It was raining again. She missed crisp, cold December mornings as January settled in. It was miserable on the island when it rained and she was sure that the boatman didn’t deliver provisions as often as he normally did, food rations seemed to be less than normal, for everyone. The postman too was conspicuous by his absence, and she was growing further agitated at the lack of correspondence from home, having noticed that Europe was indeed on the brink of war from a newspaper left lying about. It was even more essential to get in touch with her parents, with Albert, to find out how they all were, whether her father had recovered from his chest infection, if her brother had been stationed and where. The need to return home was also becoming more pressing, lest travel soon became impossible.
In-between her work on the ward, she kept regular watches on Dr Gritti’s office, making whatever excuses she could throughout the day to keep popping down to the ground floor, to try and find a pattern of when he did and didn’t occupy it. She’d asked Enrico to ask his uncle if she could use the telephone but he’d been fobbed off with Dr Gritti saying that he ‘doubted very much a connection to London could be made from the island at this time.’ Wanting to put the international exchange to the test herself, she’d decided she’d go in there when he and Enrico were on their rounds. She remembered the number to quote well enough, as she had spent enough time typing it onto correspondence.
The opportunity to do so came quite suddenly. It was a Monday morning and she knew for a fact that Dr Gritti and Enrico would be in the high security wing, tending to patients, Enrico had told her that much the previous evening. She’d been concerned about him going into work at all. He’d appeared feverish again, his dark eyes glittering strangely, but he’d said there was nothing wrong with him. Torn between insisting he take a day off and seizing her chance, she’d decided on the latter.
Poised at the door of the doctor’s office, she hesitated, feeling like a thief who was breaking and entering. The door wasn’t locked, so there was no breaking at least – Dr Gritti perhaps a little too arrogant in thinking no one would dare to go in there during his absence. Checking there was no one around her, she slipped inside.
The only time she’d been in here before was on the day they’d first arrived. It was exactly the same; as neat, as orderly, as precise – reflecting his personality she thought. He was a precise man, cold too, despite being charismatic. This hospital was his kingdom, he ruled it, but maybe it was with fear rather than respect. Did she respect him? His obvious medical skills perhaps, but his bedside manner, his insistence on doping the patients so they were barely more than vegetables, his dismissal of her when she’d been attacked; those were qualities she didn’t favour. Did Enrico respect him? Enormously. She could never voice her true opinion of his uncle, he’d never agree. Little matter it all was, they’d be off the island soon, they’d be home, she’d focus on what she came here to do – make contact – and then she’d start insisting they leave for good.
Crossing over to the telephone, she lifted the receiver and waited to be connected to the operator. When a female voice answered, she spoke in low clear tones. The operator was speaking back to her, her voice so faint, that even if they’d both been speaking English, she doubted she’d be understood.
“London,” Charlotte kept saying. “Can you connect me to an office in London?”
“Numero, per favore?”
Numbers, the operator was asking for numbers. Charlotte recited it only to be greeted with what sounded like ‘scusa’ – pardon me? She recited them again, loud and clear, hoping the operator’s grasp of a foreign language surpassed hers. As her voice rang out, she glanced nervously at the door, praying she wouldn’t attract anyone.
There was silence on the other end – only for a few moments but it seemed longer. Time was so different on the island. It lingered, minutes melting into each other and stretching into eternity. A shiver danced along her spine. She had a sudden premonition: that’s how long she’d be here – for an eternity, if she couldn’t get through to London, if she couldn’t persuade Enrico to leave… There was a ringing tone! She’d been patched through! She could hardly believe her luck. She’d find out news of what was happening in London, be able to pass a message to Albert and her parents. She’d speak to someone English. She’d be understood. The deceit of her actions was worth it if this was the result.
Hurry! Hurry! Please hurry.
More time passed.
Someone answer the telephone!
Still it rang.
Please!
It went dead; no more ringing tone, no crackling even. “Hello! Hello!” she cried but received no reply.
