‘But it wasn’t his fault.’ Ellie had been shocked by the account. This was the first time Rosie had opened her heart. Yet, even now, she suspected that Rosie was keeping something back. ‘That’s not all, is it, Rosie?’ she ventured. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’
For a moment, it seemed as though Rosie might confide everything in Ellie, but then she thought better of it. ‘No, that was the way it happened,’ she insisted. ‘Except… I have never been able to forgive myself for not raising the alarm sooner… when I heard the screams. It’s a terrible guilt I’ve had to live with. Do you know, child… you are the only person I’ve told. The only one who knows that I might have helped on that night, and I did nothing!’ She averted her scarred eyes from Ellie, and bowing her tousled head she murmured, ‘Now, you know why I’m beholden to him… Why I could never let them put him in an institution.’
‘Oh, Rosie! Rosie! How can you blame yourself?’ Ellie was filled with compassion towards this dear, troubled woman. She had never guessed. How could she? Rosie was a past master at disguising her innermost thoughts. Who could know that beneath that lively, plucky extrovert there was a seething, tormented soul? ‘You said yourself there was a violent storm raging. How would you know exactly where the screams were coming from? If you had gone out on such a night, you might have been killed yourself… and even if you had raised the alarm earlier… who’s to say it wasn’t already too late… she “died instantly” you said.’ Ellie was desperate to ease Rosie’s awful burden. Suddenly, she recalled something else Rosie had said. ‘Besides, how could you be so certain that anyone was in trouble? Didn’t you say how there had been… “noises”… before?’ She didn’t go so far as to ask what kind of ‘noises’ Rosie had heard prior to the accident. She didn’t ask, because she already knew. Hadn’t she herself been awakened by strange ‘noises’ in the middle of the night? And hadn’t she, to her own shame, been afraid to investigate? ‘I’m glad you confided in me,’ she told Rosie, ‘and you have to believe that you should not feel guilty.’ She pressed her hand over Rosie’s bony fingers. ‘You’re a good woman, Rosie. Please don’t punish yourself for something that would probably have happened anyway… with or without your intervention.’
‘I suppose you’re right, Ellie.’
‘I know I’m right.’
‘You’ll not repeat what I’ve told you, will you, Ellie? It’s hard enough knowing myself what a shameful coward I am. I couldn’t bear it if the people on the estate were to find out… I know how quick they can be to condemn.’
‘What you’ve told me about that night will go no further, you can be sure of that, but, please Rosie, do as I ask… put the idea of guilt out of your mind. There was nothing you could have done, I’m certain of it.’
Rosie’s eyes met Ellie’s anxious gaze. She smiled and nodded. ‘All right,’ she said. The smile broke into a grin. She was the old, carefree Rosie that Ellie had come to know. Suddenly, there was no sign of the trauma that had momentarily erupted. But it was still there – pressed deep into Rosie’s senses, and disguised by the radiance of her smile. The guilt would still go on plaguing her, and the other things. Those things of terror which she could not bring herself to speak of. On that God-forsaken night when George had been sent over the edge of sanity, and his wife was killed, there had been something else. There were the screams, yes. Horrible, unearthly screams that had sounded like nothing she had ever heard before. Not real. More devil than human. But, for the sake of her own reason, Rosie had convinced herself that the screams were those of George and his wife, when they saw the tree falling down on them. But, even so, there were other, unexplained things on that night. Things she had never fully understood. Obscure and shadowy images that played in Rosie’s mind even at this minute. Of a face peering through the cottage window and looking right at her – a distorted, maniacal face, smudged with blood and smiling wickedly in the blue-white streaks of lightning that danced across it. Then, the awful sound of laughter as it went into the night. For a long time afterwards Rosie had lain in her bed, stiff and hardly breathing, her terrified eyes following the shadows created by the night-light at her bedside. She made herself concentrate on the gyrating shapes that flitted across the ceiling. Outside, the storm was beginning to subside. But not the chaos inside her. Not for a second dare she lower her eyes to the window. Nor dare she close them, because – then – she would see it… that grinning, nightmarish face. After an age, sleep had claimed her. In the morning, the sun was shining. The nightmare had gone. And it was only a nightmare, Rosie told herself. She had to believe that.
