Others

by James Herbert

  ‘You checked this for yourself. You went through the normal agencies?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And you contacted the hospital in question? I assume the infant was born in hospital and not at home.’

  I nodded again. ‘Unfortunately the hospital – it was the Dartford General – burned down some years ago.’

  ‘And all records were destroyed?’

  ‘Apparently so. That doesn’t explain why the birth and death wasn’t registered elsewhere, though.’

  ‘Such things happen in any bureaucracy, especially one the size of the NHS. Incompetence, neglect, sheer laziness – it’s rather common in the public services. I think we all know that the National Health Service is undermanned and underfunded, at least where medical matters are concerned. Mistakes and omissions happen all the time. And eighteen years ago, before computers were truly regarded as tools of the trade, the system was in an even worse state.’ He still watched me keenly, now looking straight into my eye – or, I should say, the puckered hole where an eye had once been. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t relate this to your client,’ he continued. ‘Perhaps you needed the work?’

  I ignored the implied sneer (his face was passive, not even the hint of a smile beneath that finely clipped moustache). I suppose I could have explained about the whispering voices, the mirror images, the illusion of thousands of wings, but I had sense enough to realize how utterly crazy it would all sound.

  ‘I did try,’ I said, ‘but my client was adamant that the child was born and is still alive.’

  ‘Your client’s name?’ It was a brisk question, demanding an answer.

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say. Client confidentiality, and all that.’

  ‘Very well. Yet you expect me to let you bother one of my clients.’

  ‘Hildegarde Vogel might be of some help.’

  His manner hadn’t changed since he’d entered the room: interested, detached, brusque, polite – yes, these were differences in tone, but his expression and attitude hardly varied.

  ‘You witnessed Hildegarde’s condition yesterday. Indeed, I’ve been told it deteriorated even further while you were with her. She is unwell, Mr Dismas, and very confused.’

  ‘She was okay when I first spoke to her. Quite rational, in fact. It was only later, when she began to remember certain things, that she became upset.’

  It was then that I noticed a change in him, a stiffening of body, an even greater sharpness in those cold, blue eyes. It was barely perceptible, but alterations in moods is another thing I’m good at recognizing – or sensing.

  He scarcely missed a beat. ‘And what was it that the poor woman remembered?’

  ‘Deformed babies,’ I replied.

  It hung in the air between us, a statement so stark that we were both quiet for a moment or two.

  Then the doctor said: ‘I’m not sure what you want.’

  ‘My client’s intuition – a mother’s intuition – tells her that her son is still alive. My guess is that the baby was so sick and malformed that they did not want to show him to her, and that he died soon after the birth. But my client will not accept that. Now if I were to bring her here to talk to Hildegarde herself, she might be convinced. Maybe the meeting might nudge something in the ex-midwife’s memory, she might even recall my client – I understand that at the time Hildegarde was a great comfort to her. My client might listen to her and finally accept that her son is not alive.’

  I was leaning towards him now, my one eye as intense as both of his, I’m sure, my humped back no doubt even more unsightly because of my crouched position, my gnarled hands clenched between my knees. He appraised me carefully, as glacial as ever, undisturbed by my proximity.

  ‘What was your diagnosis in your infancy, Mr Dismas?’

  ‘What?’ I was taken aback. Indeed, reflexively, I even sat back a little.

  ‘Cerebral palsy, spina bifida, osteogenis imperfecta – no, no sign of blue sclerotics in your eye. Marjous Syndrome, then? No, I doubt that’s the cause of your deformities. Perhaps you had rheumatoid arthritis as a child? Poliomyelitis? Spondylitis? No, you seem active enough. So which was it, Mr Dismas? What did they tell your parents was wrong with you?’

  ‘I’ve no idea and it isn’t relevant.’

  ‘Sometimes babies are born so badly deformed that not even their parents wish to keep them.’

  ‘I didn’t know my parents,’ I told him, beginning to burn inside.

  ‘Ah. Then not even your mother wanted you.’

