by SJI Holliday
I head towards the thickest part of the woods. I decide that I will avoid the tyre swing, and instead I’ll cut through to the road, and head into the village to see Mary. I’m out of my depth and I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to meet whoever it is who has left me that note. I don’t know why, but I just know that something is very, very wrong. Mary will calm me down, give me tea, cake. She will tell me to go straight to Smeaton. Maybe she’ll even drive me back here.
I am halfway through the thickest part of the woods, and I can see the road ahead. I can feel my heart beating hard in my chest. I don’t like this silence. It doesn’t feel right at all. There are no animals scurrying, not even the sound of leaves blowing gently or a twig falling from a tree. I walk faster.
I’m almost at the road, when I see the shape of a car. It isn’t moving. It is about twenty metres away. Why is it parked there? A dog walker, someone who couldn’t wait until they got to a toilet? Someone having some fun with someone else? But no one comes down this road. Not often. Hardly anyone has a reason to come to Rosalind house.
Fear grabs at me, like snarling branches, and I know that I don’t want to walk towards the car. It’s not safe. I turn, planning to head down to the sparser part of the woods, get back onto the small dirt track that leads back to the allotment and the gardens. Someone will be there; someone is always there. I hurry, still ignoring the eerie silence of the woods. The birds have stopped singing, and I know that this is not a good sign. Perhaps a storm is on its way. That would explain the strange electricity that I can feel buzzing all around me.
Then I hear a snap.
The unmistakable sound of a branch breaking under someone’s foot.
I start to run, but it’s too late. A figure steps out from behind the old oaks. I can’t tell who it is at first. They are dressed in dark clothing, hood pulled tight around their head, covering their hair; face angled down – the shadows obscure the rest of their features. My heart stops. I’m trapped. If I turn back, I have to go towards the car, and I’ve already ruled out that as a good plan. If I head back into the fields, I am too exposed, there will be nowhere to hide, I will be an easy target. I can run, but I don’t know if I can outrun this person. And I don’t even know if they are alone. All of these things spin through my mind, all of my options, none of them good. But while the thoughts are spinning, and my options run out, the figure is approaching me, walking slowly, no need for them to rush, because they know, as I do, that I don’t have any choices left.
I stand where I am, waiting. Resigned to my fate. I should never have come here. I should have left all this alone. I could’ve stayed with Mary – never come to this house at all – and I would have been happy there. I would have been loved.
‘What is it that you want?’
The figure in the shadows says nothing. There’s no point turning around. There’s nothing I can do now. There’s no escape. I close my eyes because I don’t want to see what’s going to happen next.
‘You just can’t keep your nose out of people’s business, can you, Fairy Angela?’
I know then. I recognise the voice. I would scream if I thought there was any point. But there isn’t, so I don’t. I keep my eyes tightly shut. ‘Please,’ I say. But I’m not even sure I say it out loud.
‘Please—’
Part 2
THE DARK
‘The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always – take any form – drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!’
—Emily Brontë
25
Smeaton
Smeaton unfurls his legs from the lotus position then lies flat on the floor, stretching his arms above his head, pointing his toes. He feels taller after every meditation session. That feeling of the muscles being locked and tight, then released and stretched beyond their capacity. He loves the breathing, too. The long, slow breaths. He tries to explain it to people who have never meditated before, but he finds it difficult. For all his education, travelling, his knowledge and beliefs, he still struggles to put into words how focusing his thoughts and becoming acutely aware of his mind and body feels. If pushed, he will say that it feels like having your soul moulded into every tiny corner of your body, and letting it seep outside of yourself into a cloud of contemplative peace. But even he is aware that this is a lovely description that makes no sense whatsoever to someone who doesn’t know how to develop their own body into this realm.
He’s tried to make things clearer in the book – his book. His roadmap for peaceful and productive community life: The Book of Light. If there was ever a book that explained itself in the title, this was definitely it. The residents have all had positive reactions to it. They lived it now, without thinking. The newcomers, though … he isn’t sure if they have embraced it just yet.
He’s given them time, of course. As much time as they need. He has offered them both meditative coaching, and both have declined – so far. But that was to be expected. Ali and Jack are very different to the others here – the most unusual new residents they have had so far. It was a risk, letting them in. But one he thought he could bear. Especially with the offer of funding, which, he had not actually asked for. Ali had seemed very determined to get away from their current life and he had felt a longing in her, through her messages. He couldn’t turn her away.
He is concerned though. What Angela has told him is a worry – because he has noticed the same himself. But there is little point in being concerned and doing nothing about it, which is why he has resolved to nip things in the bud right now. He needs to draw the community together, more than ever – making sure that Ali and Jack and Angela are part of it. He may dismiss Angela sometimes, with her talk of ghosts and spirits, but something has caused the energy to shift in the house – something that he can’t rationalise, and can’t explain. There’s no doubt that the residents are unsettled, and it all started when Jack and Ali arrived.
