With the Ward Key between my teeth, I unlocked Cell W14 and tossed one of the rings to the Captain, giving her instructions to free every last prisoner, and quickly. I repeated the procedure in Ward A; within seconds, a flood of inmates and the rats who had been guarding them came pouring forth from the Wards, and onto the landing.
‘Wait!’ came a shout.
I turned to see Silent Sarah standing behind me, a heavy bundle in her hands. She set her burden upon the ground.
‘Take.’
Stunned to hear her speak, I watched as she pulled back the cloth to reveal the consequence of her labour: hundreds of spoons, their handles sharpened to points more menacing than any dagger. Whilst the rest of us suffered and hoped in ignorance, Silent Sarah had known this day would come, and she had prepared us. She drew from amongst the weapons my own large spoon, that which I had thought lost forever. Holding it out to me, Silent Sarah smiled, for the first time since I had known her. With haste, I took the spoon from her hand and kissed her cheek.
“Arm yourselves, Ladies!’ I called out.
The inmates raided this blessed arsenal, and we were off. Towards the gate we fled, an army of girls and the entire League of Plague Rats behind me.
In the midst of this chaotic muddle of stockings, claws, and tails, I stumbled and fell forwards, releasing my hard-won possessions. Helplessly I stared as the key launched itself from my hand. I was back in the gilded foyer of Bainbridge, and Anne was sliding the Master Key across the floor of polished marble. But then it had been coming closer, and now it was moving further away, speeding like a bullet across the filthy floor towards the open gate and out of my reach.
A black-shod foot came down, stopping the key and concealing it from my view. I raised my head to see Dr. Stockill towering above me, a seething fury in his scarlet-rimmed eyes. Without a word, the Doctor snatched up the key and turned back towards the gate. Before I knew my own mind, I lunged at the Doctor, leaping upon his back, sinking my teeth into his neck in an attempt to gain the freedom I was determined not to lose.
Blessed be their loyalty, for every girl and rodent alike rushed forwards to my aid, sharpened spoons brandished, but my emaciated limbs were no match for my opponent; he had pocketed the Ward Key and now shook me off, pulling me close in front of him. My back was pressed against his chest; his fingers clenched mercilessly round my throat just as he had done to my poor Veronica. With his free hand, he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew his weapon, snapping it open and pressing the razor to my neck.
‘What is she worth to you?’ he growled, his blade already carving a shallow line across my throat.
Seeing the blood, my army stood down. With violent force, the Doctor shoved me back into the crowd, then ran out and down the stairs, locking the gate behind him.
It was unbearable. We had come so close, and now we were further away than ever, for, within moments, the staff would be alerted to our attempted escape and we would be done with. It was over. All this time had we clung to life through impossible odds, and it was over; we would never have this chance again. Never. I sank to the ground, knowing that we were all dead. I believe that most of the girls were too astounded to completely fathom what had just occurred; they only knew that we were free, and then we were not.
I cannot comprehend what happened next, Diary . . . I can only tell my story and pray that someday I will understand:
As I knelt upon the cold, stone floor, I became aware of a peculiar burning sensation upon my right leg. It took me a moment to realise that the heat was emanating from inside my stocking, just above my knee, where Anne’s key, the Master Key of Bainbridge, was tied. The tarnished gold burned with a growing warmth; I tore off the stocking and untied the key as quickly as I could. The metal was glowing white-hot now, but it did not pain me. I took the key in my hands and felt my pulse quicken, the blood coursing through me; I was a frozen body thawing back to life.
Suddenly, I was filled with an incredible lightness that lifted me from the ground and to my feet.
I did not walk to the gate—the Master Key pulled me there. I tried the lock—it fit perfectly. I turned the key—the gate swung open. All breaths were held, and nobody made a sound.
Then, the great clock in the Entrance Hall below struck the hour, and I retrieved my spoon from the ground.
‘Four o’clock,’ I said. ‘Teatime.’