  ‘I don’t see what – ’

  ‘Of course not. I don’t expect you to. But I want you to understand. You see, even in this day and age, when treatment is so extensive and accessible, when the foetus can be studied in the womb and abortion is virtually on demand, malformed babies that are so grotesque that their mothers do not even wish to hold them are still being born. These poor unfortunates are taken away and left to die naturally. If there is pain involved, an injection might help them on their way. It’s harsh, yes, I know, but the grief is soon over and the parents recover, perhaps to go on and have other normal, healthy children. Who knows what terrible tribulations they would have to endure if their disabled child had been allowed to live?’

  ‘Everyone’s entitled to a life,’ I commented flatly.

  ‘An anti-abortionist?’

  ‘Just for life. Hardship and nuisance-value is no excuse for preventing life. It may be difficult, it might mean a lifetime of misery for the child, but he or she deserves the chance to live and experience things in their own way. It doesn’t always have to be a bad existence. Consider your own care-supervisor.’

  ‘Constance?’

  ‘She’s obviously devoted a large part of her life to caring for the sick and elderly. She’s helped others just by her presence.’

  The smile was in his eyes, but not on his lips. Was I so transparent? Could he sense my emotions towards her?

  ‘And of course, your own time here on Earth has proved helpful to others,’ he said, and I wasn’t sure if the smile in his eyes was not mockery.

  ‘Maybe it has. The point is, I was given the chance and so was Constance Bell. Think of all those others who weren’t.’

  ‘Well, there lies a huge moral dilemma: to give life and with it, great hardship, or to take it away as an ultimate kindness.’

  I understood his meaning. There were many times in my own life when I wished I hadn’t been born, and yes, I’d cursed the person who had allowed me to live after the moment of birth. Perhaps the one who had dumped me outside the convent in the dead of winter – I had always assumed that it had been my mother who had left me there – had taken the easy option, unable to smother me to death themself, so leaving me there in the cold to let fate play its own hand.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned,’ I said, ‘it’s every mother’s own decision. I only wish some would give it more consideration. But I don’t understand your interest in me. I’m here to discuss Hildegarde Vogel.’

  ‘Life, in any form, has always been of concern to me. It’s why I joined the medical profession in the first place.’

  There was something about his eyes that was almost mesmeric. They made me feel uncomfortable yet, perversely, they seemed to draw me in. Purposely, I looked away.

  Directly to the point, I asked: ‘Will I be allowed to see Hildegarde again?’

  He thought for a moment, then appeared to soften his stance (I say ‘appeared’ because I had no idea of what was going through his mind). ‘Let’s see how she is tomorrow, or perhaps the next day. I’m afraid the excitement yesterday affected her adversely: she really is quite unwell this morning.’

  ‘You’ll let me talk to her, though?’ I was unable to conceal my surprise.

  ‘If or when she’s well enough. Why don’t I get Constance to phone you tomorrow with a final decision?’

  ‘That’s fine by me.’ It was more than I’d expected.

  ‘Of course, if Hildegarde becomes upset again you must promise me y
ou’ll desist immediately. You will leave and not bother my patient again.’

  ‘It’s a deal. Believe me, I don’t want to make her any worse than she is.’

  He rose from the couch, a hand extended towards me, and I, too, got to my feet, gratefully taking that hand. As we shook he continued to observe me, his interest unconcealed. Dr Wisbeech towered over me and I could feel his power – not the kind that has to do with physical strength but the kind that has to do with the mind, the persona, stemming from an individual’s very psyche, a faculty that enables them to intimidate/dominate others, sometimes without the other person even being aware. It was hard to ignore, but then I’d been fighting that sort of thing all my life – my stature (or status, if you like) made it a regular conflict. I grinned as I released my hand from his, and I think we both knew right then that an engagement (in the sense of battle) had been postponed. It occurred to me to wonder why I was thinking in these terms as I made my way towards the door, my grin fading to an inner wry smile. I had always been quite perceptive as far as the feelings of others were concerned, particularly if their feelings were directed towards myself, but the animus in this man, despite its suppression and his pleasant if condescending manner, could be felt as plainly as if he’d spat in my empty eye.