He’s also aware that Angela has been spending more time in the village lately, since the newcomers arrived, in fact. They’ve talked about that before, and he knows that it happens when Angela is feeling insecure. Mary is like a mother to her, and if it wasn’t for her desire to be part of the community here, he knows she would still be lodging with Mary, above the shop.
So today, he will make a point of going to chat to everyone, get to know what’s going on. Letting them all know that he’s here, and he’s listening. He’s seen what happens when the so-called leader takes his eye off the ball, and he knows where it can end up. That’s not going to happen here. It’s time to become active again – make sure that everyone is on board with things.
Time to exert a little authority.
He starts by writing a note: Guided Meditation – tonight at 7 p.m. in the lounge – this is not optional. He draws his little dove symbol, and adds a smiley face and a heart, for good measure. He takes out his pack of white tack from his drawer and rips off a piece, separating it into two small balls. Then he sticks the note on the door to the dining room and heads outside.
The day is clear and fresh. He can hear the faint sounds of an electric saw, snaking its way around from the back of the building. Ford, most likely. Or perhaps Jack. He will go around there soon. First though, he wants to go to the herb garden. He’ll find Julie there, or perhaps Rose, if she’s not still in the kitchen. He adores the smell of the herbs. He thinks of Angela, then, knowing how she feels about the garden, because she enjoys nurturing the plants, but the smell is often too overpowering for her. It always amuses him when he sees her wearing a scarf wrapped around her face, trowel in hand. He wonders where she is now, realising that he hasn’t seen her for a while – she wasn’t at breakfast. Nor dinner last night – but that’s not too unusual. She’s like a little bird, seemingly existing on scraps and seeds, but still healthy. Both meals in a row is a little unlike her, but then again she was in the village and probably has a stash of snacks
from Mary to get through – another of those things that she doesn’t realise he knows about. He smiles, thinking how much he enjoys Angela’s slightly childish innocence – always seeking something that’s just out of her grasp. He hopes she never loses it. But he also hopes she can find a way to settle within herself.
Many of the residents have similar traits, but they are learning to deal with them. Finding new ways to be. He likes that he is here for them, to help them achieve that.
At the herb garden, Julie and Rose are having a discussion over which types of basil to plant.
Julie smiles when she sees him, but keeps talking. ‘You know that Fergus is fussy about his herbs. He’s said before that he prefers sweet to Thai, because he thinks the Thai one makes everything taste like Thai food…’
Rose shakes her head. ‘That’s nonsense. I say we plant both, maybe some lemon basil too. Keep him on his toes.’
‘Maybe we can find some alternative to mooli, too – tell him there’s been some blight that only affects that, so we can’t plant any more of it. What do you reckon, Smeaton?’
Smeaton grins. He is happy that the two women are getting on. Rose can be a prickly pear, at times. ‘I think you should plant whatever you want. Fergus will adapt. I love his cooking, but I wouldn’t mind a bit more variety, to be honest.’
They both make shocked ‘ooh’ sounds, then dissolve into laughter.
‘Just letting you know, I’ve planned a guided meditation for us tonight. Been too long since we did it. Would be nice for us to regroup. By the way, have either of you seen Angela?’
Julie shakes her head. ‘Not today. Cyril said something about seeing her heading off into the woods. Said he thought she was nipping off to the village again.’
Smeaton sighs. ‘That’ll be it. I’ll need to have a word with her again. These visits are getting all too frequent.’ He winks. Then he lays a hand on Rose’s shoulder, gives it a little squeeze. Wants to let her know that he’s glad to see she’s making an effort.
He finds Cyril and Richard at the shed near the salad greens patch. Richard is yanking lettuces, while Cyril sits on his fold-out chair. He decides not to disturb them, just calls from the end of the section, ‘Guided meditation at seven, OK? No excuses.’
They both give him a little wave, and he strides off around the other side of the building to look for Ford. A cloud moves, the sun warms his back and he turns, raising his face up to it, like a sunflower.
Everything seems to be running smoothly.
He’s not sure why he was so concerned.
26
Ali
Jack has slept through breakfast again. She’s brought him an oat-flour roll with rosehip jam and a chicory coffee, after eating her own after the six a.m. Taizé singing class to which she’s found herself strangely drawn. She expected him to be awake now, and starving, but he is still asleep.
She needs to be careful about the dosage that she’s giving him.
It’s working, in that the after-effects are continuing, making him more placid during the day. The burst of mania that he experienced a few days ago hasn’t recurred. But she also needs to make sure that she doesn’t run out. Once the capsules are gone, they’re gone, and although she doesn’t mind a bit of exploratory chemistry, she doesn’t know how he might react after having been on them for so long. After all, there is no way to check the long-term side-effects. She did try to wean him off, but that didn’t work and now she’s concerned that Jack is trying to remember, that he is questioning too many things – and he is getting it muddled in his head.
She can’t have that happening.
