The Long Count

by JM Gulvin

  Aware of a chill working through him Quarrie turned from the window once more.

  ‘Nancy,’ he said, ‘I got a question for you. Where was Ishmael born?’

  *

  Isaac woke to the light from a single, flickering candle. Blinking slowly he peered left and right, taking in the shadows of a room. Brow furrowed deeply, he seemed to contemplate the way the ceiling hung as if the walls labored under the weight. He was sitting in a worn-out chair in front of an empty fire where aged ashes gathered in flakes of gray. A plethora of unlit candles coating the hearth with strings of calcified wax, he sat very still, aware of the sound of rain falling on the roof.

  Turning round in the chair he considered the rest of the room, all in shadow, some darker, some lighter; an old woodstove and beyond it opaque-looking panes of glass.

  On his feet he could see something staining the floor. Unable to make it out, he reached for the lighted candle and held it aloft. Marks leading from the door to the chairs then all the way back to the door. Boot prints; he recognized the tread from the patch of earth Quarrie had shown him outside the Bellevue wall.

  From the doorway he could barely pick out where the woodland stopped and the perimeter of the hospital began. Rain was falling and the wind seemed to skate through the trees.

  ‘Mom?’ he called. ‘Are you out there, Mother? Are you there?’

  No answer. Nobody returned his call.

  Hurriedly, he made his way along the path with one arm outstretched like a blind man until he came to the gap in the wall. On the other side he could just about see where the ruin was squatting against the partially clouded sky. Rain still fell but with the way the wind was blowing those clouds were moving away. ‘Mom?’ he yelled. ‘Where are you? Where are you, Mother? Are you there?’

  Still she did not reply. No voice lifting through the darkness, he hesitated for a moment, his already faded uniform soaking up water as his eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness. Halfway to the building he scanned the facade as far as the night would allow. He called out again but still there was no reply. He was about to go on when he heard a sound on the path behind.

  *

  Ishmael studied the shadow that was his father’s sedan. At the corner of the building he rested a shoulder against the burned and rotten boards. From there he scanned the grounds very carefully before he crossed to the car. Rooting around in the glove box he located a flashlight but did not switch it on. He just crouched by the door and stared at the building where the roof was gone and the upper stories were supported by the pillars below. His gaze travelled from those pillars to the second floor and the fifth window out from the door. For a little while longer he remained where he was, then shot a glance back along the path. Finally, with rain beginning to fade now, he started for the entrance once more.

  At the top step he halted, taking in the darkness of the wood where it had burned. A hint of kerosene still lacing the air, he peered into the deeper shadow left by the missing doors. Inside the lobby he flicked on the flashlight, though only for a moment so he could pick out the flight of stairs.

  His back to the wall he kept to the right of each step as he made his way up to the second floor. On the landing he paused, the broken-down wall ahead of him and the twin sets of doors either side. Again he cast a little light, the doors intact as if the fire hadn’t bothered them at all. He listened, hearing nothing at first, but then he caught the sound of her voice, a sort of mewling cry that only became recognizable as a human sob when he pushed open the door.

  Gaze fixed on the corridor, he hovered where the hallway seemed to drip with shadow. He could hear her crying clearly and the sound was pathetic and lost. It was even more fearful now. At the empty doorway he paused. She was at the window, hands half lifted above her head where he had bound them to the bars. When she realised he was there the crying stopped.

  Switching on the flashlight Ishmael cast the beam across all four walls. Every inch of space covered in faded scribblings of stick children, he stared for a minute or more. He did not say anything. Clara did not say anything; she just hunched where she was. His gaze falling on her finally, Ishmael worked his elbow across the grips of the Colt in his jeans and hefted the shotgun in his palm where the duct tape was beginning to wear.

  He shut off the flashlight and darkness settled the room. Deliberately he picked his way past the broken-down frame of the bed and Clara shrank back. He could not pick out her features, the white of her face hidden by the weight of her hair.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ she said.

