. If Mamma had paid attention, if she had educated the girls herself, maybe Constance would not have developed her obsession with Agnes at all.

  ‘I think,’ she says slowly, ‘that many mothers would have struggled with a daughter like Constance.’

  Something creaks upstairs. Agnes stiffens. The presence must still be there, amongst the broken picture frames. It could not be …

  It is not Constance herself?

  She tries to stifle the panic that wails inside her chest.

  A ghost, even Constance’s ghost, cannot actually hurt her, can it? None of the spirits she has witnessed at séances were physically threatening. Yet Pearl was afraid of them … The girl feared to let them use her mouth. To her the spirits were predators, wanting to invade and take control.

  Well, Agnes is not a spirit medium. She can only be haunted, not possessed. And thank heavens for that! If it really were Constance … She would leap at the chance to control Agnes. Was that not what she always tried to do in life?

  Agnes shakes the bitter thoughts away. ‘Constance was a woman,’ she reminds herself. ‘Not a monster. She was a troubled woman …’

  Mamma sighs. ‘That she was. But it was not you who failed her, dear. I always wa
nted to tell you that. The fault was mine. I could never warm to her, like I did to you. Those ways she had! When she used to visit the butcher and just stand there, watching him work. How she would bring a dead cat home if she found it in the street. I took a … fear of her. Like she was something sent from above to punish me.’

  ‘You made up for it with Constance’s son,’ Agnes consoles her mother. ‘No one could accuse you of being an unaffectionate grandmother.’

  ‘Hmph. Much good my love did Cedric.’ The grey head shakes. ‘She was jealous of him too, wasn’t she? Jealous that we all adored him. And your father …’ Agnes goes to speak, but Mamma talks over her. ‘The truth is, Agnes, I should have risen to the occasion. It should have been me, not you, reining her in and earning money for this family.’

  ‘You were grieving. And your heart …’

  Mamma unclenches her hands and takes one of Agnes’s. She experiences a twinge of guilt for dousing the fire; Mamma does feel very cold.

  ‘You were always my good girl. You tried. No one can ask more of you than that. Just … please don’t hold it against me. I already blame myself more than you can know.’

  She squeezes her mother’s hand and says the only thing a daughter can. ‘It was not your fault, Mamma. None of it was your fault.’

  There’s a thump in the hallway. Agnes jumps.

  ‘Something through the letterbox,’ Mamma says.

  She is right: it was a soft sound, dulled by a mat; not the harsh crash of the frames upstairs. But it is late for post. Unbidden, that slanted writing comes to mind: Constance’s hand.

  A coincidence, Simon said.

  Cautiously, Agnes rises and goes out to the hallway. An envelope lies in the centre of the doormat. She picks it up and takes it to the kitchen where she keeps her matches. Already she can feel that the envelope is of a good quality and not one of the scraps she so feared to find.

  She breaks the wafer and unfolds the paper before striking her match. It hisses. A small bubble of light appears.

  The writing it illuminates is Simon’s:

  Miss Darken,

  I was sorry to leave you in distress following our visit to Walcot Street. It is my sincere hope that you have recovered from the disappointment of your unfortunate young friend.

  My chief consideration remains your own health, and how it might best be improved. I cannot express half of what I would say upon paper, but I wish for your mind to be at rest as soon as possible. Therefore, I will convey only this: I know where Cedric is. Do not, I entreat you, run to the police upon receiving my communication: the cause of the boy’s disappearance is of no concern to them. He was in fact embroiled in an accident, and I cannot bring you to his current location without peril to your health. However, rest assured that I have visited him, he is in a safe position and we are in no danger of losing him.

  I will call upon you with further particulars very shortly and, if God is willing, take you to him when the risk of serious illness has diminished.

  I am aware that inactivity at this moment will cause you pain, but I must crave your indulgence and ask you to trust me, as you have been so good as to trust me in many other instances. Believe me, madam, I am at all times anxious to prove myself your most humble and faithful servant,

  Simon Carfax

  ‘Thank God!’ Her breath blows out the match.

  Cedric is found. Found!

  She clasps the letter against her heart. The poor boy must be in a hospital, where Simon will not let her tread for fear of infectious disease. She has half a mind to ignore him and make enquiries at Bellot’s, the General and the United immediately. Cedric should not be there amongst the paupers, but treated at home by his family.

  Did she not tell him that hoop and stick would lead him into an accident? To take more care, to look where he was going? Heaven only knows how he managed to sneak out and play when she had locked the house up tight … But it does not signify. Nothing matters, so long as he is safe now. Whatever the injury, she and Simon can nurse him back to health between them. Everything will be different. After such a scare, Simon will no doubt realise how precious Cedric truly is. The rift will be repaired, and together they can watch him grow. It was wrong of her to despair. There will be a future for her, after all.

  She must tell Mamma. Prepare her somehow for the prospect of an invalid boy returning home, without frightening the life out of her. She will soften the news. Tell her he has been taken a little unwell.