She dared to sink into the doctor’s chair, and, having to steady her fingers, tried again. This time even getting through to the operator was impossible making her wonder if she’d imagined it before. Tears filled her eyes. So near and yet so far… like this damned island.
Reluctantly she replaced the receiver. As much as she cared for the patients here, she’d have to insist to Enrico that they leave sooner rather than later – she simply had to be out in the real world again, be a part of it. If he didn’t agree, she’d leave anyway, go back to England and wait for him there. Maybe she could even pave the way for him, source what vacancies there were in the medical world. As she’d said, in London, especially in the current time, there’d be plenty of opportunities.
Trying to find solace in that plan, she started to rise from the desk when something caught her eye. A desk drawer to the right was slightly ajar. She sat back down, and, unable to resist, reached out to pull it further open. It was a mishmash of papers, not neat at all, but haphazard. Curious, she pulled open the drawer to the left too, again it was stuffed, this time with a jumble of office necessities, pens, scissors, rulers, a stapler, staples. Pulling open another drawer, and another, it was the same with each of them. She stood up and went to a filing cabinet located on the far wall; there was no system to anything, no attempt whatsoever at order. Was this a more honest reflection of Dr Gritti’s personality: composed on the outside but inside a mess.
You’ve been living too long in a mental asylum! Despite her despair, the thought made her laugh. She most certainly had! She was getting jumpy about everything. About to close the drawer, something else stood out. One of the letters lying amidst so many others at the bottom of the filing cabinet looked familiar. The more she stared at it, the more recognisable it became. Stooping, she grabbed it. No wonder – it was her handwriting! This was the first letter she’d written on Poveglia, the one informing Albert and her parents of her new address. What was it doing here? Why hadn’t it been sent? Holding it in one hand, she sifted through more of the drawer’s contents, her hands seizing upon another of her letters, then a third and a fourth – none had been sent!
Snatching them up in a bundle she stood, swaying with a mixture of emotions – anger but something else too, the first real stirrings of fear. Had Dr Gritti intercepted them? If so, why? Enrico would be horrified when she told him. She’d take them with her, thrust them under his nose, and then he’d have no choice but to agree that they leave. His uncle couldn’t be trusted, not if he could do this: withhold correspondence. That was why Albert or her parents hadn’t written to her, they didn’t know where she was! But surely they’d have written to Enrico’s home address in Venice, why hadn’t Stefania forwarded them? Or had she, and they’d been intercepted too, in which case they’d be here. She’d have more evidence to condemn him with.
Placing the letters on top of the filing cabinet she started working her way through the drawers again, this time more carefully, determined to find them. There were more letters, but who’d written them or whom they were addressed to remained a mystery, she could barely speak Italian, let alone read it. And notes, there was a copious amount of loose notes, some with diagrams attached to them, hand-crafted, crude drawings – the head, the brain, the torso, arrows pointing to various points, the writing beneath each arrow not neat but barely legible; a
scrawl only discernible to its owner. Dr Gritti? It had to be.
She could find nothing more that related to her, nothing she could understand anyway. Straightening, she looked in the top drawer again; here there were notebooks in amongst papers and news articles, all it seemed, medically inclined. The limitations of her linguistic ability frustrated her but at least she’d found her own property – it was enough to start building a case with. There was no way the letters had been ‘accidentally’ detained. Dr Gritti had stolen them. Or he’d given someone the order to steal them.
“Damn him!”
How dare he do such a thing! Her parents must be worried sick, her brother too. And the feeling was reciprocal. God, she hoped they were safe.
Not knowing whether to scream or cry, she resolved to get out of his office and find her husband. As she took deep breaths to calm herself, she noticed she still had one of the notebooks in her hand. Not a notebook as such, it was more of a ledger, thin with a dark blue cover. Curiosity getting the better of her, she opened it. Inside, words were scrawled in a series of columns, of which there were four to a page. Delaying her plan to take flight, she tried to decipher the words in front of her. Each column looked to contain a name and beside each name, in the second column, was more detailed writing comprising at least three or four sentences. The third column contained a date – the ledger was first started on 23rd October 1936 – and in the fourth column there was a single word only – morto.
