The Girl Who Couldn't Read

by John Harding

  I was engrossed in this, completely absorbed by my task and oblivious to all else, when I felt a sudden chill. I don’t know if my ears had picked up some noise so slight I did not register it consciously, or if it was some so-called sixth sense. Most likely the latter, my primitive animal instinct for survival, which had always somehow gotten me through, even in the tightest of spots, or when I took the most foolhardy risks. Anyway, all at once I knew there was someone – or, and I shuddered to think this, something – behind me. Someone had come into the room and was right now almost upon my shoulder. I could feel his or her hot breath upon my neck.

  I was afraid to turn, dreading to encounter something supernatural. Yet that might be a blessing, I saw in a flash, because if it was Morgan, everything was lost. If he caught me here like this, he’d probably call the police and all would be up with me. There was complete silence and yet I knew someone was there, and moreover I had the certainty that whoever it was knew that I knew because I had interrupted my examination of the papers and was now sitting motionless. I spun the chair round and found myself staring into the face of a woman. And what a face! Her black hair was a wild storm around her head, and her eyes were red-hot coals, as if she had come straight from Hell to drag me back there with her, a place, it has to be said, where I most certainly belonged. Her skin was as white as a corpse’s and her lips as scarlet as arterial blood. As our eyes locked she cackled, thrust out her hands and grabbed me by the throat.

  I was paralysed. I could neither move nor think. Her nails were talons and bit into my flesh. She was tall and muscular and her arms strong as any man’s. Her huge hands squeezed my windpipe so hard I struggled for breath. I felt the life drain out of me. She let out another hideous laugh, sending a blast of foul breath into my face. I felt myself going under and knew I had to do something before I lost consciousness altogether. I swung my legs at her, made contact with my feet and pushed hard, so the chair toppled backwards and me with it as she was forced to release her grip. I was on my feet in an instant and as she came at me pushed the toppled chair at her so she fell over it. She managed to right herself and stood looking at me, coiled and ready to spring at me again.

  But she made no move. Instead she bared her teeth in something that was … what? A smile, yes, and an awful one, but not just that. A threat, but more than that too. Truth is, I’d never seen anything like that frightful expression on the face of man or beast and the courage I’d had a moment before vanished. I ducked as she made a feint with one of her hands toward me, but it wasn’t me that she was after. She carried on the move, sweeping her arm across the desk and toppling the candle. It caught the papers there and set them alight.

  She let out another dreadful laugh and then turned and ran out the door. I stood frozen to the spot, too terrified to have any notion of pursuing her. I was relieved when the door slammed shut behind her. I don’t know how long I stood like that – probably only a few seconds, although it seemed an eternity at the time. It was the fire that brought me to. Everything on Morgan’s desk was ablaze, the flames already a foot high. I tried to smother them with my hands but only got a burn for my trouble. It was a serious conflagration and if I couldn’t get it under control the whole house would be in danger. I slipped off a shoe and began frantically beating out the flames, as pieces of burning paper flew into the air and drifted to the floorboards. It must have been all of five minutes before I had the fire tamed and finally stamped out the last embers, plunging the room into darkness.

  It was then that I heard voices in the hall outside, and recognised Morgan and O’Reilly.

  ‘It’s your fault for leaving the door open,’ I heard him snap.

  ‘She’s as crafty as she is crazy,’ came the equally ill-tempered reply. ‘You try handling her, if you think it’s so easy. She can’t have gone far. I’ll have her back in a jiffy before anyone else is awake.’ I heard her footsteps hurrying off.

  The door was thrown open and light flooded into the room. Morgan stood in the doorway holding a lamp. His jaw dropped when he saw me. ‘Shepherd, I did not expect to find you.’

  I thought fast. ‘I – I heard a noise, sir. Footsteps outside my room and strange laughter. I thought one of the patients had escaped. I followed her down here. She attacked me. She knocked over my candle. I’m afraid it’s made a bit of a mess of your desk.’

  He stepped into the room and merely glanced at the desk. He didn’t seem too concerned about it, which shocked me; because of his obsession with neatness and order I’d have expected him to be angry or at least upset.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. What about you, man? Are you all right? It seems she got her claws into your face.’

  I felt my cheeks. The right one was wet with blood and I could feel a gash running its length. I made an attempt at a wry smile. ‘And I was just getting over my brush with the cab, too.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, distractedly. He walked over to the desk and set the lamp upon it.

  ‘Who was that woman?’ I asked.

  He flapped a hand in the air. ‘Oh, nobody. She’s just one of the – one of the – one of the patients from the secure ward. She’s given to these attacks. We have to watch her all the time. She’s wily, though. The worst combination, a highly intelligent, violent lunatic. It’s not the first time she’s done something like this. Anyway, nothing for you to concern yourself about. Do you want me to take a closer look at that cut? Doesn’t appear to be too deep.’

  ‘No, it’s OK. I’m sure it’s only a scratch.’

  ‘Well, then,’ he said, as he surveyed the charred debris on his desk, ‘I suggest you get yourself back to bed. Thank you for your intervention. If you hadn’t been so sharp, she might have burned the house down.’