  Ishmael did not reply. Rain fell on the world outside and he just stood there looking down. Then he stepped away. Standing a few paces back he cocked his head to one side.

  ‘You know I killed my dad.’ His voice seemed to echo in the confines of the room. ‘I guess Isaac figured it out otherwise why else would you be here? I know he’s home. I saw him. I knew he was back from the war.’ His voice seemed to fade into the darkness for a moment, then he spoke again. ‘He shouldn’t have done what he did. The old man, he had me brought down here and he knew what would happen and he should never have done what he did.’

  He stood over Clara for a moment then he sat down heavily on the floor. Shotgun over his knees he looked across the room where stick-children gathered to stare.

  ‘I asked him where you were. I asked him but he wouldn’t tell me. I asked Ms Gavin but she wouldn’t tell me either and I got so mad I started the fire.’ He shook his head. ‘Didn’t mean to do that, or at least I never meant for the records to burn. Ms Gavin, she took off right after but I followed her. I knew where it was she went. I left her alone. I let her be and went home. I went to see Dad to ask him where you were, but he wouldn’t tell me so I had no choice but to go back for her.’

  ‘Ishmael,’ Clara cut in, ‘why’re you telling me this? What do you want?’

  He looked coldly at her then. ‘I’m telling you so you know how it’s been. What do I want? I want you, Clara. That’s what I want.’

  Through the gloom he stared. ‘Ms Gavin it was who admitted me.’ He spoke now as if to himself. ‘She was the one did the paperwork, though Nurse Nancy was with her and Mr Briers, the orderly who looked after the dogs. Nice to me he was to begin with, had him those three or four hound dogs, told me how he’d let them loose if any of the inmates broke out. He said there was no better trail dog than a Walker hound, not a Blackmouth or Catahoula Cur.’ He fell silent again then he said, ‘I never got to Nurse Nancy. I saw her, wanted to get to her, but she was with another nurse and I had Briers already in the car. I guess talking to her would’ve been a whole lot easier than talking to him but when your mind is set on a thing …’ In the darkness he shrugged. ‘Anyway, Briers didn’t know where you were at; he said he didn’t know who you were.’

  ‘Did you kill him too?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  Clara started to sob.

  ‘Knock that off.’

  Another cry broke from her in a half-labored sort of cough.

  ‘Quit that, woman, I said.’

  Sitting there with his heels scraping the floor and his back against the wall Ishmael was just a few paces from where Clara was tied.

  ‘I planned on bringing you down here myself, but Isaac got there ahead of me and I don’t know why he’d think to do that. Double-bluff or something I suppose. I’ll bet he didn’t figure on me coming down here as well though, did he? Second guessing him like that. He forgets how it used to be when we were kids. I always knew what he was thinking, no matter what.’ He shifted his weight where he sat. ‘Isaac doesn’t know what this place means though, does he? Not unless Dad told him and I doubt he would’ve done that. He has no idea what’s been going on. He joined the army; a Bowen in the service because that’s how it’s always been.’ His voice died for a moment before he went on. ‘It should’ve been me though, right? On account of I was a Bowen long before him.’

  No more sobs now, Clara had gone very still.

&nbs
p; ‘It wasn’t just him though, was it, Clara? I was a Bowen long before you.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Clara cried. ‘Isaac – what happened to him?’

  He did not answer. Chin on his chest and the shotgun still on his knees he stared at the walls and the frame of the bed. ‘I was a Bowen before any of you, though the old man had no account of me.’

  ‘Is that what you think? Is that what you really believe?’

  ‘You weren’t there. When he’d had a few drinks, you didn’t hear the things he said.’

  ‘What happened to you, Ishmael? You have to tell me. I can help you. What happened to you back then?’

  Still he sat. Gaze peeling across the walls, perspiration ran on his brow. ‘Do you know what they did to me here?’

  Clara did not reply.

  ‘Dad’s idea it was.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ she said. ‘Dr Beale told me what happened. After the fire he called and told me what’d happened and it was not your father’s idea.’ Her tone was almost angry now. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know about it. I had no idea. If I had I’d have told them you weren’t ready for that.’