Her eyes ran down the length of the fourth column where that word was repeated over and over – morto – dead. That’s what that word meant, that the person named in the first column had died. She turned the pages, not all of them were filled in the same way. Some pages had notes scrawled all over them before the user returned to its intended use – diligently filling out the columns again – one page even had a huge black X marked on it, the paper torn slightly as if it had been drawn in temper. Again there were columns filled out, again the word ‘morto’. Her eyes flicked to the names of the people who’d died – tried to decipher them – Renata Cantu, Violetta Fabbri, Agnolo Piovene. Dispensing with their surnames, she continued – Adaline, Guido, Domenica, Jacopo, Marzia, Stefano… So many people, such lyrical names, all dead, but how, and by whose hand?
Her heart pounding, she flicked to the back pages, to more recent dates, and ran her gaze down the length of the columns – searching. When she found what she was looking for, what she suspected, her heart seemed to stop. Luigina Morosini, the date 24th December 1938. There were some words in the third column and then a word in the fourth column – morto. She was dead, had died the day before Christmas, Luigina, who, although disturbed, appeared well enough physically. Murdered – at the doctor’s hand, and perhaps… she could barely bring herself to think it, at her husband’s too. That’s why he hadn’t come to help her; he and his uncle had been dealing with Luigina, treating her ‘appropriately’. She was no longer subdued and they were taking further action.
Catarina!
She was no longer subdued either, and the ward nurse had noticed. Had she gone running to Dr Gritti, informed him?
She’d seen enough. Throwing the notebook back in the drawer and slamming it shut, Charlotte grabbed her letters and turned towards the door, determined to go to the ward first and make sure that Catarina was all right, that she hadn’t been taken away. She’d be there. She had to be there. And there’d be an explanation for Luigina’s death, one that was tolerable. The man she loved was not a murderer and nor would he collude with one.
About to bolt forward, she stopped. There was movement outside the door! Through the glass panel she could see an outline, small, neat, and feminine. The woman – one of the nurses – had been passing but came to a standstill and was looking towards the office. Had it been the slamming of the cabinet drawer that had alerted her? Charlotte berated herself. You’ve drawn attention to yourself! Small mercy that it wasn’t Dr Gritti but even so she’d have to explain why she was in his office, what she had in her hands, and it would get back to him – everything got back to him – the man with too much power.
The nurse walked towards the door, slowly, tentatively, began to turn the handle and, as she did, Charlotte could only stand and stare, her mind having gone blank, refusing to even think of a reason. She was caught, as helpless as the patients, as Luigina, as all the names she’d just read, as Catarina. She screwed her eyes shut – a childish ploy she knew: if she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her – and waited.
“Agata, Agata, vieni immediatamente in sala da prarizo, c’e un problema.”
She opened her eyes; someone was calling the nurse! The handle stopped turning, the door didn’t open and the figure retreated. She hadn’t realised she was holding her breath until it burst from her. She had to get out of here, check on Catarina – and then she’d find her husband, tell him about the letters, ask about Luigina, make plans to leave, to return to her family she loved and missed more than ever. Folding the letters, she stuffed them into her pocket, opened the door, checked the way was clear and then softly closed it behind her.
Impatient, she took the stairs to the second floor two at a time, noticing as she did just how shabby the paintwork was, the cobwebs that had been allowed to gather and the dirt congealing in dark corners. She’d always thought of the wards as sparse but now, as she stood in the doorway to the one she worked in, they seemed cruelly so. Even flowers would have been a gesture, some simple flowers. But then where would they have come from? She’d seen none on the island. Flowers wouldn’t grow here. The scales were dropping from her eyes; it was as though she could see properly for the first time since arriving. She focused on Catarina’s bed – Catarina’s empty bed, and her breathing quickened. Catarina rarely left her bed; it was her world, her place of safety – the case with so many patients. Even their ‘business’ was performed on a bedpan. She should be in her bed.
