Walls of Silence: a stunning historical thriller you won't be able to put down

by Ruth Wade

  Now she was on her knees in the front flowerbed. It had been taking too long with the small fork, so she’d started pulling up the plants and deepening the resulting hole with her fingers. Their tips were sore, one nail bleeding where she’d caught it on a shard of flint but she’d almost finished. Only three more sheets to go. She tore the one with the smudgy red halo into dozens of irregular pieces and planted them where the sun would never shine.

  He came up on her like a sneak thief intent on stealing her solitude. She completed her business then straightened up. Dr Maynard was carrying a tray with her porridge and two enamel mugs of tea.

  ‘Edith, your beautiful garden. What happened?’

  ‘Moles.’

  She walked into the cottage. He followed and placed the tray on the table.

  ‘Would you please leave me alone with my breakfast? I don’t like to be watched while I’m eating. In fact, there are a lot of things I’d prefer not to be observed doing. It’s bad enough that I feel under a microscope with all your questions. Like an insect about to be dissected.’

  He gave a short laugh devoid of meaning, then retreated outside.

  It was so very easy to make him swallow anything she felt like feeding him. Unlike this porridge. She heaved up a gob with the spoon. He’d left his briefcase beside the chair. The idea wasn’t even fully formed before she began to act on it by undoing the buckles on the two front pockets and sliding in as many spoonfuls as each would hold. The thick goo pressed itself into the rounded corners – thank heavens Helen didn’t believe in using too much milk or some would ooze through the stitching. Then she pulled the leather flaps down and refastened them. Edith tossed the spoon back into the, now empty, bowl. It clattered for about as long as her satisfaction lasted. She wanted more. And he deserved to be punished for all the unsettling thoughts he’d put in her head. If Wendy had really existed, she’d have been proud of what she decided to do next.

  Edith picked up one of the mugs and took it through into the bathroom. Resting it next to her toothbrush, she set about gouging a crescent moon from the block of laundry soap with the longest of her soil-packed fingernails. When it was clear she couldn’t make it any bigger, she flicked it with her thumb into the tea. She pared off some more. Only they were refusing to sink. She plopped her finger down on each one and held it under the surface to dissolve. Then she created a mini-whirlpool by swirling the liquid around until there was nothing when it settled except a faint scum. That would suffice for post-breakfast hand washing.

  Once back in the front room, she sat in the armchair and waited. It was up to Dr Maynard to decide when to return. He was the mind reader, after all. He crept in like a cat when she’d almost finished her tea. His would be lukewarm by now. Well, that was his problem for leaving it unattended for so long. He pulled across the hard-backed chair and opened his briefcase. Not even a twitch of his nose. The man’s sense of smell must be faulty; damp leather could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was. As a child she’d always known when Granny had put her shoes by the range to dry. But perhaps he’d been a mollycoddled little boy and never allowed out in the wet. Whereas it should’ve been her who’d been sheltered from harsh conditions after what she’d been through.

  Holding the comfort-blanket of his notes he leaned over to the table and picked up his tea. He took a large mouthful as if he was parched. He wouldn’t be doing that again in a hurry. The corners of his mouth turned down. It was amusing to watch a psychoanalyst’s reactions and speculate what he was thinking; it was no wonder Dr Maynard seemed to get so much satisfaction from trying to out-guess her.

  ‘This tastes very strange.’

  ‘That’ll be the water. All the lime from the chalk. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed it before.’

  He took another sip. Stupid man.

  ‘No, there’s definitely something different about it.’

  ‘Perhaps you took the wrong mug. The one intended for me. The one with the drugs in it.’

  ‘They’ve never administered anything to you here, Edith. That was in the other place, remember?’

  ‘Lewes County Lunatic Asylum. I recall the details of that particular institution very well. You would do too if you’d been locked up there against your will. Why don’t you try it some time? Live a little of life as a mad person; I can assure you that the world looks very different through these eyes.’