  ‘Dad thought I was,’ Ishmael said. ‘Maybe it wasn’t his idea but he knew what Beale planned to do and he was happy to let him go ahead. I’ve seen the papers: how he signed me out of Houston and let them bring me down here.’ He wrinkled his lip. ‘Well, now Beale is dead and for all his talk he didn’t know what he was dealing with.’

  He sat for a while working the points of his fingers into his eyes. ‘I’m not bad,’ he said. ‘Not a bad man. I’m not a killer; at least not on purpose anyway.’

  ‘I know that, Ish.’ Her voice came to him gently through the darkness then.

  ‘Do you?’ He looked over to where she crouched. ‘Do you really?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘So why leave out? Why take off on us when you did?’

  ‘You know why. You know what happened. You’re the only one who does.’

  ‘What’re you talking about?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. If you think about it you can remember. You were there, Ishmael: you’re the only one who was.’

  Ishmael shook his head. ‘That’s what Beale kept telling me. That’s what he’d say when we’d sit down and he’d try and get me to talk. But I couldn’t get my head around it. I didn’t know what it was he wanted me to say.’

  Breaking off for a breath, he went on. ‘They never should’ve brought me here. They never should’ve done what they did. OK, so Dad didn’t want to deal with me and you were gone, but I was all right. I was doing all right. In Houston I was doing OK.’

  ‘No,’ Clara said. ‘You weren’t. You were getting worse and worse, you were just like …’

  ‘Just like what?’

  She was silent.

  ‘Come on, say it. Just like what, Clara? Or is the word I’m looking for who?’

  With an effort he got to his feet. Working the grips of the pistol around in his waistband again, he unbuttoned his jacket and let it hang loose. ‘When I think about it I should’ve let Briers be and squeezed the life out of Nancy instead. You and the old man, Nurse Nancy, the three of you conspiring the way you did.’

  ‘Ishmael,’ she said. ‘You have to believe me, darling. It’s not how you think it was.’

  ‘Don’t call me that,’ he snapped. ‘Don’t you call me that; I’m not your darling. Isaac’s your darling. I’m nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Where is he?’ she cried. ‘What happened to Isaac? For heaven’s sake, what did you do?’

  Pacing the floor he had his head down and she could not make out his face. ‘You haven’t seen her, have you? In all these years you haven’t seen her once.’ Dropping to one knee he reached out and gripped her chin. ‘I hadn’t seen her till they brought me down here. I had no idea who she was.’ He stared right into her eyes. ‘So imagine this. Dad tells me that Dr Beale is going to help me now because all those other doctors in Houston have got their diagnosis wrong. He swings by the sanatorium to tell me and that’s something he’s never done. Visit with me, I’m talking about. You know the old man, Clara: he likes to hole up in that big old house by himself. Have you seen it? Have you been there, right up in the grassland all on its own? Everything is just so. Everything is shipshape like he’s in the service still. He did the remodel himself. He even made a storm shelter all stacked with food and water in case of a hurricane or something, I saw the plans before he put it in. You should see the place, a room under the garage with a passage that leads to the house.’ Breaking off suddenly he cocked his head. ‘You hear that?’ he said. ‘I thought I heard something. Did you hear that?’

  Moving to the door he stepped out into the corridor to take a look and then he came back. Again the silence took him and he sat cross-legged against the wall.

  ‘So anyway, there I am in Houston and here’s Dad and this young doctor I’ve never seen before. Told me his name was Beale and he worked a bunch of hospitals and he knew how to help me once and for all.’ He threw out a hand. ‘I don’t know what they think is wrong with me. There isn’t anything wrong with me. I tried to tell you that before you left. I tried to tell Dad but neither of you would listen. Only Isaac ever listened. It was always him and me.’

  Clara was weeping. Working her hands across the bars she shifted her position so she could see him where he was hunched against the wall. Outside the rain had stopped and the moon was out and a pale glimmer spread across the half-burned floor. Blinking through tears she could see the scribblings, the bed frame and the corridor beyond the door.

