Wildthorn Read online

  What if I tried to break a limb? But that's no good if I'm going to run away. Could I feign an illness?

  My mind goes round in circles until I can't bear it any longer. In frustration I thump my pillow, feel something hard under my fist.

  I feel a great leap inside.

  I don't know whether I have the courage to do it.

  If I misjudge it, I'll kill myself ... and now I don't want to die. But if I don't try, what's the alternative? Without Eliza, I won't survive, I'll end up like Beatrice, in a living death.

  This is the only way out I can think of.

  I make myself eat as much as I can for supper, draining the bowl of greasy stew, cramming my mouth with bread until my stomach feels tight and uncomfortable.

  All night I hardly sleep. If I do doze off, I wake suddenly again, my heart thudding—is it time?

  I've decided early in the morning would be best. It's the likeliest time for a doctor to be on the premises. I'm hoping he'll recognise the symptoms and know what to do...

  And now grey light filters in through the windows. Soon the attendants will arrive, filling the ward with their noisy chatter. Now there's no more space for thought, for fear—now, it is time.

  With trembling fingers, I uncork the bottle of Fowler's Solution, Eliza's gift to me. Wish me luck, I say to her, in my head, and then I swallow down what I hope is about five drachms of the liquid.

  At first I feel nothing, just a metallic taste in my mouth.

  Perhaps I haven't taken enough. Should I take a few more drops, just to make sure?

  I make myself wait, to give it time to work its way into my system. After a while, I feel pins and needles in my hands, a pain in my head and my heart starts beating rapidly. I push the bottle of Fowler's Solution inside my dress, feeling its cold glass against my skin.

  I want them to find it, but not yet. I want them to think this is something like gastric influenza, something contagious. I'm relying on their fear, their ignorance.

  Now I'm feeling nauseous, my head is starting to spin. I have to lie down ... My hands and face feel clammy, my throat is dry, darkness keeps coming and going at the edge of my vision. Griping pain is building in my stomach—I know I'm going to vomit at any moment and as much as I want this to happen, my body resists it—my teeth clench involuntarily in an effort to prevent it. But then my insides surge and heave, I can't stop it, with spasm after shuddering spasm, the contents of my stomach spew on to my pillow.

  I come back to myself to find my cheek is resting in the yellow, bloody stinking mess, but I can't raise my head, I'm too weak and shaken, my eyes swimming with tears.

  Come and find me. Please come and find me.

  But no one comes. It's all been in vain, I'm going to die...

  I've done it. I'm still alive and I'm in the Infirmary!

  I was very lucky. They found me just in time, Dr. Bull said.

  He's a better doctor than I thought. It didn't take him long to discover the bottle of Fowler's solution and then—the stomach pump...

  All I want now is to lie here in this quiet ward, swallowing the prescribed doses of rice milk and egg white. But it won't do. Although I still feel weak and wretched from the effects of the poison, I'm better. Any day now I'll be sent back to the main building and I'll have missed my chance.

  The trouble is, I don't know what Eliza meant. I don't know how to escape from here.

  The ward is on the ground floor, but the windows are barred. The door isn't locked, perhaps in case of emergencies, and when I first discovered this, I felt a surge of hope. But I heard Dr. Bull tell the nurses that I was to be closely watched and so far they've been vigilant, by day and night.

  The other patients lie quietly: one elderly woman has pneumonia and looks to be very near the end, while another has had surgery and is too weak to move. If I were to try to leave the ward, I have little to fear from them. But how am I to do it?

  Oh, Eliza, where are you? Have they let you back yet?

  No use thinking of it. I must concentrate and be ready to seize the opportunity if it presents itself...

  ***

  I jerk awake, my heart thudding. A commotion out in the corridor—voices, and someone screaming, as if in agony. Blinking to clear my sight, I see them sweep into the ward—two men carrying a stretcher with a body on it—a woman writhing in pain—and a young nurse with a lantern, calling out in agitation.

  Sleepily, I watch the ward nurse direct the men to transfer the patient to an empty bed at the end of the ward and then dismiss them. Two other nurses look in at the door but they too are dispatched. The ward nurse seems to have the situation in hand.

