Wildthorn Read online

  What if the dose was too small?

  Hours seem to pass, but perhaps it's my agitated state that makes it seem so long. I think of Beatrice, awake and waiting for me, wondering where I am, thinking I've let her down. Once, my own eyelids close and I jerk awake, alarmed. I mustn't fall asleep. That would ruin everything.

  Just when I'm about to give up, the attendant's head drops and the cards slip from her hand on to the floor. I wait until her breathing deepens, and then I wait some more. I have to be sure the chloral has taken effect, that she won't wake up.

  At last I think it might be safe to move. I slide out of bed, trying not make a sound. Holding my breath I tiptoe to her and reach towards her belt. The keys aren't there!

  I feel paralysed. I could cry with frustration. Then I pull myself together. Think! She must have the keys somewhere—she needs them to get into the gallery. I look in her basket—a purse and another bottle of beer, that's all. No keys.

  I scan the table, and then I spot them, half-hidden by the newspaper. It would be so easy to take them, but her arm is lying across the page. Gingerly I stretch out my hand, catch hold of the end of one of the keys and pull. Surely she'll feel the disturbance under her arm ... There's resistance and then the keys come sliding towards me, and with the slightest clink, I have them in my hand! I feel so gleeful I could laugh. I can't believe how easy it was. It's a good omen, I'm sure.

  Now hurry, hurry, out of the door, down the hallway, feet stepping as lightly as leaves, so that none of the other night attendants hear. A tiny click and the cloakroom door opens and then I search quickly for my dress—and here it is, on top of the pile! What luck!

  I struggle into it, feeling at the waistband for the lump of money—still there, pull on the petticoat and look about for shoes—no time for stockings. These are much too small, try another pair—these will do—in fact I think they are mine—another stroke of good fortune!

  I pick up the nearest bundle of clothes for Beatrice. Anything will do for now. I seize a cloak from a peg and put it on, take a couple for Beatrice and I'm ready.

  Now I pause, and take a breath. I have to open the main door to the gallery and this could be our downfall. If someone hears—the key turning, the door opening, then closing behind me...

  Another breath and then, to the door. I try the biggest key and it slides in as if the lock has just been oiled and it turns smoothly without a sound. I turn the handle and, like a dream, the door opens. My heart dances. We're going to do it!

  Now to find the side door, the one the attendants and servants use. I've looked for it on my way to and from the dining room but not found it, so I go in the other direction, along a short corridor I've never seen before. At the end it turns right into another passageway. And here it is—the side door! I'm sure it will be locked but just in case, before I try the keys, I press the handle and it opens. Someone must have forgotten to lock it. And it's so close to the gallery. I'll be able to wheel Beatrice here quickly.

  There's no time to lose but just for a moment I step outside. It's stopped raining and overhead, stars glitter in the night sky. I breathe in the cold air, its sharpness, the taste of freedom, stinging my throat.

  My plan is to make for the side gate into the park—I'm sure there must be one for the attendants and tradesmen—then wheel Beatrice some way away and leave her hidden by the edge of the forest, while I walk to the nearest town. Luckily, it's not too cold. We'll take all the blankets from Beatrice's bed.

  From my memory of the journey here, it's quite a distance to the town, but I should be able to manage it. As soon as it's light, I'll hire a carriage and come back for Beatrice and then we'll take the train to the north. I daren't go home. Mamma will tell Tom and there's no knowing what he'll do. So that only leaves Carr Head. Aunt Phyllis will take us in, I know it.

  I'm not sure what will happen next, but Aunt Phyllis will sort everything out. She'll make Tom account for himself and decide how we can help Beatrice.

  A fleeting doubt about Grace rises in my mind. Instantly I quell it. She'll be in London now, settled into her new home, her new life. She won't have said anything. She won't have broken her promise.

  Once we get to Carr Head everything will be all right.

  I take one last breath of air before turning back inside.

  Hurry now, Beatrice will be waiting. Back along the corridor, round the corner, into the gallery. Pause here to check. Nothing stirring in the long dark hallway, no lights, no voices. No one knows I'm not where I should be.