  ‘Mr Dismas?’

  I lingered in the doorway.

  ‘Who are your friends? Are they others like yourself?’ There was no apology in his question, no awkwardness.

  ‘What do you mean by “others”?’ I said stiffly.

  Again, no awkwardness, no embarrassment. ‘Others with similar disabilities,’ he replied. ‘Or have you managed to become accepted by normal people? Indeed, do you accept yourself as normal?’

  My hand gripped the door frame. I wanted to throw myself at him, beat that handsome, patrician’s face to a pulp.

  ‘I hope I haven’t offended you,’ he said, but not as an afterthought: he knew exactly what he was doing.

  What was his game? I asked myself. Was he deliberately riding me, playing for some kind of reaction? Or . . . was it possible? . . . was he genuinely interested in how I got by? No, nobody could be that insensitive. Or that wicked?

  ‘I’ll wait to hear how Miss Vogel is,’ was all I said as I turned away and stomped off down the hall. If he uttered some response to that, I didn’t catch it.

  Bastard, I thought as I stomped, absolute-bloody-bastard. I could feel his eyes on me and I knew if I looked back he’d be there in the doorway, watching my departure with that peculiarly cool interest. Bastard.

  Outside, I forced myself to take in some deep breaths, expelling the stale degenerative air of the home from my lungs and sucking in the purer stuff. The day had suddenly become overcast again, clouds with bulging, charcoal-grey bottoms milling low in the sky, each piled, cumulonimbus heap trying to gain elbow room, pushing against its neighbour and creating deep-growling rumbles, occasional flares of pure energy. The rain soon began, great heavy dollops of it, bursting, splatting, against the driveway, drumming an escalating beat on the roof and bonnet of my car. Turning up my coat collar, I made a clumsy dash for the Ford, my head and the hump of my back soaked before I could drag open the driver’s door and bundle myself inside.

  ‘Bastard!’ I said aloud in the solitude of my metal capsule.

  When you’re as I am, you rarely completely forget your condition, your own oddity is always present in your mind (usually right at the front) and you never need reminding of how different you are to normals. You never ask to be reminded, either. You might have thought that Wisbeech, in light of his profession and lettered qualifications, would have understood that; as a learned and obviously civilized human being he might even have appreciated the insult his remarks might have dealt me. My guess was that he cared little about my sensitivities and nothing about the question itself: my belief was that he had been testing me. What that test meant, I had no idea; I just had the feeling that I’d failed.

  Switching the isolation switch off and the engine on, I angrily shoved the gear stick into first, pulling away from the home’s front entrance a little too fast, a little too powerfully, the tyres throwing up stones from the drive. I violently twisted the steering wheel to head towards the high gates, giving one last disgusted glance back at the building as I did so. My foot almost slipped from the accelerator in my surprise, for the dark upper windows of PERFECT REST were now filled with pallid faces.

  It was as if most of the elderly residents had come to their windows to watch me leave. I only caught a glimpse, for the turn completed itself of its own accord and the car was set straight for the gates, but the image of those grey-white blobs against the glass, the rooms leaden behind them, stayed in my mind as I changed gear and controlled direction. A quick look in the rear-view mirror presented a receding reflection of the building itself and it seemed suddenly ominous in the sullen, rain-dulled light, a semi-Gothic mansion that was full of secrets rather than a restful haven. A raindrop had dripped into the crevice between my neck and shirt collar, running sideways around my hump and down my back, causing me to shiver. I gripped the wheel more tightly, straightening the car, and wondered at the home’s sudden lack of charm. Now I could feel a hundred or more sets of eyes watching my retreat, every pair hostile. Idiot, I berated myself. Imagination, I tried to convince myself. They were just sick old people with nothing better to do, curious about strangers, bored inside death’s waiting-room. There was no antagonism towards me on their minds; they probably watched every new coming and going in the same way. Visiting hours – if they had had set visiting hours – would have been a riot.