When George and his wife were found, Rosie made no mention of the face in her dreams. She knew the people hereabouts. She knew of their superstitions regarding Thornton Place. They believed in spectres and tales of long ago. The stories of disappearing trespassers had become legend. Old superstitions died hard. Rosie knew that more than most. They would call her a witch. They would look on her as having been ‘affected’ by her years of living in that house. The authorities probably would not believe her, because on that morning when she had searched beneath the window, there were no footprints, no trace of anyone ever having been there. The rain had been a deluge. How could she substantiate what she had seen?
No. It was a figment of the night and the storm. A bad and wicked dream. That’s all. That was how Rosie kept her sanity.
‘Have you heard from the library yet… about the documents?’
‘No.’ Ellie saw through Rosie’s ploy to deliberately change the subject, but she was relieved all the same. She hoped the conversation between them had finally put an end to Rosie’s guilt. ‘I telephoned from the shop the other day, but there has been no response as yet from their enquiries. Certainly, the thief who took the documents has not been found.’
‘Strange business.’ Rosie shifted uncomfortably in her chair until the brown-stockinged leg-stump protruded stiff and bedraggled from beneath her blue-panelled skirt. She tapped it. ‘Bloody useless thing,’ she chuckled, her familiar merriment spilling over darker, more disturbing emotions. ‘Sometimes I think I ought to have it chopped off to the hip-bone.’
‘Don’t say such a terrible thing,’ Ellie reprimanded in a shocked voice. She might have asked how Rosie had been so disfigured, but, somehow, it didn’t seem to matter. Anyway, if Rosie wanted to tell her, she would do so, in her own good time. ‘Perhaps the old documents were worth a bit of money… maybe the thief knew someone who would pay handsomely for such antiquities.’
‘Hmm… maybe.’ Rosie had wondered about the incident, but as yet she had not come to any real conclusions. All the same, to her mind it was a disquieting thing to have happened. One that had set her thinking.
After a while the talk graduated onto other things; when Rosie congratulated Ellie on how delightful the room was, with its pretty rose wallpaper and new, pink cushions scattered over the patchwork eiderdown, and ‘how pretty those curtains will look at the window… I can’t believe how wonderful that old oak dresser looks… like new again. And I think you were quite right not to throw out the old brass bedstead, because it suits this sunny room just fine.’ She wanted to know when Barny was due to arrive, and wasn’t Ellie beside herself with excitement at the prospect of seeing him again?
In fact, they found such pleasure in each other’s company that neither of them noticed how quickly the evening was drawing in. It was only when the boy’s footsteps could be heard on the stairs that Rosie struggled from the chair to swing towards the window on her crutches, exclaiming, ‘Buggered if it ain’t dark!’ When the boy came into the bedroom she was craning her neck to see across the field. Already the night fogged her vision. She jerked her head back to ask anxiously, ‘Did George come back with you?’ When he shook his head, she hurried towards him, the thud of her crutches against the floor like the sound of approaching thunder. When she spoke again, her voice was marbled with fear. ‘Where is he, Johnny… where did you leave him? Is he still out there… in the dar
k?’ The boy’s answer was to shrug his shoulders and throw his twig-like arms out in a gesture of indifference. Seeing how futile it would be to question him further, she pushed past, muttering fiercely under her breath, then swearing aloud, ‘How bloody stupid can I be? I should never have left him out there… not even for a minute!’ There was real fear in her voice.