  ‘Different from what?’

  ‘Normality. Oh, I forgot. I can’t possibly know what that is, can I, having been like this since I first became conscious of being anyone at all. They say awareness of self occurs around the age of three don’t they?’

  ‘Approximately ... Sorry, can I use your bathroom to get some water?’

  ‘I used to try rinsing my mouth out as well but it never quite got rid of it all. Have a go though; it can’t do you any harm.’

  She listened to the sound of him gargling vigorously. If he started to foam at the mouth then maybe he would think he was having a fugue. She’d like to see how he’d cope with being on the receiving end for a change. He returned and sat down.

  ‘I’ve not experienced you in this mood before, Edith. Can you give me a little insight into what’s behind it?’

  She looked at him for a while, pretending to think. Then she held one hand up and started to count on her fingers.

  ‘Let me see ... well ... firstly, a company of moles laboured long and hard through the night and decimated my garden. Arnold will be beside himself with fury.’ She laughed. ‘Maybe that will add dementia praecox to his other, more obvious, disabilities. You see, I can apply labels to people just as easily as you. Anyway, where was I? ... The nipping of my horticultural aspirations in the bud. Secondly, both the porridge and the tea were dreadful this morning; perhaps you’d have a quiet word with Helen for me – I know I can trust you to be discreet – I’d hate to be the one to hurt her feelings. What next ... oh, yes ... I’ve been plagued all morning by flies buzzing in my head. And last – but I’m sure you’ll agree – by no means least, due to you forcing me to contemplate the tragic decline and traumatic death of my father, I haven’t had a wink of sleep. Do you think that’s enough to keep you going for a while, Doctor?’

  She smiled with a malicious sweetness she could almost taste.

  ‘If it’s any consolation it is common for patients …’

  ‘Residents.’

  ‘… when they first embark on an intensive bout of therapy to feel an acute dissatisfaction with everything around them, often accompanied by auditory and visual hallucinations. The patterns of your mind are in transition which will throw everything up in the air for a while. They’ll settle again once we can get at the nub of what is really disturbing you. Did you get around to doing some drawings for me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about any childhood memories; did any resurface after our session yesterday?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And now? Are there any that are currently fuelling your sense of frustration?’

  She stared him in the eyes until he looked away.

  ‘Perhaps you had a chance to consider the meaning of the automatic writing?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I asked you to. I know you’re feeling very resistant to me at the moment but if you don’t co-operate then I can’t see there’s any possibility of us making progress.’

  ‘That’s fine by me.’

  ‘You don’t mean that. Surely you want to be able to return to Fletching and see your roses again? I haven’t forgotten about the book, by the way, I’ll get over and fetch it as soon as I can. Will you tell me why you didn’t want to look at what you wrote? Was it the mania of the act or the words themselves upsetting you?’

  ‘How could I know when I didn’t read them? If you were more observant and less inclined to leap to conclusions then you’d notice I’m not wearing my glasses. I’ve lost them.’

  ‘Then allow me to read them to you.’

  She watched him
retrieve the pile of journal papers from beside the fruit bowl on the table. Maybe the movement would help the soap work its way through his system. She was looking forward to him experiencing his very own unstoppable compulsion. But he was sitting back in front of her again with no signs of any internal shiftings.

  ‘I’d like you to tell me what comes into your head – in words or images – when I finish each phrase.’

  She’d enjoyed playing that game; the opportunities for unpredictability gave her so much scope.

  ‘Where vice is, vengeance follows ...’

  ‘I suspect that’s what Peter Hargreaves would feel if he caught you at it with his wife.’

  A hit scored with her first arrow. Her mind must be sharper this morning than she’d given it credit for.

  ‘How all occasions do inform against me: And spur my dull revenge ...’

  ‘Ditto.’

  Edith folded her hands in her lap.

  ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay ...’