Asylum Letter No. LXIII
Blood was everywhere.
A dozen Chasers were dead with many more soon to follow, our sharpened spoons having been put to the good use they had long been intended for.
Dr. Stockill had sounded the alarm, waking everyone in the institution at once. For the first time in the Asylum’s long and gruesome history, the inmates had the clear advantage: We outnumbered the staff, and we had nothing to lose. It was not difficult for us to kill—not difficult at all; it simply needed to be done, and so we did it.
The Asylum’s greatest experiment was that which its ingenious directors never expected: After an age of mental and physical torture, suffocated at every turn by impending death and pure inhumanity, what would we become? What might we be capable of? The Tea Party Massacre was the answer to the question they never asked.
As the furnace had supplied the Asylum with the easy means to carry out mass extermination, only a few hundred of us remained, a horrific contrast to the thousands there had once been. Still, we had more than enough in our ranks to strike terror into the hearts of our captors once we were on the other side of the bars.
The bulk of our multitude had been sent to search the institution for any remaining Chasers, for it was collectively decided that no one could be left alive. Whilst one of our factions hauled its prisoners to the Hydrotherapy Chamber, and another used their spoon handles to eviscerate the opposition, the members of the Striped Stocking Society assembled for a brief discussion upon how best to confront the doctors; they were, no doubt, devising tactics to survive the onslaught and take us down instead.
We concurred that a select few of us ought to deal the primary blows, whilst the rest would guard the area and restrain the ‘patients’, should they prove uncooperative. We equipped ourselves with as many spoons as could be strapped to our persons, and it was time to visit our doctors at last.
Though one might have expected the devils to save their own, the doctors had fled to their separate corners. Having heard the dying screams of the Chasers and medical assistants echoing through the halls, they had realised that we were armed, and, even more frighteningly, that we were organized. Sir Edward arrived to report that Dr. Stockill had shut himself inside his chamber, but we all agreed to save our best for last.
Dr. Lymer had retreated to the Bloodletting Wing. We found him huddled beneath his table of leech jars and bleeding bowls, armed only with a solitary hammer as though he had never been required to protect himself, and didn’t know quite how to go about it. The girls came forwards and lifted the Doctor to one of his own bleeding beds. He wailed and pleaded for mercy, but we no longer understood the word.
We worked quickly. The Doctor wriggled like one of his salted leeches, and so the others held him down whilst I buckled the leather straps over his limbs. We tore away the Doctor’s nightclothes. Brandishing our spoons, we executed a variety of carvings upon Dr. Lymer’s body, taking care that his sickly, bloated face was well attended to. Long slashes blazed across his chest, and a decorative series of slits ran the length of his arms and legs.
When we felt that Dr. Lymer was sufficiently sliced and on his way to good health, the Captain and I each chose a leech jar from the table.
‘You might feel a little pinch,’ I said.
Then, we emptied the vessels, pouring the leeches over the shrieking Doctor’s mutilated body. His blood, having overflowed the shallow moat running round the edge of the bed, was now spilling onto the floor; although he had lost much of it, the Doctor was
still living, which was exactly what we wanted. The leeches needed no instruction; they spread rapidly over every exposed inch of flesh.
I raised my spoon and drove the pointed spike directly into the center of the Doctor’s forehead just before the leeches covered his face completely. The shrieking stopped. His eyes rolled back in his head and he went slack-jawed, unwittingly inviting the leeches to crawl into his mouth and stop his breath forever. It was a fantastic sight; Dr. Lymer was covered from head to toe, smothered by a glittering black armour writhing with life. Our work done, we left our former tormentor, or what remained of him.