  I didn’t point out the illogicality of this; the candle had been mine. ‘Can I help you clean up the mess?’

  ‘No, I’ll sort it out, thank you. Better get yourself some sleep. We have rounds at 8.07 tomorrow, remember.’

  As I went to leave, I glanced down at the desk. A piece of blackened paper caught my eye, a fragment about an inch square, the only surviving corner of a sheet of paper, the rest of it turned to ash. I could just make out the words ‘John Shepherd’ and below them the number ‘103’, obviously the beginning of an address, and below that the letters ‘Col’, which I took to be the beginning of ‘Columbus’.

  12

  It was only when I was back in my room and beginning to recover from my ordeal with the madwoman that I became aware of a pain in my hand and then remembered how I had burned it. Luckily the burn was small and it was my left hand anyway and even a greater injury wouldn’t have affected me too badly. Being right-handed, I would still have been able to write up my patients’ notes. I poured a little cold water into my basin and was just bathing the burn when I had a eureka moment, not in the bath like Archimedes, perhaps, but at least while bathing.

  Drying my hands quickly, I rushed over to my desk, took out paper and pen and began to write. I put the address of the hospital at the top of the page.

  My Dear Caroline,

  Thank you for your letter, which has only just reached me. I am sorry for not writing before but …

  As I wrote, though, something in the back of my mind niggled me. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t think what. And then it hit me. It was all too neat and would never convince. I screwed up the paper, tossed it into the wastebasket, took a fresh sheet, transferred the pen to my left hand, wrote out the hospital’s address once more and began again, writing with great difficulty, for I was not accustomed to using that hand anyway and now every letter hurt because my fingers were sore from the burn.

  My Dear Caroline

  Thank you for your letter, which reached me today. I am sorry not to have been able to write before. As you feared, I was on the train involved in the wreck and I was indeed injured. Before you become alarmed at this, let me assure you that none of my injuries is serious, life-threatening or permanently disabling. The main damage was to my han
ds. My right hand suffered some broken bones and is in a plaster cast, so will be of no use for some time. The left incurred severe bruising and a sprain to the thumb. It is only today that the bandages have been removed, enabling me to use it to write you. This will explain to you the unfamiliar script. It is deuced difficult to write with the wrong hand anyway and the bruising makes it well nigh impossible, but I wanted to ease your fears.

  I have to go now; the pain is too intense to continue longer.

  At this point I paused. I had no idea how to sign off. Would Shepherd have put his full name? Unlikely. ‘John’ alone seemed most probable but I couldn’t be certain. And what if he employed some pet name, or some secret symbol shared only between the two of them? In the end I decided on a simple ‘J’. The writing in the letter had grown increasingly shaky and illegible, partly deliberately, as an excuse for keeping it short, since the more I wrote the more I was likely to give myself away, but also because it was painful writing with my wounded left hand, increasingly so the longer I went on.

  I read the thing through once more and had almost decided it would do when it hit me like a freight train. A catastrophic error, nothing short of a complete giveaway. It was entirely possible that Shepherd had been left-handed. I could not believe my stupidity at not having thought of this, and could only put it down to all that I had been through this night and my fatigue. In spite of the pain, I made myself copy out the whole letter again, but substituting ‘my writing hand’ for ‘my right hand’ and ‘the other’ for ‘left’. When I’d finally done, and read it through, this seemed a bit stilted, but not enough to be odd to anyone who didn’t already suspect some deception.

  As far as I could see, there wasn’t anything more in the letter to arouse anyone’s suspicions. I had made the writing as much like printing as I could, devoid of any individual style. If nothing else, it would keep Caroline Adams off my back for a while and buy me some time, perhaps until I was ready to make my escape to the west, although that seemed unlikely, but if not, then at least until I could figure out what to do about her.

  Wanting to get the thing out of the way and not to have to think about it any more, and still being so enervated by the events of the last couple of hours, I decided I would take the letter down to the hall and put it into the mailbox. I screwed up the first two versions and tossed them in my wastebasket, put the finished letter in an envelope and addressed it. Dawn was well on its way and I figured I could manage the trip downstairs without a candle.

  I was at the top of the main stairs when I heard voices below. A man and a woman were arguing. Creeping slowly down the first flight of stairs, I made them out to belong to Morgan and O’Reilly. I had seen Morgan annoyed before, when I had seemed to criticise his therapeutic regime, but although he had been short with me then, he had never raised his voice. He was a man who liked to maintain control, not just of others and his environment, but also of himself. Why, on one occasion, he had gone off into his office especially to prevent himself giving vent to his anger, to put himself out of my presence until he cooled off. Now, though, he was positively yelling. What was even more surprising was that O’Reilly was giving as good as she got and yelling back.

  I tiptoed down to the first floor to try to find out what it was about.

  ‘It’s not what I pay you a fortune for,’ came Morgan’s voice.

  ‘I sometimes think there’s no amount of money could make it worth it,’ was O’Reilly’s reply.

  ‘Oh, well, if that’s your way, then I’m sure there are plenty who would disagree.’

  ‘That’s as maybe. But would they keep their tongues to themselves too?’