  That’s when I realized that on neither visit to PERFECT REST had I seen any other visitor. Nor anybody else who looked like an outsider, for that matter. This place really was private.

  I kept the car in second all the way down the drive and when I entered the short, wooded area the gloom forced me to switch on my headlights. I passed through the gates that had already opened for me and pulled up outside. Taking out my small notepad and pen from my inside pocket, I leaned across the passenger seat, wound down the window on that side, and peered out at the sign on one of the stone pillars. I wrote down: MD, FRCS, FRCOG, FRCP, DCH. Then I drove on, quickly reaching third, sticking with it while the car splashed through instant puddles and lurched into existing dips. The landscape began to open up again and the rain pelted the windscreen with some force; the wipers struggled to keep vision clear, but I was soon forced to lean even closer than my usual position to the glass in order to see my way ahead. The turns seemed to come up too fast even though I was still only in third, and it was a while before I realized the engine was labouring, desperate for a shift upwards; unconsciously I had been trying to speed away from the home and the sinister – yes, I admitted to myself, that was the word, he was sinister – Dr Wisbeech. I eased off the accelerator, slowing to a more appropriate speed.

  High and far ahead I noticed bright blue patches in the otherwise troubled skies that told me the storm would not last too long. In fact, the further south-east I went, the clearer it would become. But that was for later – right now it was cats and dogs out there.

  I was approaching the now familiar abandoned house by the side of the lane when I saw the tiny figure sheltering hunched-up under a tree. Elbow-crutch resting against her hip, Constance Bell waved a hand at me to stop.

  18

  She was soaked, the tree she cowered under affording scant protection. As I drew up alongside her she took a couple of faltering steps towards the car.

  ‘Get in before you drown,’ I called out, pushing open the passenger door.

  Constance put a hand on top of the door frame and peered in at me, her lovely eyes blinking away raindrops; she did not have to duck to see me. She looked like a child, a very troubled child.

  ‘I can’t,’ she shouted over the pounding of the rain. ‘I have to get back before they miss me.’

  ‘You sound as if you’ve made a jailbreak.’ I tried to ease her obvious
tension with a grin.

  ‘No, I mean it, I don’t have long.’

  ‘Then at least sit in the car so we can talk without hollering.’

  She took a quick look around her, first back down the lane towards the home, then in the opposite direction. She pointed towards the abandoned house and the overgrown track that led towards the rear.

  ‘If I do, will you drive us out of sight?’

  I’m sure I registered disbelief, but I nodded anyway. ‘Sure. Just get in out of the wet.’

  She eased herself into the seat backwards, resting the elbow crutches against the door as she did so, then swivelled round so that her legs were also inside the car. Retrieving the crutches, she closed the door.

  ‘Terrific,’ I said and steered the Ford off the lane on to the bumpy track. Apart from the odd untidy heaps of timber and rubble, there was little else behind the house: a half-collapsed shed stood some distance away and beyond that there was only long grass and shrubbery, woodland their backdrop. I brought the car to a halt beside the building’s battered rear door.

  ‘What are you afraid of?’ I asked my passenger as I switched off the engine and shifted round in my seat so that I could take her in more easily.

  She was dabbing raindrops from her face with a tiny handkerchief, bedraggled locks of hair loosened from the tie at the nape of her neck to stick against her cheeks. I wanted to reach forward and brush the strands away, to push them gently behind her ears, an excuse to touch her, to feel her soft skin beneath my fingertips. Naturally, I sat there and did nothing.

  ‘Why . . . why do you think I’m afraid?’

  Her poor imperfect body rested awkwardly in the passenger seat; her gaze on me was intense.

  ‘You obviously don’t want to be seen talking to me,’ I replied to her question.

  ‘It’s just that . . .’ She gave a little shake of her head. ‘Mr Dismas – ’

  ‘Please. People who know me call me Dis. Or Nick – my friends call me Nick.’ (In fact, even my friends called me Dis, but I wanted Constance to use my proper Christian name.)