  The flies in her head began buzzing louder. As she listened to them, something floated free. The smell of pipe tobacco ... A visitor sitting in this chair ... Surely she could remember who it was; she hadn’t had many and none, other than Dr Maynard, from her life before this place. Because that’s where he’d come from: the distant past. The flies were telling her that. They’d pretended to be Wilf Drayton’s bees for a while but they couldn’t fool her again.

  ‘Have you no response to that one? Okay, how about the last: Blood is thicker than water, and more satisfying to spill ...’

  Her hands began crawling. She thought if she looked hard enough she’d be able to see the maggots under the skin. Edward. He told her he’d left messages. She hadn’t been lying about not reading them. Edith shook her head to throw the flies off course. She wished she could ask Dr Maynard to read her his notes of their conversations because then she’d be free of doubt, be able to reassure Edward when he came back that nothing had changed. How she regretted giving in to the notion to adulterate the tea; if he had to rush off then she’d have to wait until tomorrow to find out – unless, of course, that was when he intended fulfilling the errand she’d badgered him about. Clear evidence of compounding behaviour that he’d no doubt call self-sabotage. Was it too late to retrace her steps? If she gave him a little of what he wanted then perhaps he’d return the favour. What was it he kept probing for? Childhood memories of her father. He thought it was one of those that had provoked what he mistakenly believed to be her automatic writing. What could she tell him that spoke of a subconscious desire for revenge and death? She didn’t have much time left to come up with something, the soap wouldn’t wait forever.

  ‘After the fire. A long while after, when I was free of hospital and was living with Granny and Father in Cambridge ... something he said shook me violently. There’s no point in asking me what it was because I really can’t remember but I can recall how it made me shrivel inside. They say that moments like that never leave you, don’t they? Lie in wait to trap you again with their power. I suspect you’ve been right all along and something happened in Fletching to make me hate myself as much as I did then. Something that left me wanting nothing more than to give up on living.’

  ‘That’s the best articulation of the motivation for a flight into catatonia I’ve ever heard.’

  And it probably was because he was writing it down. When he finished, his face was all concern.

  ‘In one of our hypnosis sessions you talked about the longing to escape what you felt to be intolerable circumstances. Give me a moment and I’ll find the passage in my notes ...’

  She’d managed to lose the smile by the time he looked across at her again. Whatever he was about to recite wouldn’t be enough to reassure her totally but she couldn’t imagine there’d been any other occasions when she’d have had cause to mention either Edward or her involvement in the death of the boy.

  ‘Here it is. You’d been talking about your grandmother’s canary.’

  This wasn’t anything near what she’d wanted. She should have taken his fixation with her childhood into account and consequently steered him with a firmer hand on the tiller. It would mean more precious time wasted before she could reach the shores she’d been navigating towards.

  ‘In time, as I knew it would, the bird stopped plucking at itself and the feathers grew back until it was beautiful and bright and happy. Then, one day, after it had performed all its tricks and was flying back to land on my shoulder, I opened the window and it flew out and over the trees. I found it dead the next morning. I was heartbroken and bitter with myself for what I had done but, late at night, when I was in bed and outlining the map of my scars like I always did when I couldn’t sleep, I was happy. I was glad I’d done it. I was pleased it was dead. And I wished it was me. Edith, this feels to me like an early fantasy about taking your own life. Not necessarily a desire to put the thought into action but more a taste of the posthumous power it would give you in terms of the hurt and anger you could inflict. Revenge, do you see? A paying back of scores in the most devastating way possible. Could this have been in response to your father’s wounding words, do you think?’

  She could scream with the frustration of it all. What had that poet said about being trapped in webs of deceit? She’d had enough of this. Wanted to be left alone. Needed to have her thoughts clear enough to concentrate on finding another way to get the message across to Edward that she’d never breathed a word about his existence to anyone. Except ... might she have told Helen in a pathetic attempt at female solidarity? She couldn’t remember. If she had then it was another good reason to ensure their friendship remained broken.