  Along to Beatrice's room, swiftly, silently, and here I am at the door and I have my hand on the handle and I'm turning it, but something's wrong. The door won't open. It's locked.

  I tap on the door, calling quietly, "Beatrice, open the door," but there's no answer.

  I don't understand. The door's never been locked before. I look at the keys in my hand. Perhaps one of them will open it.

  And then a voice behind me, a voice I know so well, says, "You're wasting your time, Miss Childs. Miss Hill has gone."

  I spin round. There's a sound of a match striking and then the steady glow of an oil lamp and in its light I see Weeks's face, mocking, triumphant.

  I stare at her, not comprehending. What does she mean? "Beatrice has gone." She can't have gone. She's meant to be here, waiting for me, so we can escape, so we can be free. What is Weeks doing here? This is all wrong. This isn't how it was meant to happen...

  And then what Weeks said filters through to me, begins to make sense. Beatrice has gone. Beatrice has gone.

  Rage flares through my whole body and the words fly out of my mouth: "You bitch, you damn bitch, you've killed her."

  Weeks just stands there, smiling.

  I want to hurt her like she's hurt Beatrice.

  I seize hold of the nearest object, a heavy pot of ferns, and I hurl it at her head. It misses and hits the window behind her and glass falls in a glittering shower, glass everywhere. I curl my hand into a fist and, crack, I punch her hard in the face. She gives a cry and one hand flies up to her nose.

  Setting the lamp down, she catches hold of my arm, twisting it up round my back. She forces me down, down on to the matting, my face in the glass and she's shouting now and I'm shouting and kicking and struggling and hands seize my arms and ankles and I'm held so tight I can't move and something's pressing into my back, I can't breathe, I'm gasping for air and then my head's wrenched sideways and I just have time to close my fist before a cloth looms in front of my eyes, a cloth that smells sweet and engulfs me in blackness.

  Part Three

  Dark. A dank smell.

  I open my eyes. Fog, in my head, in front of my eyes. I blink to clear them.

  Dark still.

  I listen, my ears straining for clues.

  Silence.

  Silence and cold.

  Such cold.

  My thoughts come slowly. I tell myself to move, curl up, wrap myself in my arms.

  I can't. My wrists, ankles are fastened down. I can't move.

  And now I hear it. Rustling. My mouth dries. A mouse? A rat? I'm not afraid of mice, but rats? In the dark, when I can't see where they are? When I can't move and they can? When they can run over me and bite me with their sharp yellow teeth? I try to shout Help! But only a feeble croak comes out.

  No one answers.

  The rustle continues but there aren't tiny feet running over me, or teeth gnawing at me. Relax. Breathe. Tell yourself, it isn't a mouse, it isn't a rat.

  Breathe.

  Drip.

  My mouth's dry and I can't swallow.

  Drip.

  Somewhere moisture's gathering and falling, but I can't reach it.

  What am I doing here?

  My mind is a pocket with a hole in the bottom—everything I used to know has fallen out.

  I struggle to concentrate. And then I remember ... Weeks ... the window breaking ... the cloth.

  They've tied me down in the dark because I attacked Weeks.

&nb
sp; I remember everything—how it was all going so well, until Beatrice's locked door—and Weeks. How did she come to be there just then? Only Beatrice and I knew what I was planning. Someone must have overheard me. Alice passing in the hall? Someone must have told Weeks and she waited for me. But before that, what did she do?

  Beatrice, what has she done to you?

  Grey now. A faint light.

  I'm more awake. Slowly I look round. A narrow room like a cell. Walls streaked with grime. A grating high up near the ceiling. In the door, about a third of the way down, a dark hole, like an eye.

  I'm stiff with cold. Now I can see why. I'm lying on a mattress which crackles as if it's stuffed with straw, but there are no bed covers—all I'm wearing is a grubby gown. They've taken everything—all my clothes, even my underwear. They must have taken my hairpins too—my hair's straggling round my face.

  I go to turn over, but I can't. Then I see the metal bolts in the floor, the canvas straps fastening my wrists and ankles. I try to pull loose, clench my fists, and there's a searing pain in my right palm. I remember now—the sliver of glass I clutched at as Weeks held me down on the floor. But I can't reach the strap with it. I tug hard, hoping to loosen the bindings, but it's no good.

