Hidden Company

by S E England

  Delyth’s sister, Gwen, was the cleaner, hence the key being left here. She could only hope her new home was considerably more spruce than the public house. Ugh! Cleanliness was her thing and this was just…ugh.

  Back in the bar, Delyth had acquired company. An old man sat pint in hand, the two chatting away in Welsh as she reappeared. Her name, she was sure, had been in that last sentence of indecipherable consonants.

  “I’ll just get you that key then,” said Delyth. “I know Gwen left it somewhere…”

  “Thank you.”

  With the old man eyeing her, she smiled politely and nodded hello, not sure if he spoke English. He wasn’t particularly easy on the eye - with a coarse reddened face, bulbous nose exploding with purple veins, and peg teeth that stuck out in all directions; and Delyth was taking her time. A little awkward with him smiling and nodding but not speaking, she decided to casually examine the pictures on the walls. Most were line-ups of people from the Victorian age, too old for school photographs, too formal for factory or even church outings. Villagers, then? Perhaps they were taken for clubs or ceremonies?

  Men with severe haircuts and ill-fitting three-piece suits stared out of sepia worlds. In others, a hotchpotch of women in long, drear dresses stared equally vacantly…There seemed to be something so poor about these people, so…

  Without warning, a blast of crowd noise rushed into her head along with the unmistakeable stench of blood, human filth, illness and disease. So powerful was the assault on her senses that she had to reach out and clutch the mantelpiece for fear of falling. Deep breaths…deep breaths…

  God, she should have known better than to stare at old photos.

  Stupid…stupid…Swallowing down the surge of hot nausea, she turned away from them and hurried to the other side of the room as if something new had caught her eye, acutely aware of the old man’s eyes boring into her back. He’d noticed…damn…why couldn’t he mind his own business? For years she’d perfected the art of disguising the effect these attacks had on her. No one must know. If there was one thing to set people talking behind your back it was this.

  At this end of the lounge a high-backed wooden bench lined the wall, instantly conjuring a row of miners and farmers sitting cheek by jowl drinking pints and smoking after a long day’s work. Above the bench several oil paintings had been hung, and assuming they were by a local artist, Isobel peered in, genuinely interested. Paintings were safe.

  Initially, she thought the effect might have been because of shadows cast by the single light bulb, but later – much later, when she would lie awake in the early hours – she knew that was not the case at all. Right there though, with the old man staring and her heart pumping hard, she was just grateful no one could see her face.

  “Here we are,” said a voice from far, far away. “I knew she’d put them somewhere.”

  Isobel swung around, disorientated. “What?”

  “Good, aren’t they - Branwen’s paintings? Your keys, lovely.”

  “Oh…yes…thank you. Thank you so much.”

  Delyth clasped the mug of tea. “Well, I hope everything will be to your satisfaction, anyway. She’s very good is Gwen.”

  “I’m sure it will be. Thank you.”

  By now she was hurrying away, unable to think clearly, blindly grabbing for the door handle. It was only when she was standing outside again on the damp, dark street that she realised she’d clean forgotten to ask for directions to Lavinia House let alone for a coffee.

  There was something slightly wrong here, which didn’t seem in keeping with the small church community described by the lettings agency. A darkness…something hidden and unsettling…amid layers as changeable and moody as the mountain mists.

  ***

  Chapter Two

  The Gatehouse, Blackmarsh

  A few hours later Isobel woke violently, as if someone had shouted directly into her ear. Had they? Who was it? Where? She jumped to sitting position. There’d been a noise…banging or knocking…Surely not at the door? God, what time was it?

  The digital alarm clock glowed in neon green: 02:23.

  No, it must have been a dream, albeit a bad one.

  Flopping back against the pillows she stared into the darkness for several long, heart-thumping seconds, struggling to remember where she was and why the hell it was so black in here. There wasn’t a breath of air, the room icily still, and so completely devoid of noise or light that the creeping panic suddenly became overwhelming and she hit the light switch. This had been a mistake. A terrible mistake. To be so alone like this. Miles and miles from anywhere.

  The last time she’d lived in rented accommodation was back in her early twenties, never dreaming she would be living out of a suitcase again at forty-one. How impersonal it was! The paper balloon in the centre of the ceiling now starkly illuminated white-washed walls, a serviceable brown, nylon carpet, and mismatching furniture that smelled of mould and mothballs. Floral curtains festooned a large bay window in shades of orange, reminiscent of hospital accommodation – those spacious Victorian residences converted into nurses’ flats as cheaply as possible. Probably this had once been a beautiful house, with its generously proportioned rooms and long, sash windows; no doubt gutted and replaced with functionality for rental income.

  Still, it could be made homely enough - a few rugs, plants and pictures would make all the difference.

  And those had been her thoughts when drifting off to sleep a few hours ago - of sourcing rugs and throws, paintings and candles - but something was very different now, the atmosphere no longer one of simple emptiness. With a puzzled frown she registered the new reality. While she had been asleep every drawer in the pine chest had been pulled open. And the wardrobe door was ajar.