Next, it was on to Dr. Greavesly’s private quarters. Reaching his door, we found it unlocked, the surgeon nowhere to be seen. Suspecting that he had fled to the Operating Theatre to arm himself, we flew down the stairs, through the Theatre door, and there he was—the demon, the butcher, crouched upon the table, his fiery mane loose and wild. He gripped a serrated bone saw in each hand and was waiting for us, an animal poised to pounce.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the Captain stepped forwards, unsheathed a spoon she had strapped to her arm, and sent it spinning expertly towards the surgeon. The pointed handle now deeply embedded in his neck, he fell back upon the operating table, the audible cracking of his skull causing him to lose consciousness. Leaving the Captain’s weapon protruding from the surgeon’s neck, I took up my own spoon and thrust the handle deeply into Dr. Greavesly’s stomach. Much to our collective surprise, he opened his eyes and roared, blood spurting from his throat. The others pinned down the surgeon’s arms and legs; even with his tremendous strength, he could not overpower us all. Before I could finish the task, the Captain leapt onto the table, grasped the spoon I had left standing upright in the Doctor’s stomach, and pulled it downwards, slicing through the length of his abdomen. With one last, guttural howl, Dr. Greavesly’s head fell back.
At last able to devote our complete attention to the Superintendent, we must take extra care. By any standards the cleverest of the three doctors, he was far more likely to have planned a defense that might actually succeed. Wiping our bloody hands upon our shifts, we dashed up the stairs to the Medical Floor, then towards Doctor Stockill’s chamber door, followed by a growing swarm of Plague Rats. Their long teeth shone red in the gaslight; they had been aiding the other inmates in finishing off the staff, and now they had come for their prize. After all, they bore as much grievance against Dr. Stockill as did any of us.
I requested Sir Edward station the League just outside the door, keeping the inmates at a safe distance. Basil, who had observed the Superintendent more closely than any living soul, objected to my going in alone, but I beseeched him to let me be. I felt certain that, when confronting Dr. Stockill, a crowd would do more harm than good.
There was no sound from within the chamber, but I knew he was there—I could smell him. Gently, I turned the latch and found the door unlocked; somehow, I had known it would be. I walked upon my toes, steeling myself for the inevitable shock the Doctor may try and give me at any moment. The chamber was filled with that same almond scent I had been exposed to only hours before, and now knew the deadly significance of. The boards creaked beneath my feet, the sound amplified a thousandfold to my anxious ears. I stared in all directions, but saw no one. Then, the door slammed shut; I raised my spoon and spun round to find Dr. Stockill standing close behind me.
A ghastly, distorted smile twisted the corners of his cruel mouth. Despite his disordered appearance, he no longer raged, and this worried me more than had he attacked me violently.
‘W14A,’ he said, seating himself at his desk, the very same from behind which he had first interrogated me. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come . . . I rather expected you would. It seems we have the matter of our future to discuss.’
I had the sharpened spoon handle pointed towards the Doctor still, but he paid it no regard. Instead, using a delicate glass dropper, he dispensed a clear liquid into a large vial. Without looking up, he nodded towards the high-backed chair, the one with the leather straps hanging from the back.
‘No one’s head may be higher than—’
‘Why haven’t you killed me?’ I interrupted, startled at the words I had not intended to say, but now, now that I held a weapon and could have set upon the Doctor quite easily, now I must know. ‘Why have you kept me alive all these years?’
Dr. Stockill raised his eyes.
‘Oh, but I have not kept you alive at all. Far from it, in fact.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I have repeatedly exposed you to a greater concentration of the virus I have long been developing than any other human being has ever withstood. And still you live.’
‘I have never lived.’
‘You existed, then.’
‘So your cure is effective. Was that not your desire?’
‘I never administered the cure. You never contracted the disease.’
‘Why?’
‘If I knew that, I would be more powerful than any man alive, and you would be dead. You are the only reason the world has not yet experienced my greatest creation. Any resistance in the population renders my formula useless. They,’ he gestured towards the door, ‘are the population. You are that resistance. What makes you different from the others, W14A?’
‘I am no different.’
‘Then how do you do it?’
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘Nor do I. And that is precisely why we must continue.’