  ‘A voice spoke to me in my dream last night. It told me to poison your tea ... Are you all right? You’ve gone very pale. Maybe you’d like a sip of mine. It’s only cold dregs though. But I didn’t put anything in it. Rest assured that if either the voice or me decide I must to do away with myself then it won’t be via poison. Very unreliable. Messy.’

  She picked up the mug from the floor and held it out to him. He shrank back in his chair as if she was offering him acid. Not that she blamed him. By tonight the soap would’ve worked its way through to his bowels and he really would have a most uncomfortable time of it. He was stuffing his papers back into his briefcase. Was now the time to tell him about the porridge? Best not ... let that come as a nice surprise.

  ‘Edith, I want you to know that – whatever happens as a consequence – I don’t hold you responsible for this. When you acted you were literally not in your right mind. I’m sorry; I’m going to have to go ...’

  He exited the room in an indecent scrabble. Edith’s soft smile spread into a grin. Then she pressed her neck into the enveloping armchair and laughed. Until she cried.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Stephen pulled the chain for what he hoped would be the last time. He’d been on and off the toilet for the past two hours – the discomfort not made any easier by the Hargreaves’ lavatory being on the floor below. He felt he knew every one of the turret’s stone steps, his heels bruised from where he’d clattered down them in his desperation.

  He ate a piece of dry toast standing at the kitchen sink. Through the window, the Downs rolled away into the distance. He could be walking the Lake District Fells now with a lunch packed by an attentive landlady instead of nursing gripey guts caused by the misplaced aggression of a woman who was acting more and more like a textbook schizophrenic. Stephen pulled himself up on his tendency to be too quick to hide his doubts behind the security of clinical labels – she was merely deeply distressed and disturbed. He coughed as a crumb caught at the back of his throat. Merely? Swinging the other way to underestimation was just as bad. The sort of balanced assessment of her condition he’d expect from his students was that she was experiencing the anger that always erupted after a plateau of denial; the treatment for which was to weather her storms in the most self-protective but non-defensive way possible until she could be moved on to wanting
to display more constructive behaviour.

  But how? All their recent interactions boiled down to her wielding what little power she had by playing the classic consulting room game of turning a triangle into a circle. The way it went was that the patient manoeuvred the therapist into occupying one of three roles in turn whilst slipping neatly behind into the position most recently vacated. Thus began a damaging dance in which each became the other’s rescuer, persecutor, and victim ... ad infinitum until they both were all three things at the same time. It was a disabling strategy easy to dissect in theory, but incredibly difficult to avoid unless one of the parties steadfastly refused to play. And he was the only one capable of doing so. Except he hadn’t been quick-footed enough to sidestep being the victim of her cruelty over the note she’d pretended was from Helen. Let alone her latest malevolence – whether she had really put something in his tea or simply slipped him the possibility via her glibly fabricated tale of Wendy attempting to poison her father didn’t matter. Either way she was doing her best to induce paranoia: the woman was imaginative, as well as sadistic.

  He settled himself on the couch in the living room, Jung’s The Psychology of Dementia Praecox open on his lap. He was making notes when Peter came in.

  ‘You shouldn’t spend all your time cooped up inside, it’s not healthy. I could do with a hand digging up the potatoes in the allotment. Not that you’d get to the end of the row without collapsing with exhaustion.’

  Another person intent on fitting him up for a part playing the weak and helpless. But the trouble with Peter was that his accomplished gamesmanship was even more difficult than Edith’s to walk away from. They’d been colluding for too long. And Peter knew precisely which triggers to squeeze. It was all about competition. Underneath the façade of civilised behaviour they were cavemen fighting to prove their superior strength, jostling to be the one to win the respect of their tribe. The tribe of one. Helen. It would be as amusing as watching small boys in a pissing competition if it weren’t so painful.