  ‘Mamma!’ she calls, running out into the passageway. ‘I have a letter from Simon.’

  It is likely that Mamma has nodded off in the brief space of time she has been left alone, but as Agnes pushes the parlour door open, expecting to find her mother dozing, she is struck dumb by what she sees.

  The fire is lit again. Not just sparking but blazing, as if it were made up and stirred by a careful hand. The shadows wheel, revelling in their freedom.

  She wants to ask Mamma how she accomplished this so quickly; how she bent her arthritic body to relay the kindling and where she got the matches from.

  She would ask her.

  But Mamma is nowhere to be seen.

  CHAPTER 31

  There’s more blood than Pearl reckoned on.

  Some of it’s red, some of it’s black, there’s even a little purple. All of it smells like copper coins.

  Shuddering, Pearl steps back from the bed and wipes the tears from her eyes. Now she’s got a new pair of spectacles, but these aren’t green: everything she sees is streaked with red.

  The pillow blooms deep claret. The stain keeps on growing, she can’t stop it. All she’s managed to slice off is a hunk of corrupted flesh.

  She couldn’t help him. There was too much badness for her to cut out.

  The knife slips from her palm to the floor.

  What has she done?

  What has she done?

  The magic drops kept him asleep, but he’s not sleeping now. She knows it, yet she doesn’t; the shock still has her in its grip. When he doesn’t respond to her whispers and her shaking of his arm, she closes her eyes and tries to hear him inside her head.

  Dead or alive, it doesn’t matter, so long as she can reach him.

  But she can’t.

  There’s nothing.

  She stares down at her trembling hands. Blood has soaked into the skin. Frantically, she rubs it off on her skirts, but it leaves a pinkish hue. Finally her white hands have a pigment.

  ‘Help,’ she whispers. ‘Help.’

  Who is she talking to?

  She can’t hide this. It’s not something you can bundle in the wardrobe to make it go away. There’s the knife, and the body, and the pillow, and the blood – so much blood.

  Now it’s on her clothes, as well as smeared onto her skin. She must look like she’s walked through hell.

  Myrtle’s still cleaning in the parlour. She hums ‘The Ratcatcher’s Daughter’.

  What’s her sister going to say? What will she do? Will she send for the police? Myrtle was angry enough before, about the crystal ball and the broken door, but this …

  Something pops inside Pearl’s head. She sees the fishbowl of flowers exploding all over again and she’s filled with a feeling more desperate than any she’s ever known before: she has to get out.

  She has to get out of here, now.

  She gropes for the doorknob, leaving a gory hand-print.

  Myrtle keeps humming, brushing up the tea leaves, oblivious to everything but her own plans.

  Pearl doesn’t linger. Somehow her feet carry her straight into her own chamber. She doesn’t even stop to turn her head and check that Myrtle hasn’t spotted her.

  Mechanically, she goes through the actions she’s dreamed of a thousand times: she opens the wardrobe, pulls out the carpet bag and starts to change.

  Trousers, shirt, cap. Her bloody dress and petticoats pool on the floor. It looks like the girl who inhabited their folds has melted away.

  She takes one last look at t
he map. Then she creeps behind the curtains and opens the window.

  Soft, cool air sweeps in. Her yearning for it fights against the reluctance of a long-caged thing. Does she really dare to leave her home? There will be no turning back.

  Myrtle continues her tune in the parlour.

  Pearl would pray for courage, but the last time she was courageous, she ended up with a knife in her hand.

  There’s no point in hesitation, no real choice. All she can do is escape.

  It’s easy to climb, wearing trousers. She clears the window ledge without difficulty. Only the harsh blast of daylight affects her, but it’s not as bad as she thought it would be; maybe the shock’s softened that too.

  Her feet touch the ground, she straightens up and for the first time in her life, she stands on the pavement outside her house.

  What she sees rocks her back on her heels.

  There’s so much of it. More than she could ever glimpse from her station by the door. An omnibus clatters past; she feels the air whoosh with it, and through the window there are people, lots of people, squashed together and gaping out at her.

  Light flashes off glass. She winces. It’s mid-afternoon; the spiteful winter sun will soon go down and it’s already throwing out shadows. Pearl spies her own: monstrous, stretched like a giant. She turns quickly and walks away.

  She doesn’t know what to do, where to look. How much space should she take up on the pavement? She tries to make herself smaller, but it’s not small enough. Men pushing barrows elbow her in the ribs and she can scarcely move her feet without stepping on a lady’s hem.

  When she walked outside in her dreams, it was beautiful. The reality’s quite different. It’s scary.

  Father, Father. She hears his name, sees his mutilated face with every step. Grief makes her too weak to struggle against the tide of people. She gives up, lets the crowd carry her along.

  There’s a turn she needs to make, somewhere up ahead. She has no concept of distance; some of the buildings look a bit like Agnes’s drawing, but they’re so much larger, so stern.