‘Continue?’
‘Most certainly. Until I can prove my plague to be fatal against a person of great resistance, meaning yourself, it is not complete. However, I am feeling quite optimistic about my latest alterations to the formula. Now, you’ve made rather a mess of my institution—we clearly cannot remain here. Come away with me now, and I will spare your associates.’
‘Spare them? You are outnumbered, Doctor. You always were. And they are very unlikely to spare you.’
‘I suspected you might say as much. But, you see, W14A, they will have no choice.’
He lifted the vial he had been measuring and swirled it over the flame of a low taper. The liquid began to bubble; a curl of sapphire smoke floated towards the rafters. The scent of almonds burned my nostrils.
‘Within minutes, a vapor will be released from this room that will fatally poison the blood of every living creature within this structure.’
‘That would be suicide, Doctor, an act previously incomprehensible to yourself.’
‘Oh, but that’s rather your sport.’
Placing the vial in a wire hanger suspended above the flame, Dr. Stockill lifted a mask—very like the long-snouted headpiece he had worn whilst stalking the disease-ridden corridors, but with additional tubes and filters to protect against the scourge his smoking cyanide threatened to dispense to us now. He unbuckled the straps in preparation.
‘Let’s play our game . . .’ I said.
‘You haven’t long.’
‘Where would we go?’
‘The clock is ticking, W14—’
‘What will we do?’
‘I will determine what is keeping you alive.’
‘What will you take?’
‘I shall take only what I need.’
‘What do you need?’
‘Oh, I am quite prepared. I need only you, and my . . .’
The Doctor’s eyes passed from mine to an area beyond my shoulder, where they lingered. Turning my head to see what it was that had deserved his attention, I spotted, upon a bench near the window, a ubiquitous Gladstone bag of black leather, such as all men of medicine use to transport their tools and tonics.
I turned back to the Doctor and found him staring directly at me. His eyes widened, and, in the same instant, we both lunged for the bag. In his haste to rise, he had toppled the bubbling vial, his cyanide no longer an immediate t
hreat. Reaching the bag before him, I closed my fingers round the handle and held it to my chest. Had I wished to, I could have tossed the thing from the window at once. Cautiously, Dr. Stockill stepped back.
Sheathing my spoon in the strap upon my thigh, I snapped open the bag to find two large bottles of amber glass. I withdrew one of them, and set the bag down again.
‘Which is this, then? The disease or the cure?’
‘Put that down.’
‘Or is there much of a difference?’
‘I said, put that down.’
I removed the stopper and tilted the bottle downwards, allowing a thin stream to trickle out, spattering the floor.
‘All right . . . all right . . . just . . . stop. Put the bottle down, and I will find another way . . .’
I let spill another drop of the liquid.
‘Leave this place. I’ll send you off with more money than you could spend in a hundred lifetimes. Take your whores with you, if you wish it. Just leave me the bottle and get out.’
Without a sound, the door opened a sliver, just enough for Sir Edward, followed by Basil and the rest of the rats, to creep unheard into the Doctor’s chamber.
‘You can’t save everyone, W14A. Stop trying.’
I watched over Dr. Stockill’s shoulder as the swarm of rodents swam up the legs of the tables, onto the shelves, even up the chains to the gaslights hanging overhead.
‘You hesitate,’ said the Doctor. ‘Be wise, W14A.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ I snapped. ‘I have a name. I have a NAME!’
‘Shhh . . . be wise, Emily, Emily with no history, and no last name, and no one . . . you’ve come this far. Why would you end it all now? Leave this place, and you could have the whole world.’
‘I don’t want the whole world. I want Veronica back.’
‘Who?’ he asked, blankly.
At this final offense, I held the bottle out to him and spread my fingers wide. With the crashing of glass, the life’s work of Dr. Stockill was soaking the floor, running in rivulets along the cracks between the boards before seeping into the wood and out of his reach forever.
The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls Page 21