  After swiftly surveying the patient, whose screams have subsided into a low moaning, she hands the younger one a key. "Fetch dressings and brandy from the dispensary."

  The girl scurries off, lantern swinging wildly, while the ward nurse moves her lamp to the patient's bedside. It's hard to see what's going on—the nurse has her back to me, but her shadow looms on the wall and I have the impression she is cutting at something, perhaps the patient's clothing.

  The young nurse returns with her arms full, and together they minister to the patient. I overhear snatches of their conversation. It appears that the woman knocked over a lamp and her nightgown caught fire. An attendant extinguished the flames by rolling her in a blanket but she has extensive burns.

  Suddenly I am alert. This could be my chance! It could take them some time to dress the burns and they're both fully occupied, their backs towards me.

  Moving slowly and quietly, I slide one of my pillows under the bedclothes, to make it look as if the bed is still occupied. Holding my breath, I make for the door, expecting them to call after me, but nothing happens.

  Out in the corridor, I pause for a second. Which way should I go?

  Off to the left the corridor is in darkness, but to the right there is a light. I speed towards it as quietly as I can, passing what seems to be another ward on the right, with a low light showing, voices murmuring. My heart is in my mouth. At any moment I expect a nurse to appear.

  The passage opens out into a vestibule and here is the front door. I seize the knob and turn it, but nothing happens. It's locked.

  I blink back tears of disappointment. No time for that. There must be a way out somewhere.

  I daren't go back past the ward. Instead, I cross the vestibule into another corridor. I try the nearest door and it opens. But it's a cupboard, with shelves stacked with linen and blankets. I seize one of these and move on. At any moment they will discover my empty bed.

  I try every handle as I pass. All locked. But then I come to another door that opens. Peering in, I see that the gas light has been left on low, and I can make out a small room with a single bed in it. My heart jumps when I see that the bed is occupied, and I'm just about to retreat when the patient stirs.

  "Water ... please."

  It's a croak, hardly audible, but there is something familiar about it...

  I should go, now, before she sees me and raises the alarm. I haven't time for this.

  But I can't stop myself, I have to know. I go closer to the bed.

  I was right. It's Weeks. But how changed.

  She is tossing about, muttering incoherently, as though in the grip of delirium. She's obviously not aware of me, but, nevertheless, when she turns her head my way, I start back, my hand at my throat. For her face is covered in blisters, weeping pus.

  Smallpox.

  She is clearly in the final stages of the disease and just for a second I can't help thinking, Serves her right.

  But then her parched lips open and she croaks again. "Water..."

  There is no water, and I'm sorry. This end is too horrible, even for my old enemy.

  A noise in the distance pulls me back into the moment. What am I doing? I must hurry.

  Out in the corridor once more I see light spilling from an open door farther along. I approach cautiously, then breath with relief, when I discover that the
room is empty. It must be the dispensary—the young nurse's lantern is on the table, illuminating shelves of labelled jars and bottles, a cupboard of apothecary's equipment. And suddenly I have an idea. But I must be quick.

  I scan the shelves. The jars are in alphabetical order, as they should be. I quickly find the one marked "sal nitri"—saltpetre. Just along, is a jar marked "sacch"—sugar, ready ground. My eye races round the items in the glass-fronted cupboard, and then with a great leap of excitement, I see what I'm looking for—an old-fashioned iron mortar, quite narrow and deep. Hurriedly I fill the mortar with saltpetre and sugar, stirring it together. The quantities might not be right—it might not work. But if it does, it will buy me some time. Now all I need are some matches.

  I look on the shelves, pull out drawers, feeling more and more frantic. I'm making too much noise, this is taking too long. I look round one more time and then I see it—a box of lucifers, left on the table, next to the lantern.

  Snatching them up, I seize my blanket and the mortar and hurry from the room. It would be too dangerous here—I don't want to cause a fire and injure anyone, if I can help it. I'm heading away from the vestibule when I hear the sound I've been dreading—a bell ringing, running feet. They're after me!