‘Wait, Rosie!’ Ellie stopped only to grab a long, woollen jacket from a peg behind the door, before chasing from the room. ‘We’ll come with you.’ She ran to the room next door, intending to recruit her father. If George had wandered off and got himself lost, they would need a pair of strong arms to fetch him back – George could be painfully stubborn if he had a mind. Ellie was shocked to find that while she and Rosie had been chatting, her father had stopped his work and had gone. She called out, but there was no reply. Downstairs… he’s probably downstairs, she decided. But, he was not. A swift inspection of the ground floor told Ellie that her father was nowhere in the house. By now, she was frantic, hoping that Rosie would have the good sense to search the cottage first, before making off across the fields in the dark.
‘You won’t find him.’ The surly voice made Ellie turn. ‘It’s too dark now, and, anyway, I expect the wild animals have eaten him.’ The boy stood at the foot of the stairs, one arm hanging limp by his side, the other snaked round the banister. He regarded Ellie through chilling eyes, a smile playing about his mouth as he said, ‘There are wild animals in the woods. I’ve seen them.’
‘All right, Johnny. That’s enough!’ Ellie had little patience with the boy these days, especially when he showed no mercy to poor unfortunates like George. She would have taken him to task for being so callous in his remarks just now, but there was no time. It was possible that George had gone back to the cottage and was safe. But, she had to satisfy herself. She must catch up with Rosie. ‘Go and clean yourself up,’ she told the boy, ‘there’s hot water… get a bath and put your dirty clothes in the linen bin.’ She was frantically searching for the long, metal torch that her father always kept by the back door. There was no sign of it. It suddenly occurred to her that her father might be in the cellar. She would have checked, but there was no time.
‘You won’t find old George. I know.’
At the door, Ellie slewed round. ‘Do as you’re told!’ she snapped, ‘and when your father comes back… tell him where I’ve gone.’ She was already hastening towards the cottage, thankful that, as yet, there was still a vestige of twilight to mark her way.
At the cottage, Rosie was beside herself with worry. ‘He’s not here,’ she said, her panda-like eyes big and tearful as they searched beyond Ellie. ‘Where’s your father?’ she asked, her frown deepening and creating cavernous splits in the thick layers of make-up. When Ellie quickly explained that she had not been able to find him, Rosie did not question her further, instead she gave Ellie a curious look before declaring that she must go in search of George. ‘There’s no time to wait,’ she insisted. Ellie agreed; relieved to see that Rosie had a small, silver torch in her hand. She held it out to Ellie. ‘You take it,’ she said, ‘I’ll have enough trouble staying upright without being hampered by that.’ She would have gone in that instant, but Ellie made her take a moment to put on a cardigan.
‘There’s no point in you laying yourself open to pneumonia,’ she said kindly. Soon after, the two of them ventured out, each taking it in turns to call George’s name. There was no response. Only the thick, eerie silence, and the occasional scurrying of a frightened creature that strayed across their path.
As they ventured deeper into the woods, exploring places where Ellie had never gone before, she wondered whether they would find that poor, demented soul and, if they did find him, would he be safe. She and Rosie did not exchange a solitary word during the search for her dear friend. Instead, they concentrated on finding a firm path and keeping clear of thick shrub and overhanging branches; every now and then calling his name and praying to hear his voice. All the while Ellie swung the torch from their path to probe the forest around, then back again. It was pitch-black now. After what seemed a lifetime to Ellie, she was made anxious by Rosie’s laboured breathing, then the quiet sobs. When Rosie lost her footing and tumbled to the ground, Ellie quickly helped her up. ‘We can’t go on, Rosie,’ she told her gently. The chill of the evening had penetrated her bones and she found herself shivering. Rosie, too, felt cold to the touch. ‘We’ll have to go back… get help.’ She cradled the other woman to her. ‘We can’t find him… not in the dark. Not like this.’