  At this Morgan grunted and then there was silence. Guessing the conversation was drawing to a close, I scuttled down the gloomy passage that led to the library and secreted myself in the dark recess of a doorway.

  I heard Morgan’s voice again. It was quieter now and I couldn’t make out the words, but all the anger had gone from his tone and he sounded resigned. A moment later I heard the door of his office open and close, and I watched from the shadows as O’Reilly headed for the staircase. I waited a little while, not daring to move in case Morgan came out too and caught me, which might make him wonder how much I had heard. After ten minutes he emerged and went up the stairs, with a weary tread not at all like his usual smart step. I waited a couple of minutes more until I was quite sure he was out of the way, then crept from my hiding place, posted my letter and went to bed myself, knowing even as I undressed that I had a rough night in store. I knew I would dream again of the chicken farm, as I always did when I was agitated, and of Caroline Adams, and without doubt, before I woke, I would feel the grip of the crazy woman’s fingers around my throat.

  13

  Next morning I was somewhat sluggish after the busy night I’d had and the disturbed sleep I’d passed, which had been every bit as bad as I’d anticipated. I was slow and ponderous in the carrying out of my duties. Morgan did not appear at breakfast and sent a note saying he would be occupied all day and would see me at dinner and asking that I manage things as best I could on my own.

  The extra workload meant it was afternoon before I even thought of poor Jane Dove. When I did, I saw it was nearly time for the exercise period and decided I’d collect her from her room and take her out myself, and coming across Eva on the stairs on her way to collect Jane, I told her she need not bother today, I would do it instead.

  When I knocked upon Jane’s door there was a momentary delay before she replied and bade me enter, only a second or two, but enough to make me wonder why. I opened the door and found her sitting in her armchair. Her hands were in her lap, clasping David Copperfield, which was closed. On the floor beside the chair was some embroidery, a cushion cover by the looks of it, evidently still in its infant stages.

  ‘Hello, what are you up to?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, I have been looking at the pictures in the book, sir, and now I am looking out the window.’

  This struck me as too pat but I let it pass.

  ‘And what stories have you made from the pictures so far?’

  She blushed. ‘Oh, nothing that would interest you, sir.’

  ‘On the contrary, I should very much like to hear about them.’

  She eyed me warily. She suspicioned me one, she would have said. ‘I have decided the people who live in the upside-down boat are seafaring folk. In my story they are simple fisherfolk.’

  ‘You see, you were wrong, because that is interesting. In the novel that’s exactly what they are. They’re called –’

  She held up a hand in protest. ‘No, sir, pray don’t tell me. If I know just a little of what the story is meant to be, it will restrict me in what I can invent. It will spoil it for me.’

  ‘Very well,’ I said.

  There was a pause. For want of something else to say, I picked up the embroidery from the floor. ‘I see Eva has been instructing you in sewing,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, she patients, but I’m afraid she is wasting her time. I have never been any good at needlework.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I said.

  This startled her. ‘How do I know?’ she repeated. She was flustered, as if the question had touched upon some buried memory. Her face was a struggle of trying to remember.

  ‘What is it?’ I said at last, hoping to free the memory for her.

  It was a mistake. In a moment her expression had resumed its composure. ‘Why, sir, just look at the confusion of stitchery in your hands. You only have to see that to know the person responsible was not and never will be able to work a needle.’

  At that moment the bell for exercise rang and I told her to get her shawl and come outside with me. When we were in the fresh air I tried to open up her thinking about her past life with remarks that I hoped would seem nothing more than idle conversation.

  ‘What do you think of the grounds here?’ I asked as we strolled toward the river.

  ‘They pleasant me,’ she replied simply.


  ‘Are you fond of the countryside?’

  ‘Is this the countryside, with the town just across the river?’

  ‘I was not necessarily talking about this place. I meant the countryside in general.’

  She considered this. ‘I like grass. And trees. But I unlike rooks. Spare me the cawing of rooks.’

  ‘What do you think of when you hear a rook?’ I said. ‘What do you see?’

  She looked me in the eye, a sardonic smile playing about her lips that seemed to say, You will not catch me out like that. ‘Why, what do you expect me to see? I see a black bird with a black beak, which is why you will never see a rook at night.’

  I gave up trying to grill her for the moment. I decided to take another tack, which was to engage her in casual conversation and wait for her to let something slip. Although why did I think of it that way? Because she was resisting remembering anything? Yes, that was certain, but also because I had the uncomfortable feeling that she perhaps recalled far more than she was letting on.

  Just then, I saw the women from the third floor on another path that intersected with ours, bound together on their rope, a shuffling centipede of humanity. We reached the junction at the same time and Jane Dove and I stopped to let them go by. I always found these women grimly fascinating and could not keep my eyes off them. It occurred to me that the madwoman from last night would be among them and so I examined every face closely, hoping to take another look at her, this time when she was under restraint and calm and not in the middle of a frenzy.

  The women passed us, one by one, until finally the last had gone. Some cast their eyes to the ground under my scrutiny, but many stared back, studying me as intently as I was studying them. None was the woman from last night and I wondered what had become of her. I resolved to ask Morgan about her at the first opportunity.