  I set the mortar down on the stone floor of the passage. Ideally I need a fuse, but there's no time to make one. With trembling fingers, I thrust half a dozen lucifers head down into the powder and light the ends. The sticks catch fire with a satisfying flare and within seconds, the passageway fills with thick black smoke.

  I run on, into the back part of the building, where the gas lamps are turned down, trying door handles without any hope. And then one yields and I almost fall into the dark space that opens up in front of me. In a breath, I'm inside the room and have the door shut.

  My heart's racing. I look about me wildly. In the dim light from the window I see a lavatory, a sink and then my eye comes back to the window.

  It isn't barred.

  It's some distance off the ground—a fixed sheet of glass with a narrow casement above. But can I get through it? I climb on to the lavatory seat, clutching my blanket. I lay it on the window ledge and by hauling myself up with the help of the pipe running from the cistern, I manage to get one knee on the ledge and then the other.

  My perch is so narrow I'm afraid I'll topple backwards into the room. I reach up, seize the window catch and release it. With a push the window opens and night air cools my face. Still hanging on to the pipes, I get one foot on the ledge and haul myself upright. Reaching down, wobbling precariously, I untangle the blanket from around my feet, throw it through the window and try to follow.

  My head fits through easily, but my shoulders wedge themselves in the gap. Tears of frustration spring into my eyes.

  Clenching my teeth, I twist my body. With a desperate corkscrew movement that wrenches my back, I get first one shoulder and then the other through. For a moment I hang there, half in and half out of the window, the transom bar cutting into my waist. I can see the ground about six feet below me. Then I push off with my feet and tumble out.

  Pain sears through my right shoulder, my teeth jar together and for a moment I lie winded, shocked by the impact. But fear galvanises me. I could be discovered at any moment. I feel about for the blanket.

  The sky is clouded, but there's enough light for me to see. I seem to be at the back of the Infirmary, near the kitchen; I can smell rotting food, stale odours of cooking. I'm in a walled yard, with the dark humps of sheds around the perimeter. I can feel gritty cinders underfoot. There's a door in the wall and I try it, expecting it to be locked, but the latch lifts and it swings open easily. I see the park stretching in front of me. Which way should I go?

  Away to the right I can see the lights of the main building shining. Not in that direction, certainly. Not so far away, probably at the front of the Infirmary, I can hear a lot of noise, shouting, bells ringing. They'll be evacuating the patients and bringing a fire hose cart.

  To the left, not far off, a dark line marks the boundary of the park. And then with an intake of breath, I see that the wall round the backyard of the Infirmary joins directly to the perimeter wall. It should be easy to get over.

  Retreating into the yard, I look about for something to help me climb the wall. There are some wooden crates piled near the back door. Trying not to make a noise, I carry two of them to what looks like a coal bunker. I stack one on top of the other and scramble on to the sloping roof of the bunker without too much difficulty, then I stop. From here, with a stretch, I should be able to reach the top of the wall and it's a mere four yards or so to the perimeter. But the wall is narrow. Do I dare to try?

  Taking a deep breath I climb up, hampered by the blanket. Standing up, I almost lose my balance, my arms flail wildly ... then I regain control. It's a long way down. Don't look. Gingerly I inch my way along, one step at a time, horribly aware that anyone looking from the windows will instantly see me. A voice in my head is saying, Hurry, hurry. But I daren't hurry; instead I concentrate on where I'm putting my feet.

  At last my hands clasp the rough bricks of the perimeter wall. For a moment I cling to it, trembling with relief... then I'm over it and with another wrench of my shoulder, I drop down the other side. My right leg buckles under the pain of the impact, but this time at least I land on my feet. I wrap the blanket round me. I feel safer now, a shadow among other shadows.

  And here I am, outside the asylum. Free. A voice starts singing in my head, I've done it, Eliza. I'm out.

  Luckily it's a fairly mild night, but even so I'm shivering, perhaps more from excitement and fear than the shock of being outside in the fresh air. I take a deep breath, smelling damp earth and leaf-mould.