She walked over to one of the nurses and asked about her whereabouts.
The nurse didn’t even bother to look at her as she replied. “Gone.”
“Where has she gone?”
“Gone,” the nurse repeated before she turned and walked away.
Chapter Twenty
Hurrying from the ward, Charlotte almost knocked another auxiliary down.
“Sorry, so sorry,” she blustered before hurrying onwards. She needed to find the high security wing. That’s where Dr Gritti and Enrico were and where Catarina had been taken.
Weaving in and out of corridors, all identical to one another, venturing deeper into the building, the only thing different was the atmosphere. On her ward it was peaceful, even if it was an enforced peace, here she could feel something in the air: emotions swirled furiously around. There were so many, some she could identify with: confusion, grief, upset, and others that were so dark, so alien, she couldn’t understand them at all – extreme emotions. What had happened since her last shift? Had Catarina drawn even more attention to herself, become violent even, like Luigina had? She couldn’t imagine it, not Catarina, not her friend. The night nurse had obviously reported her, but she still couldn’t understand why. What was so wrong with one of the patients having a moment of lucidity? Also, a couple of weeks had passed since the incident. If it concerned them so much, why not take her sooner? Questions, questions, so many reared up in her mind, all demanding answers. She had to find out what had happened, confront Enrico further and his uncle.
As she walked, the lighting above failed slightly, began to flicker, like a warning almost – turn back, turn back – but she couldn’t, not until she knew her charge was safe.
A sound brought her up short. It was high-pitched, coming from further up. The hair on her arms stood to attention, even the hair on her scalp tingled as she broke into a run again, her feet carrying her along, into the heart of the hospital. The heart? No. If Catarina was right, this part of the asylum didn’t have a heart, or if it did, it was rotten to the core.
Almost stumbling she was runn
ing so fast, she started calling out Catarina’s name. If they were doing something to her they had to stop. They couldn’t use people in such a way. It didn’t matter that they were ill they were still people.
“Catarina! Catarina! Where are you?”
Up ahead there was a pair of double doors, the only doors on an otherwise blank wall. Was that where the scream had come from? She hurled herself towards them, expecting them to be locked but they yielded easily to her touch. Standing still, she found herself in a large sterile looking room, the walls covered in light blue tiles. There were shelves too, rows and rows of them, filled with all manner of medical equipment. In one corner a wheelchair lay abandoned, whilst overhead the light flickered as it had done in the corridor, as if it too was agitated. The room wasn’t as sterile as she first thought; there was blood on the floor, not a huge amount but spots of it, trailing into a room beyond, which was hidden from view by a curtain. From behind it she could hear the shuffling of feet, more cries but muffled this time, dying out.
She moved forwards, determined to see what was happening, but, as she did, the curtains parted and Dr Gritti appeared, Enrico behind him, both wearing surgical gowns and masks covering the lower half of their faces. Her eyes travelling to Dr Gritti’s gloved hands, she saw there was blood on them too. This was a theatre, an operating theatre – a silent, secret place, hidden in the centre of that rotten heart.
“I… I heard someone screaming. Who is it?”
“You should not be here.” It was Dr Gritti who replied, Enrico seemed unable to speak – he just stared at her in disbelief – either that or horror, she couldn’t quite tell.
“I won’t leave, not until you tell me who is behind that curtain.”
“Turn around and go.” There was a definite threat in his voice.
“Where is Catarina Castelli? Have you taken her?”
“It is not your business.”
“She is my business!” Anger was rising in her now, not just because of Dr Gritti but because of Enrico, who was standing by him, not saying a word, just as he’d stood when his mother had burst in on them – doing nothing. She trained her gaze on him instead of his uncle, tried to provoke some sort of reaction. His eyes were glittering still, feverish – the same feverishness that was in Dr Gritti’s eyes. Not the result of illness, could it be excitement?
This Haunted World Book One: The Venetian: A Chilling New Supernatural Thriller Page 13