‘We will find him!’ Rosie stiffened in Ellie’s embrace. ‘He’s out here… somewhere… frightened and alone. I won’t go back. We will find him. We will.’ Rosie was shouting now, screaming his name and threatening him with all manner of punishment if he didn’t ‘show your face!’ In the impenetrable blackness her voice echoed, mocking. Overhead, the tree-dwellers took to the air, screeching a protest that someone had dared to invade their territory. A furry shape showed itself in the shaft of light from Ellie’s torch; two glittering eyes boldly stared, before disappearing into the undergrowth. Then came another sound, not the scratching, fleeting sound of night creatures, but a more recognisable sound. The soft thud of deliberate footsteps. ‘Thank God!’ Rosie cried, ‘someone’s coming… thank God!’
‘Dad?’ Ellie had been startled by the sound. ‘Dad… is that you?’ Her heart began thumping violently, the rhythm echoing deep inside her. ‘Dad!… we’re over here.’ Suddenly the footsteps halted. She raised the torch in trembling fingers, shining the thin, narrow beam into the direction where the footsteps had been. She called once more. There followed another sound, a series of sounds, as though a struggle of sorts was taking place. Then came a stranger sound, inexplicable… carried on the breeze like laughter. Or was it?
‘Ssh! Not a murmur,’ Rosie whispered fearfully. ‘Switch the torch off.’ Her cold fingers curled round Ellie’s arm. Suddenly they were plunged into darkness. For a moment they stood immobile, their bodies stiffly huddled together and ears strained for every little movement. Footsteps again. Going away. And something… a voice? Hardly audible. ‘No mercy… no… mercy.’ In the coal-black night all became deathly silent. For a long, agonising moment neither of them dared to move. Until, at length, Ellie tremulously raised the torch and flicked the switch with her thumb. The shaft of light probed the darkness. Small, fluttering wings hovered and bathed in its glow. From out of the shifting shadows, the two eyes stared right at them. Big, pale eyes, wide open with terror. Pleading. Silent. Like a corpse, he remained upright against the tree trunk, the rope tight around his throat and looped to a branch above. His bare, bleeding feet were close together on the stool. Half an inch either way and he would be left hanging; the rope choking the life from his miserable body.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Rosie’s hand flew over her head and shoulders, making the sign of the cross. After the initial terrible shock, when she felt as though her blood had turned to ice, Ellie was the first to move. Lowering the torch so that the light did not blind him, she surged, forward, softly calling his name, telling him not to be afraid. The heavy scent of lavender hung in the air. Suffocating. Powerful. ‘Dear God… what have they done to you?… dear God.’ Rosie’s voice was riveted with shock. Now, they could see the blood staining his face, spreading down his neck and darkening the shoulders of his sweater in congealed, irregular patches. His pale eyes were static, seeming lifeless and staring straight ahead in a fixation of horror. The large, wet mouth was hanging open. Only the tongue moved inside that dark, cavernous place, jerking, twitching, desperate to form the words that would not come. It was all there, in his fevered mind; the obscure images of his tormentors. The pain. The terror they wreaked in him. They had no faces, yet, he knew them. Especially the one who whispered. That one was the worst, the most evil. The devil clawing at his insides. It was long ago, wasn’t it? Inside his writhing, decaying mind he struggled to remember. Yes, it was long ago. Too long ago. He thought he could
escape, but, like a shocking, persistent dream, it kept coming back. At first he had fought, defied it, challenged it. But always it beat him, hurt him, made him suffer beyond endurance. Now, he had nothing left. No strength, no challenge. No defiance. Or spirit. Only a wish to die, and be free of it. Even while it was cutting him, and taunting him, he had begged for that release. But, it would not release him. Not yet. Not until it had wrung the last ounce of suffering from him. Only then would it set him free. It had even robbed him of the courage to end it himself. It would play with him, and haunt him, and hurt him. It had no mercy. Not then. Not now. Not ever.
A sense of joy filled his heart on hearing Rosie’s familiar, beloved tones. Suddenly, there were others, all comforting him, all asking him to tell what had happened. Did he imagine the other voice there… the whispering voice? Was it one of them? One of them? No it could not be. All the same, he could not tell them. He didn’t know how. All he knew was that it was not yet over.
No Mercy Page 14