  What now?

  I must try to find Eliza's village, I suppose. Small something, wasn't it? But what shall I do when I get there? I don't know where she lives. If I find her cottage, she might not be there. And if she is, will she be pleased to see me? What will she say to her family? They'll hardly welcome an escaped lunatic.

  Stop worrying. One step at a time. But I must hurry. How long before they send someone after me?

  I set off hobbling down the lane, stumbling in the ruts, wincing as sharp stones dig into my bare feet. I can see more than I expected. But the trees at the side of the lane are looming at me, threatening silhouettes; the ground seems to be rising and falling, causing me to stagger. I've never been out at night before, certainly not by myself in the countryside. It gives me a strange, lonely feeling. I tell myself there's nothing to be afraid of, but I still jump at every rustle in the undergrowth.

  A ghostly shape detaches itself from the darkness, glides in front of me and I stop dead, my hand at my throat. Only a barn owl. But it's a long time before the rapid patter of my heart slows down.

  It seems so far. My feet are cut and bruised, my legs don't want to do this any more. I come to a crossroads. Which way? A signpost glimmers, half buried in the hedgerow. I have to strain to read it: SMALCOTE, 3 MILES. That's Eliza's village! But the finger points back the way I have come.

  I could weep. It's too far. Everything hurts: my feet, my shoulder, my knee. I just want to give up, sink down into sleep. They can discover me by the roadside, take me back. I'm too weary to care.

  "Don't give up." I jump. I know the voice is in my head, but it's just as if Eliza has spoken to me. Gritting my teeth, I turn and begin to trudge back the way I have come.

  Eventually I reach the asylum wall. At the end of the lane a signpost tells me I have to turn left, past the main gate. I am certain there will be men out in the lane looking for me, dogs rushing snarling from the shadows. Wearily I drag myself on, resigned now to failure.

  But, miraculously, none of this happens. By the lodge I shrink into the hedge in case someone is looking out. There are lights at the windows, and I can hear voices in the distance, but nobody shouts after me. When I have gone a good way beyond the wall, I let out my breath.

  On and on. I mov
e in a dream, one foot in front of the other, again and again. I feel faint now. I mustn't faint. But I've no strength left. I come to a straggle of cottages. Is this Smalcote? Even if it isn't, I can't go any farther. But I can't sleep here by the roadside. I must find somewhere.

  At the back of the first cottage there are dark shapes of outbuildings. Holding my breath, I tiptoe past the cottage and make for them. At every step I expect furious barking, but everything remains silent. The first shed seems to be a henhouse, shut up for the night. Then something that must be the privy. Beside it, a ramshackle construction, from which a strong smell emerges. A pigsty.

  Enter the pen. Slip-slide in the mud. Careful, careful. Here's the door. No lock. Take a deep breath, push open the door, stoop under the roof. A shadow detaches itself from the darkness and lumbers forward. Stand still, keep your fingers out of the way. The pig snuffles at my nightgown, pushing me so firmly I nearly fall over. It chews at the material then with an "ouff," it flops on to its bed.

  Straw. Too exhausted to think ... I sleep.

  I am back in the Fifth Gallery and an attendant is prodding me. I groan. I don't want to get up yet—my whole body aches, my shoulder throbs...

  I open my eyes. The pig is nudging me. As soon as I move out of the way, it goes and stands with its snout pressing against the door. Someone may come to feed it soon. I mustn't be found here.

  With a painful effort, I rise, wincing as I put my feet down on the floor. Picking up the blanket, I squeeze past the pig and open the door a crack. Nothing stirs in the garden but dawn is already well over the horizon. Slipping out, I shut the door behind me quickly and crouch in the pen. What shall I do? I daren't go past the cottage now. Someone might be up.

  I creep through the gate and scramble round the back of the sty. I wait a moment, but no one shouts. From here it's a short step to the boundary—a bank, a sparse hedge of hawthorn trees. But to reach it means crossing open ground and I might be seen from the neighbouring cottages. I haven't any choice though. I can't stay where I am.