  My heart flutters, panic rising. To keep it at bay, I look round again. There must be something here, something that will help me. But there's nothing else in the room, except a chamber pot in the corner, a chamber pot I can't reach, and even as I think this, I'm aware of the pressure in my bladder. I grit my teeth.

  Hang on. Surely someone will come. Hang on.

  I try to think about something else, anything ... and then its hits me. Today, now, I would have been free, waiting to fetch Beatrice in a carriage, looking forward to our arrival at Carr Head, Aunt Phyllis's welcome...

  Stop it, I tell myself, blinking back my tears. At least you're alive. My heart contracts. Please let Beatrice be safe somewhere, even if she thinks I've let her down...

  With a grating sound, the door opens and I squint at the light spilling in from the corridor outside, at the two women who fill the doorway.

  One of them addresses me in a loud voice, as if I'm deaf. "Well, my lady, got yerself into a fine pickle, ain't yer? This'll teach you to attack the folks what look after you. There's gratitude. Mind, you, Sal," she nudges her companion, "I'd 'ave liked to see it."

  Sal, who is tall with a long face like a horse's, chuckles like a simpleton. "They say Weeks 'as got a real shiner."

  Her partner purses her lips. "Serves 'er Ladyship right, I say. Now then, you, time for breakfast."

  They advance into the room and Sal deposits a tin mug and plate on the floor some distance away from me, all the while observing me warily.

  "Untie 'er, Sal," says the shorter one.

  The other hesitates. "I don't want a punch or a kick, Hannah."

  "I won't," I manage to croak.

  "Damn right, you won't. For if you do, you'll feel my fist quick enough. Go on, Sal, 'urry up." Hannah looms over me with her fist clenched, while Sal fumbles with the fastenings.

  I try to sit up, but my head swims and I fall back on to the mattress, with a groan.

  Hannah gives me a shove in the ribs with her boot. "Come on, we ain't got all day. Use the piss-pot if yer going to."

  I haul myself up again and, keeping my hand closed tight on the piece of glass, totter across to the chamber pot on legs that feel like rubber.

  I'd like to wash my hands and face, to brush my tangled hair, to rinse out my furred-up mouth, but there's no means to do those things here.

  Hannah jerks her head at my breakfast so I perch on the edge of the mattress, whose coarse ticking, I now see, is grimy and stained. The mug contains cold water and I gulp it down gratefully, even though it tastes bitter. I pick up a broken crust from the plate, but, at the first bite, my throat closes.

  I can't help it, I can't eat it.

  "Right then, get yerself laid down."

  I feel so dizzy, I'm glad to lie down again. But then Sal gingerly takes hold of my ankles and I know she's going to fasten them. "Please..."

  "Please" Hannah mocks. "Polite, aint we? But orders is orders and ours are to see yer tied, tight as a tick, my lady."

  It's no use struggling—they'd easily overpower me.

  Hannah watches while Sal ties the canvas straps that fasten my ankles to the bolts, then she checks them. Satisfied, she nods, and Sal moves to my wrists. I can't help clutching the glass more tightly and a drop of blood falls and stains the floor. It's all over in a second—Hannah darting at me, prying open my hand and wresting the sliver from me. With an exclamation, she brandishes it in front of my face.

  "So! Not do us no harm, would yer? What's this for, if not to put our eyes out?"

  "No," I protest. "It's not for that."

  The expression on Hannah's face changes. "Hear that, Sal? We'll have to report this to Matron. This one wants watchin' or she'll do 'erself in."

  Sal's mouth is hanging open and Hannah nudges her. "Stop gawping, will yer! Get 'er fastened."

  When Sal has done, Hannah checks her work and pulls the straps a notch or two tighter. Sal picks up the mug and plate, they're moving towards the door.

  They've gone, leaving me alone in the dark.

  I don't know how long I've been in here. The light fades... returns ... they come with the mug and the plate.

  At least I think they do. Sometimes I'm not sure if I'm awake or dreaming. I sleep a lot. They must be putting a sedative in the water. When I do wake, I feel very drowsy and my mind's ... blurry.