  ‘Dr Beale,’ Ishmael went on. ‘He brought me down here and I talked to Ms Gavin and I had no idea Dad knew her from before. I talked to Nurse Nancy and Briers let me play with the dogs.’ Lifting a hand he gestured. ‘I had my own room and they didn’t even lock me in. It wasn’t a bad deal actually, what with the dogs and the woods and all.’ His voice had dropped an octave. ‘The patients were all right too, some of them anyway: they worked the garden and a couple of them helped the caretaker with his chores.’ Lifting a hand he bent his little finger at the knuckle and held it to the moonlight so it looked as though part of it was gone. ‘I’d seen him before. He never knew it and I never told him, but I’d seen that old man before.’

  He fell silent again, sitting with his chin on his chest. From the window Clara peered at him, trying to penetrate the gloom.

  ‘What was I talking about?’ Ishmael said. ‘Oh yeah: how they brought me down here, the patients and everything.’ Switching on the flashlight he panned it across the walls.

  *

  Quarrie saw the light from the hospital gates. A few moments earlier he had driven the length of the causeway with no headlamps burning and made it as far as the drive. As he opened the car door he picked out that snatch of brightness coming from the second floor. He reached for his gunbelt where it lay on the passenger seat. Buckling it around his waist he slipped the hammer clips off and eased both pistols halfway out of their holsters before allowing them to settle once more.

  *

  Ishmael stared at Clara where she cowered, her gaze shifting from his shadow to the drawings on the walls.

  ‘This was her room,’ he said as he turned off the torch. ‘This was where she slept and this was where Nurse Nancy showed up one night with a couple of orderlies all those years ago.’ He fell silent, ears pricked as if he heard something from outside again. On his feet he went to the window and peered through the bars.

  ‘It’s remote here, miles from anywhere. They told me this used to be a rich man’s place. He died though, he died and it was a hospital after, and far enough away from anybody else for it not to be a problem if any of the nut-jobs escaped.’ Turning from the window he looked down. ‘Well, one of them did, Clara. One of them got away.’

  *

  Quarrie thought he caught a glimpse of a shadow as it appeared at the window above. Fleeting, no more than a whisper, moonlight breaking the clouds, he w
as working his way across the lawn.

  *

  Upstairs Ishmael dropped to his haunches in front of Clara. She twisted her head away but he gripped her chin a second time.

  ‘The old man’s idea,’ he said, ‘or maybe it was Dr Beale; but whoever it was they brought me down here and let me settle in. They let me wander around, but always with Briers there to keep an eye on me. He showed me those dogs; let me fuss over them. Between him and Beale, Nurse Nancy, they let me settle in.

  ‘Then one night they came to my room. I don’t know what’s going on because nobody’s telling me, but they walk me around back of this building right past the office and kerosene store. Briers, he brings me into this corridor and as I pass this one room I see the door is open and there’s Ms Gavin from the office along with Nancy McClain. I see Nurse Nancy has a tray of meds and Ms Gavin’s got a tape recorder all set up and I don’t think anything of it till Briers brings me into the next room.’ Breaking off then he curled his lip. ‘That orderly, he sits me down at a table with two chairs and another under a mirror against the wall. On the table there’s a pack of playing cards like the old man used to keep but never play.’

  Still he held Clara by the chin, keeping her eyes fixed on his. ‘Dad wasn’t there but he knew what was going on. He told me that much when I asked him and that was just before I shot him on account of how he wouldn’t tell me any more.’ Taking the pistol from his belt he pressed the barrel against Clara’s skull. She gave a squeal, a little whimper, and he could feel her shaking where he pinched her skin.

  ‘He didn’t squirm. He didn’t cry out. He didn’t do anything at all. He just stared into nothing like he didn’t give a shit. His own gun, I squeezed that trigger. I squeezed that trigger then I sat him up where he flopped in the chair.’