  A sickly lump lodged in her throat. Had she left them like that?

  No, no I didn’t….

  For a good few minutes the rapid thudding of her heartbeat banged in her ears. Before the rational side of her brain cut in. Okay, this is what must have happened – on arrival, tired and tetchy, she would have had a quick scout round checking everything before crashing into bed. Yes. And left the drawers open. Must have.

  Certainly she’d been exhausted.

  Obviously hadn’t been thinking clearly.

  In fact she’d been more tired than ever before, even on a ward at five am on a night shift. The fog had thickened during the short time spent in the pub waiting for the key, and the car headlights were rendered useless, reflecting only a dizzying white glare. It had been a struggle to follow the directions issued by the letting agency, with one wrong turning after another. Nor had it been easy to turn round on those winding, mountainous lanes.

  She had just come to the point of despair when the driveway to Lavinia House loomed quite suddenly, its distinctive stone lions towering over the gateposts. She’d almost cried with relief. A grand stone archway stamped with the family coat of arms announced what was an imposing estate, although the wrought iron gates now hung from their hinges, rusting into the ground. Reputedly one of the largest private houses in Wales, it had belonged to an English family through successive generations and was said to have been used as an asylum at one point, the gentleman of the house being what was termed an alienist or mad doctor. These days, however, it served once more as a private residence.

  The Gatehouse was located immediately by the archway, and since she had neither the time nor energy to do anything other than quickly unload the car and grab the box with the kettle and coffee in it, there was gratitude to be had in that. She really had done precious little – the absolute necessities only - before falling into bed exhausted.

  Attempting now to stay calm, Isobel forced herself to mentally comb through her actions from the night before. It was as difficult as having to recall a dream or period of drunkenness, her conscious mind continually blocking the train of thought. After locking the front door behind her she’d flung her suitcase in the cupboard under the stairs, put the box of kitchen items on the table
and then run upstairs while the kettle boiled. What then?

  All right, well she knew herself pretty well – definitely she’d have whipped back the bed sheets and more than likely checked the wardrobe and drawers for cleanliness before hanging up her coat. Yes, and then neglected to close them again because she’d been so darned tired. Okay, right, that made sense. But…

  No, something had woken her up…a knocking noise, a persistent banging…

  A shiver suddenly goosed up her back. The ceiling light barely reached the four walls, which seemed blacker than ever. Was that her own breath or was there another…?

  Christ, something else is breathing in here…

  Oh good God no, this was no bloody good. She had to do something – make tea, anything. Wide awake and fully creeped out, she pushed back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. The night air was as cold as a morgue.

  There was definitely something knocking in here…it woke you deliberately….those drawers were being pulled out…one by one…and you know it!

  Hurriedly now, she shoved on slippers and grabbed her dressing gown. It was those damn paintings in the pub. They’d given her nightmares. Those tiny, wizened figures with wrinkly faces and twisted mouths. It wasn’t just that they were macabre, that the artist clearly enjoyed creating malevolent looking creatures, it was more the shot of recognition they’d evoked - the sudden overpowering aura of moss-ridden woods and sickly disorientation. Even more than that though, was the conviction of having been here before. And being punched in the gut with the fear of it.

  Padding downstairs in the full glare of the landing light, she wished now she’d closed the curtains. Outside, the fog lay thick and damp with not a thread of light to permeate the moonless night. And with the house lit up like a stage it lent a curious feeling of being watched. The dining room was empty of furniture, with bare floorboards and a blackened grate. Swishing shut drapes of chintz she hurried across the hall and into what had been the front parlour, marching straight in to find a figure standing under the bare lightbulb.

  It caught her completely off guard.

  Less than a second. A flash of blue light. A vague impression. And then it was gone.

  Christ!

  She stood with her hand to her heart. Panting. Still holding onto the door handle where she’d burst in a moment ago.

  Had that happened?

  Or was it a trick of the light?

  It had to be a trick. No one had been registered as living here. And definitely not a woman. For it was a woman. Elderly, black dress….long skirts….

  No, no – it had been her own reflection - in the glass!

  She breathed a long sigh of relief, laughing at herself. For goodness sake Issy, get a grip. It’s a new place, you’ve had a bad dream and you’re spooked. Everything will be perfectly all right when the sun comes up.

  Shaking with relief she closed the curtains, left the room and clicked shut the door.

  At the end of the hall the kitchen lay in darkness, the outlines of fitted units and furniture shadowy. She should make some tea and go back to bed, get some sleep and put everything in perspective. These were only her nerves talking, bad dreams and fears coming to the surface.

  On nearing the doorway, however, a cold draught blew against her cheek. As if a door had opened somewhere.

  No…there was definitely something sinister here…and the sense of that was chilling her back like a dark shadow. As if whatever it was had followed her from the parlour.

  Light! Get the light on!

  This was getting silly.

  Get. The. Light on!

  Damn, where was the switch?

  She fumbled blindly around the door frame, the feeling of rapidly escalating dread now overpowering. Something or someone was behind her. That woman in the parlour. Oh God…

  Got it!