She lays his breakfast on the bedside cabinet beside him. Leans down to his face, just in case. One of these days she’s sure she’s going to put her ear to his mouth and not feel the breath there. But how much will she really care if that happens? She can pretend to others, she can even pretend to him. But she’s having a tough time pretending to herself. She feels sick at what he did. At his face, after each time he did it. His glazed, empty eyes. Then the sex they had afterwards, him wild, her terrified – but excited – the fear and thrill of not really knowing what someone is capable of. And then the next day, he would wake up with no memory. And he would go to work.
And he would be confused, and out of sorts. And he would make mistakes.
She leaves him be, satisfied that he will wake up, eventually, and goes outside. Out front, there are still tyre tracks on the gravel from the truck. She wonders if anyone else has noticed, but no one mentioned it at the singing, or at breakfast afterwards, or at the guided meditation last night. There are other things to think about now. The pond, for one. Ford hasn’t been around for a couple of days; she doesn’t know if anyone else has noticed yet that the water has gone. Jack was confused when she told him, but he didn’t have any answers. As for the footsteps in the kitchen, she’s already decided that she didn’t see them. That it was her overactive imagination. Just like the other time, when she saw the same boy. She’s in a strange new place, and waking-dream hallucinations aren’t as uncommon as you might think.
In the allotment, Julie is on her knees, attaching nets to canes, looking after the berries. Fat, juicy strawberries – Ali has an urge to pick one and pop it in her mouth. Julie turns when she hears her approach. ‘Don’t they smell delicious,’ she says, beaming.
‘They really do. And so many … Will we ever eat all of these?’
‘We can, and we will,’ she says. Still smiling, she bends down to pluck several strawberries off the vine and puts them in a small wooden bowl. She hands it to Ali. ‘Help yourself. We’ll eat as many as we can when they’re fresh and the rest of them I’ll keep for jam. You might have noticed we’ve got plenty of jam, we’re never going to run out.’ She laughs.
Ali takes a strawberry and bites into. It’s so ripe … sweet pink liquid spills down her chin and onto her white T-shirt. This would have annoyed her once, but she doesn’t care right now, because she has far bigger things to worry about than a stain on her T-shirt. She has Jack to look after, and she has to think of a way to deal with her own decaying mind, which has been plagued with visions of restless spirits since the moment she arrived – and no matter what she does to try and rationalise it all, she can’t help but feel she is descending into an abyss. She tries to clear her thoughts. Focus on the sensation of the strawberry, the taste, the smell. The stain on her T-shirt. She feels herself snap back to normality. It’s only a T-shirt. What’s the use of a white T-shirt in a place like this?
Julie takes a strawberry from the bowl and pops it into her mouth. ‘So how are you settling in? Everything going OK? Tiring yourself out with all this fresh air I imagine…’
‘There is that. Fresh air, manual labour and all this fresh fruit and veg. It’s only been a few weeks but I feel like a different person.’ She feels bad, lying to Julie. The woman has been kind to her. But Ali doesn’t feel like a different person at all – well, not in any good way. She’s just as stressed and anxious as she was before they left the city, and now she has the added worry of Jack’s medication running out. She’d hoped she wasn’t going to have to give it to him, and now that she’s started she’s worried about taking him off it again. But she needs to keep him under control, for everyone’s sake.
‘Well, you know where I am if you need anything.’ Julie goes back to the berries.
Ali lays the bowl on the ground, picks up two corners of the netting and helps stretch them out. Julie smiles again. She is always smiling, as if there are two invisible threads pulling her mouth into the default happy position. Ali read an article once, suggesting that the more you smile, the happier you actually become. Maybe that’s what Julie is doing. Ali is not yet convinced that the residents of Rosalind House are truly living the nirvana that they project.
‘I was wondering something, actually,’ Ali says. ‘You might not know anything about this, but Smeaton told me a story … well a bit of a story. About something that happened on the north wing.
A fire that one of the patients started? I think that’s what he said.’ She pauses. Wonders if the next part will get her in trouble. ‘And something else, about a little boy?’ She doesn’t mention the pond, trying not to lead Julie into anything, but she is sure that these waking dreams, as she likes to think of them, must be connected to something awful that happened here. She’s terrified of hearing the truth, and yet she’s pushing for someone to tell her. What did happen here? Who is the boy who plagues her? Who was the woman in the corridor, and why was she so angry? They might not be real, but something about them is real – an imprint of them from the past. Could that be something that really exists? Her mind pushes and pulls at her, casting doubt at every turn. She is loath to show any weakness, but she is struggling to cope now.
Julie looks away. ‘You asked Ford about this too, didn’t you? A while ago. He told me. Only Smeaton knows the full story. There are records, I think. Somewhere. I’m sure he’ll tell you if you’re really interested. But to be honest, none of us like to talk about that stuff much. We don’t like to think about it. It was a very sad thing. A whole family destroyed, and all to do with rumours and small-minded gossip about some long-dead relatives who were accused of witchcraft. I think it’s what got the hospital shut down, eventually. Maybe there was more to it than that. I can’t really remember.’ She waves a hand as if flapping away at a small fly. ‘Like I said, best to ask Smeaton.’