  Perhaps it's for the best. Better not to think.

  Sometimes I hear that rustling and I tell myself it's a tree in full leaf, rustling in the wind. I like to think of this tree, my tree, with its sturdy trunk and roots deep in the ground. I imagine myself perching on its high branches, like a bird ... and then I spread my wings and fly...

  It's peaceful here, with no one to bother me and everything slipped away from my mind except for my tree. So when they come one day and I've used the pot and drunk some water and someone, I think it's Hannah, says, "It's time to go," I don't want to go anywhere.

  "It aint no use clinging to the mattress. Get 'er hands, Sal."

  Between them they manhandle me to my feet.

  I'm so weak I can hardly stand but this doesn't bother them. One on each side, with a firm grip on my arms, they drag me along corridors, my feet trailing. Where are we going? I must have spoken this aloud without realising it, because Hannah says shortly, "You'll see, soon enough."

  When we stop in front of a door, Hannah takes a key from her pocket and inserts it in the lock. She winks at Sal and then says to me, "We hope yer like yer new home, my lady. You'll find it very comfortable." Hannah turns the key, and opens the door. "Welcome to the Fifth Gallery."

  I stare at her, numb. Before I can gather my wits, I'm pushed into the room.

  A stomach-churning stench makes me catch my breath. And the noise—after the silence of my cell, it's magnified to a painful pitch—and it sounds inhuman, more like the baying and howling of wild animals. There are bodies, bodies everywhere, in a turmoil of restless motion that makes my head spin.

  Hannah prods me forward.

  A blue uniform emerges from the confusion. "This her, then, what had a go at Weeks? She don't look like a goer."

  This one has a deep voice, like a man's. She's big too with broad shoulders.

  "Oh, yes, she's a vixen, all right," says Hannah. "And watch her—she might try to do herself in."

  "One less for us to worry about then, eh?" The attendant laughs, a deep throaty laugh. "Right-oh then, Hannah, leave her with us. She'll soon settle in."

  She grips my arm and steers me between the bodies. Those that don't move aside fast enough are knocked out of the way.

  I look back over my shoulder at Hannah and Sal, faces that I know. But they've already disappeared.

  "This is yours." The attendant points at a bed covered with a g
rimy blanket. I look around. The room is full of beds. No other furniture, just beds with a shelf above them. Most of the shelves are empty.

  I swallow. "Where's the day room?"

  "Day room! La! We don't have such fancies as day rooms here. This is where you are and this is where you'll stay." With a push that propels me forward on to the bed, she stalks off.

  I scramble to the bed head and crouch there, my back against the wall. I want to shut my eyes, to make all this disappear, but I feel too vulnerable. My stomach is clenched and my heart is beating so fast I think it will burst out of my chest, but I keep my eyes open, trying to be ready for whatever comes next.

  We must be somewhere in the basement of the building; what light there is, filtering through high gratings, creates a muddy, underwater atmosphere.

  Everywhere I look I see filthy, scrawny figures.

  Some are inert—they stand like stones or crouch, whimpering, under their beds or lie, like bundles of rags that have been flung down. Others, driven by a restless energy, rage up and down the passage between the beds like tottering scarecrows, their thin stick arms gesticulating wildly. Some carry out the same sequence of actions over and over again, like machines. One stands at the door rattling the handle and calling for help. One keeps trying to eat coal out of the bucket until an exasperated attendant tethers her to her bed. My nearest neighbour is shredding her blanket, all the while staring at me and muttering under her breath.

  No wonder Miss Gorman was terrified of Weeks, terrified of being sent here again. I look again more carefully, but I don't recognise her in any of these creatures. I don't recognise anyone.

  "You friggin' bitch!" The sudden shout, so close, makes me jump and my heart hammers. But it's all right—they're not shouting at me. At the foot of my bed, two scarecrows are at each other's throats, scratching, tearing each other's hair and shouting obscenities.

  Rather than stopping them, the attendants gather round as if it's an entertainment. But as quickly as it flared it dies down; the combatants lose interest and wander off. My heart beat slows a little. It wasn't me. But it might have been.