  The kitchen lit up in a surgical glare.

  At that exact moment, the dull, repetitive thudding she instantly knew had woken her, began again…a steady bump…bump…bump…against an upstairs wall. As if someone was banging their forehead against it. And even in the bright, white light, fear clutched at her heart.

  There was no way she could stay here. No way.

  ***

  Chapter Three

  1893

  Flora George

  Lavinia House

  “No, I will not stay here. Take me home at once. Driver, turn the horses around!”

  This is no retreat. This is an asylum. A madhouse. The woman standing at the carriage door stares with such insolence. No curtsey from her - merely a nod to the maid as if the two of them are in league. And what is this? She has the impertinence to reach inside the carriage and…

  “Now Madam, Mr George said you were to be brought here for a few days, just until you were well–”

  Rage explodes inside of me. “How dare you! No, I absolutely refuse. I will not get out of this carriage, no–”

  I can scarcely believe it, but the awful woman is grabbing at my arms, and the maid who last night brushed my hair is helping her. It is beyond all manner of belief.

  “Let’s get you inside now, shall we, Mrs George?”

  She has the nipped face of a harridan indeed, and her grip is one of iron. Another of her ilk now hurries down the steps and takes hold of my other arm so that I am quite pinned between them, hauled away like some common prisoner. Vaguely I am aware of the spectacle I must present - bucking and kicking – whilst helplessly looking over my shoulder at the sound of the horses being led away, the maid scurrying alongside them with her head down. No doubt she is heading for that breakfast she’s been so looking forward to. Shameful! Damn her to high hell for keeping me drugged and fed with lies.

  “Get off me. Get your damn hands off me.”

  “Come on now, Flora. The doctor’s waiting for you and you really don’t want him to see you like this, do you?”

  “What doctor? I wish to go home immediately. I have been tricked. And how dare you address me in such a way.”

  But this time when I turn around the horses have gone, the sound of their hooves a muffled clip-clop in a stable yard I cannot see.

  The fear is a knife blade to my stomach.

  “No, no! I will not go in. Let go of me!”

  It is impossible to break free, the vice grip tightening as a noose with every struggle. One of them calls out and now a man…oh God, the humiliation of it…is approaching with a stretch of cloth.

  “Bit wild, isn’t she? Don’t let her kick now. Just bloody hold her.” And in less than a breath he’s got it fastened round my waist, adeptly pinning my arms to the sides. He’s laughing, chuckling away through rotten peg teeth, wafts of his sour breath nauseating.

  And thus it is with great indignity that the four of us shuffle and skirmish our way into the cavernous, wood-panelled hallway of Lavinia House.

  Behind , the heavy oak door clicks firmly shut. A bolt is shot. A key turned in the lock.

  It has a sobering effect.

  With the finality of that resounding clunk, standing silent and shocked, the fight suddenly drains out of me and tears erupt in torrents of despair. The great gasps and stuttering intakes of breath are as a child’s even to my own ears. Alas, I am so wretched with tiredness. What have I done to deserve this? And what fate awaits me beyond those double doors to the doctor’s consulting room?

  There is no chair, no glass of water, no arm of comfort around my shoulders. Instead they simply wait until the worst subsides.

  “Is she calm now?” someone asks. “Shall we take her in?”

  In the oak door there is a large knot and it is this which now arrests my attention as the sobbing quietens and tears dry. It resembles the face of a man - with tiny, close-set eyes and wild hair…So they are here, too - the wood sprites?

  The old man’s face twinkles. I think he winks.

  My God, they are everywhere…they have followed me all this way.

  “Come on, Gwilym, she’s calm enough. The doctor hasn
’t got all day - undo her, is it?”

  Trembling from head to foot, it takes all the strength I have to stand up straight while the ties are yanked undone and the harridan taps on the door.

  It is a strange house. The corridor behind is dark, airless and gloomy, the staircase leading to the upper floors narrow and oppressive. From somewhere high above us a woman’s screams, rising and impassioned, rent the air. To what have my husband and dear sister abandoned me? Nothing bodes well. Dried tears sting my cheeks. This doctor – he is going to ask me what happened, isn’t he? Why Samuel and Amelia consulted with a local medic and had me sent here.

  And I do not recall. That’s the thing - I really cannot remember. A lurch of panic rises in my throat. I do not know how to save myself.

  ***

  Doctor Edgar Fox-Whately, the Alienist and owner of Lavinia House, is a man with a pale, glassy stare and a twist of razor wire for a mouth. I draw, I paint, I pick out what others do not always notice – and were I to depict this man it would be to the exclusion of everything that is ordinary about him, such as the religious severity of his black waistcoat and starched white collar, in order to highlight the sheer force of contempt in that stony-eyed scrutiny. His thin lips, moistly aglow in a forest of facial hair, he licks repeatedly, and revulsion twitches inside my empty stomach.

  “You have made quite a fuss,” he says by way of introduction.

  “Thank you for asking, I had an unpleasant journey and I am most dreadfully tired. I would like to be taken to my room immediately, please.”